As I rode the streetcar out of the city centre this afternoon the sky was grey and the air had an uncharacteristic ice to it for spring. It threatened to rain, though no water broke the clouds. I sat huddled against the window. As we began to climb the hill towards home I glimpsed a van selling bonsai trees out of the back. It seems that everything is now sold out of the back of a van. Fleeting. Ready to pick up and change corners at a moment’s notice or disappear all together. As you walk the streets many of the stores that had once been full of every imaginable indulgence and beauty now display bare shelves and sparse hangers. Only the necessities decent enough to display at street level. And today is Sunday, though not a day of piety, still few stores are open and no one is about. It appears as if the city has just stopped having any needs except for those rare, frivolous few, such as myself, who still choose to spend an afternoon browsing, rather than keeping all required necessities in bulk under your own roof, their for never having a reason to leave the house unless desired. I could see the odd person peering at me from behind curtains on the upper  residential levels of some of the stores. Some of the faces showed longing to be traipsing the streets along with me, and others seemed bewildered as if they had forgotten what a Sunday out in the city looked like or why one would ever do such a thing. Scandalous. It is amazing the simple acts that can now be defined by that word. It is so easy these days to be a rebel, without even having to try. I don’t really deserve that title but I am working to.

Despite that the store are often closed and not much is displayed nothing is scarce in the city yet. You can still manage anything you like, at least within the city, it is different for my mother in the suburbs, but she had simple needs and can acquire all that she would like. Everything that used to adorn the shelves is just merely now found underground, giving the city the appearance of decency and morals on the street. Though if you look at the people, at least those who do not truly believe, you will find all the things enjoyed by the past. And all is just so much more enticing now that it is frowned upon, not yet restricted, though you can feel that coming on the air. Not many will admit that that day is close, but for now the colourful shops have be replaced by vans selling, selling such random things such as bonsai. Few before ever used to desire them, but now it draws a crowd and people lust to touch, to own these tiny perfect trees. They are too perfect for me, I wonder about them, what goes on under all the perfection, at least a rose’s thorns you can see. I also wonder how they came by them. I don’t know what conditions are required to cultivate such creatures, but I am certain that the city does not naturally yield to there demands. I like to believe that some old man has started a grow-op, but rather than harvesting weed, he is tenderly sculpting these precious, ancient trees. As they have become as coveted as the grass has always been. I laugh to myself as I watch every sort of person imaginable study each tree and move on until they find the one that suits their needs. They watch each other too to see who is interested in which plant and may compete for the purchase. Needs! What possible need could one have for a tiny ancient tree?! Yet the expressions on their faces profess just that trait.