Is there a difference? Oh but there is.
A couple of weeks ago I was out for a drive with my Ma and Pa (just kicking it extra old school with that parental slang) and we came across this rest stop that is directly over the old haunted TB clinic that is way, way, way, far on the outskirts of Kamloops. This place is called 'Padova City' and it used to be a self-sustaining closed city where people with TB went to die, and then in the 1950s it became a hospital for people with severe mental issues.
Oh the stories about Padova. The stories! When I was in high school (so you know, like last week) it was the thing to do for kids to try and sneak into Padova and spend the night there. I never did this. See multiple previous blog entries that proves I was a species of teenager called Nerdus Nolifeus. However, I thoroughly enjoyed the Monday morning stories where kids would try and freak us all out with their ghostly tales. My favourite parts of their stories though is when they all got chased off by security.
Padova may be abandoned, but it has more security than Taylor Swift.
The place is falling apart, and people who have actually managed to sneak inside report that it looks like everybody was in the middle of doing something, then they just got up, locked the doors, and never went back. But, people say there is something eerie about that place; that even though its abandoned you can hear beds moving, people shuffling around, crying.
Doesn't that give you wonderful chills?
People who worked there also don't really like to talk about their experiences, which really adds to the image of the place. In fact, Padova's image is so saturated with ghost lore that it would require Tiger Woods' PR people to try and make it look appealing again.
(TANGENT: On Halloween, a guy came to the party I was at dressed like Tiger, and he had this toothpick of a girl tottering behind him looking like The Colour Pink Puked All Over Me Barbie. I asked her what she was supposed to be, and she giggled and said 'Tiger's mistress...teehee'. PATHETIC. Girls of the world: get some mother f-ing SELF RESPECT.)
Anyhow, back to the rambling story and how it all ties in with Love Rocks!
We were at the rest stop and were looking the crumbling buildings and I was wondering if people's stories of ghosts walking the abandoned halls could be true, when I noticed a fire pit that was really colourful.
At first it just appeared really junky
And I wondered who took the time to paint the sticks?
But then I trained my lens closer
And focused on the Pollacked beauty of the colours
The primary beauty of the stones
The message of these love rocks.
And suddenly it wasn't weird. It was a bonfire of creativity. It was a letter of cheer to anyone who stopped to notice.
Suddenly it wasn't Padova haunting me, but the wondering of who went up to this rest stop on some dark night, started a fire, and painted their landscape the colour Love?
Maybe it was the lady from the plane? Maybe it was a psychedelic party that my Nerdus Nolifeus self would never bother to be a part of? Maybe it was a bunch of drunk art students who had a bag of supplies in the back of their car, who were feeling stymied, and who said 'F-ck it! Let's do what we want.'
But it's there. This colour. The fire is dead, but the party is still there.
Like everyone was in the middle of doing something, they got up, they walked away, and never came back.
Except they didn't lock the doors.