I moved to Montreal in 1986. It was a glorious Fall. I visited Parc Jean Drapeau and saw what was left of Expo 67

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I marveled at the resilience of pop culture detritus. Buckminster Fuller’s expression of tensegrity had become a biosphere

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Habitat 67 rejoiced in the banality of its concreteness. I was told that Marc Lalonde, a former finance minister, owned an address there.

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An Easter Island Moai giant looked at me. I would see it again later that winter in the Yves St. Laurent window on Sherbrooke.

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And that was that. The distance between inspiration and aspiration closed.

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