There was a palpable sense of relief for some as the asylum on the hill smoldered; those darkest of memories up in black smoke. For others it highlights the neglect, not only in preserving our heritage, but in housing our homeless who, in the great irony of de-institutionalization are themselves suffering from mental illness.

A few years ago Michael De Courcy had the chance to document the building before it was gutted by scrap metal enthusiasts. His haunting pictures will no doubt invoke images from The Shining, the dank red carpets, the stained yellow wallpaper, the 70s modernist additions so awkward and bulky.

View Larger Map

Something I've been toying with as I wander these streets in July is the idea, as new-agey as it sounds, that the physical environment determines the character of neighbourhoods and regional relationships, and that this is manifested in distinctive patterns of energy. This includes not only the geomorphological processes at work, but also the processes of commerce: the relationships between cargo and consumer; work/home, rich and poor. The processes, both ephemeral and tangible, that shape this little fishing village turned yuppie resort.

How, for example, did Strathcona and the West End succesfully dodge gentrification, while Coal Harbour and Yaletown were consumed almost whole? How is it that the DTES came to be, in all its violent glory, while Kitsilano/Shaugnessy, and Kerrisdale bask in somnambulant bliss? How can we shape these historic, geographic, economic, and cultural forces to create a more livable city?

Every year they come. Armed with fanny packs and maps, traveler's checks and handi-cams, they descend upon our Potemkin village by the sea. They flock to the most banal and trivial of spaces, stock up on maple syrup and cigars, and then waddle off to Alaska to gawk at the glaciers before they're gone. Martin Parr would have a field day at the Steam Clock, as the 30 year-old contraption hoots happily to the naive gawkers behind their digital SLRs. They pad the pockets of buskers and waiters, and they keep the crackheads high. They are the lifeforce, and at the same time they are pure evil.

Ever been hassled by the man while taking a photo? I have. A lot. Its usually by shopkeepers when I'm standing outside their store taking a shot of the reflection in their windows, but they're easy to laugh off. The rent-a-cops are a bit more persistent. Most of the time they just don't understand why you'd want to be down in around some abandoned factories; Junkie? Graffiti? And its always the way they ask. "Can I help you?". No thanks, I'm fine. "Can I ask what you are doing?" Yes, go ahead. Or, I think you just did. They spend all day bored out of their minds waiting for something to happen; the exercise of authority, authority for authority's sake. Not necessarily for show, but because a lack of understanding, or a willing refusal to ask themselves why we find our leisure in the rusted frigate's of some war which was never fought. It is more of an insult to their leisure preferences; sports, sports cars, shopping, home reno, and plasma TV.

Perhaps this is just the reality of life in a post 9/11 world, as ironic as it seems when you imagine what must be coming in through the port. So that now one can no longer stroll the docks marveling at the brined, barnacle encrusted crates as salt water, sea food, and creosote coalesce in the air. So that now, Douglas Coupland's essay in City of Glass on prowling the port seems so far fetched. They've blocked off all entry points, including one of the best secrets in the city, the North Nanaimo foot bridge. Even the celebrated Cannery Restaurant has to pack up and move (because terrorists eat sea food).

One of the benefits of being UBC Alumni is their seemingly random "Grad Gazette" email that trickles into my inbox every now and then. It usually contains lots of fluff pieces trying to make you miss UBC (nice try), but occasionally it has an article or two that spark my interest.

Apparently, UBC has just come into ownership of a series of photos of Stanley Park almost 100 years ago. Taken by a longtime employee of the UBC Library, Lionel Haweis founded Rosetti Photographic Studios which was thought to be in business during the 1910s.

Yeah so I'm back or whatever and man, I don't know. Is there any point? My unintentional computer sabbatical has left me wondering, do the kids over at The Only have it right? Is that how they stay so positive and free from the traps of sarcasm and cynicism? Because right now it seems like "news" only happens in the winter. I've spent the last few weeks breaking onto roofs and wandering around aimlessly.

I'm a traveler again. Alone in my city for the first time. I will have my coffee to stay. Take my time. Smear the dirt and the smells of back alleys on my clean clothes, get lost in the mire of moss cracked industry. In Belfast, after the troubles, I was there, and I was lost, and I grew strong and bold, booking beds in hostels, buying books of bus tickets. Or, when the walls opened, and the siege was lifted, and the Apprentice Boys stood aside, I walked the old city of Londonderry, confident and proud among the paint-splattered outposts and martyred walls. Now I drift. I wander to live. I let the city's doors open, I listen to the whispers in the cobblestones, I follow the underground streams to their source, like a sockeye, I've been here before. Only this time, I've grown even bigger, in a spiral outwards, drawing in the detritus of seasons. Count the rings, you'll see, its all circular, Fibonacci was telling the truth. Even in smoke and mirrors there are smoke and mirrors. Mother, please believe me, like you believed in me once before, I will smash them again, these mirrors.