"My friends, here we go, its spring again in BC. The sun is out so your spirits are high, and you乌鸦传媒檙e driving along in your noble rust-bucket chariot of the people: your pickup truck. Either inherited or indebted, you, your dog, and your fishing pole cherish the freedom it gives you乌鸦传媒�.in fact you are thinking, while grinning 乌鸦传媒渨hy don乌鸦传媒檛 they call these pick up trucks 乌鸦传媒渇reedom tools乌鸦传媒�?乌鸦传媒攁ll it needs is a road, some steely grit, and some fuel! 乌鸦传媒�- then BOOM!乌鸦传媒攍ike a depth charge from the tarmac gods乌鸦传媒攜our teeth clack, your coffee defies gravity, your dog barks, seemingly at your fishing pole, that launches toward the moon.
As you think about your beloved pickup truck's suspension, your soul briefly leaves your body, as if looking down from space, like your fishing pole currently is. You乌鸦传媒檝e hit it乌鸦传媒ξ谘淮溅 The pothole. A crater not dug by humanity but born of municipal neglect, frost heaves, and existential irony. A sinkhole of hope. A bowl of woe.
The pothole, my friends, is the unscheduled Town-Hall meeting of the road for every individual. Why haven乌鸦传媒檛 my taxes gone to filling these holes with more asphalt? Why does the ideally smooth rhythm of the road sound more like the syllabic 5-7-5 of a haiku through my suspension? You think乌鸦传媒hen you act!
You go to municipal buildings to complain, but the Town Hall is closed for an emergency seminar on fiscal restraint and how best to host Town Hall meetings. The receptionist乌鸦传媒檚 chair is filled with a potted plant. You write an email, and receive a reply saying the municipality appreciates your concern and that road improvements are currently under 乌鸦传媒渟trategic review,乌鸦传媒� which, roughly translated, means 乌鸦传媒渨e乌鸦传媒檒l fix it in another budget cycle when the stars align and the CEO乌鸦传媒檚 cousin who owns the paving company lowers his prices.乌鸦传媒�
Now, municipal taxes. Oh, sweet municipal taxes, collected with the mechanical cheerfulness of a bureaucratic but startlingly perky robot. You pay them annually, semi-annually, or in instalments, with the same feeling one reserves for tipping an invisible waiter who hasn乌鸦传媒檛 brought your food. 乌鸦传媒淭his,乌鸦传媒� the town councils say, 乌鸦传媒渋s for police, for fire services, for your library.乌鸦传媒� And you nod, because books and hydrants are good. But then you ask about roads, and an elected official mutters something about 乌鸦传媒渋nfrastructure deficit乌鸦传媒� and slips out the side door.
Meanwhile, your tires have become oval in lieu of circular, and your axle wants to join a support group. Children begin naming the local potholes like adopted sea otters at the Vancouver Aquarium. 乌鸦传媒淭hat乌鸦传媒檚 Tofino,乌鸦传媒� they say. 乌鸦传媒淪he has been here since Easter.乌鸦传媒� The clever kids, though, start painting numbers on each of them and set up a mini-putt course, since they don乌鸦传媒檛 have a pool to play in like the sea otters.
And yet the Mayor unveils the budget, not wearing a tie, whimsically and somehow magically explains the trajectory of it all, and says the levy will only increase by 2.5%, which is the same amount the moon moves away from the Earth each year乌鸦传媒攕o, you know, basically nothing.
But you pay it. You pay it and drive carefully. You swerve like a ballerina dodging landmines on the way to Swan Lake, also known as your favourite fishing hole. You pray to the ghost of asphalt past and the moon. And at night, in the silence of the traffic circle and lonely bike paths, you swear you hear the potholes whisper:
乌鸦传媒淔reedom is not Free乌鸦传媒�
Douglas Zhivago
