| The most interesting thing about me is that I'm interested |
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[Thu May 25 2006 ∞ 01:13pm] |
CLAWED BY THE SEA, N.S. seems a province clutched in its whimsy- soaking humidity, thunder, cold rain, rolls of fog; a sunny day has a touch of grace about it. On their days off, my sister, her school friend J., C. and I piled into a rental, and sped out the city limits through Shubenacadie towards Truro where C. had an errand. But our destination was Cape Split, where I was promised a view, so we headed back along the coast, stopping at not one but two lighthouses. We clambered over shores of red clay carved by tides, silver pine trees tumbled down banks as if in a moment of carelessness, and passed small town after small town, solitary farmhouses with deep, glassed-in porches, sheds with painted clocks, Methodist churches, grown-in baseball diamonds. It was a landscape that seemed deeply familiar to me, though to J., it was. She kept pointing out houses for sale, and we took her past the apple orchard where she'd was married, a few summers ago. She'd driven with her father, a teacher of my sister's, over this province countless times as a child. We stopped for lunch in Grand Pré and looked at Acadian surnames in the museam, coffee in Wolfville. We circled towards our destination late in the afternoon, but the few clouds soon took giant steps, it started to shower, mist curtained in. So we drove up the Lookoff, where we could hardly see two feet ahead. The day was enough, though, we headed back in the rain towards the city, dropping J. off, and going for comfort food at a Cantonese restaurant.
I've travelled so little in recent years that I feel like swallowing my surroundings in big chomps, green material to be digested later. My eyes are hungry. But I haven't travelled far from my habits; even though I left my journal behind, I'm still observing things with a slight detachment, waiting for the emotional realizations to happen later. In regards to my sister's life, for instance, I feel my presence is appreciated, wanted, while I'm averse to judging, which I feel is not necessary. My dilemma is an old one- how to be involved, without slipping into the ennui of neutrality, or the annoyance of being a busybody? How to continue to have the exchanges of knowledge through relating to others?
I have a few more days in Halifax before taking the train to Montreal. Of course, I don't know where the time has gone but I prefer not to think about it. I have a few more people to see in Halifax, a few more meals to have, which will be good. Oddly the last leg of my trip will probably feel more like a continuation, a renewal.
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| Halifax Notes |
[Fri May 12 2006 ∞ 02:10pm] |
My last couple days before my flight was spent not with familiars, but with a fingerfull of new faces- my high school friend A.'s cousin sitting across from me with his crown of red curls at the Dockers Diner on Powell & Victoria which I had wanted to try- Foundation with the girl who took over my shifts at work, and later dancing at Shine. I bought a new green knapsack at Mountain Co-op, and also carried the green haversack my parents used when they backpacked Europe, years before I was born, stuffed like an overfed man with coffee beans, yarn and new blouses for my sister's new gallery job.
I flew into fog. The Halifax Airport in Dartmouth was swabbed white, unlike the neat patchwork taking off from Toronto. While plodding with my sister twice a day to work or school, she would give me a walking tour- whose house, who had worked where, what had closed after only being open a month, some NSCADer hangout. Less than six hours in town and I was taken to a Julie Doiron show, at Gus' Pub on Agricola with its glass paned gambling room. We could smoke anywhere in the bar. I met two people from Vancouver, not counting the girlfriend. I was accused of having brought Vancouver with me, but not the beer prices.
The north end neighborhood where my sister lives is the art student nest. New cafes on Agricola with white seating and wifi, though, spell a yuppie disaster. Still, though, there are Greek grocers, bike shops. My sister threw me on a spare mountain bike, and after less than an hour's worth of circling parking lots, I was deemed ready for short trips. I fell only once, have not yet crashed into anyone except near relatives and shrubs. Peeling off my jeans in bed, my legs look like the bike has run over my body repeatedly. But the mountain bike takes potholes and gravel wonderfully- I never have to be nervous at a cracked road. I can hardly yet bring myself to look too closely at cars, moving objects- I keep my eyes fixed on my guides. Back in Vancouver, I'll buy a used bike for the price of a few months worth of bus passes. Having something to look forward to when I'm home again makes me less anxious that when this whirl of action and visiting are over, I'll deflate. Take advantage of $3.75 ales while I can.
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| Catching up on some slacker frivolity. |
[Thu May 4 2006 ∞ 01:04am] |
Last.fm profile.
Because I should be more trivial, seriously. I do consider music one of my few, true indulgences- lo-fi, freak-folk, noise, albert ayler, japanese garage bands, the masters of the click and static, the inbred Vancouver indie families- they have all have to be taken seriously.
Because I just quit my day job and consequently have some more, but not much more, spare time on my paws.
Because Band of Horses will be the next Shins- though lyrics not as insidiously clever, that is why they will be the next Shins.
I blame this 14" folding white card, I do, I do. What can I do?
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| urban soldiers march to the 3 min digital playback |
[Thu Dec 1 2005 ∞ 11:10pm] |
IT IS SNOWING AT UBC and the ground looks like it's covered with white mold. I'm in my work clothes, which make me look like a drone. You know, the ubiquitous uniform of the urban soldier. The high school girl in the plaid skirt at the bus stop was doing leg stretches, to rid herself of the invisible handles only she could see, or the last of her babyfat. That time of night, the neighborhood was as quiet as a giant empty parking lot. Vancouver sits on a tiny, fortunate shelf while the rest of the country lies under permafrost or semi-permafrost. Where winter is the main event, and all the other seasons seem like a breather, a sigh in a long haul. I use the word fortunate in the rooted sense: a place touched by Fortune. Think of a towering marble woman with an aquiline nose, tapping her wand over the swaying glass condos. Someone must've shaken fairy dust over Kits.
I'm sorry I've been in so little contact. It does not mean that I haven't been thinking of my friends very often. I've discovered that I need a great deal of time to incubate. And I have to grip onto Time for myself, with coffee-embedded fingernails. What contrives to suck time away from me: the daily drama of meals, the #7 bus route, the aisles of Mountain Equipment Co-Op, the activities of being twenty something. There is a pleasure in these things, but they are things that I can't help sectioning off, so that while I could write an entry filled with the bands I've seen, the things I've bought, my day distills to those few, rare hours cordoned off for writing, or gazing blankly out windows or by water, while the Helijet buzzes off the dockside. I'm endlessly grateful for everything, both of the small connections and of my solitude. (For instance, having a friend plug my mp3 player with old punk- The Stooges, Throbbing Gristle, Ramones, stuff I'm not intimately familiar with- but absolutely awesome to listen to while passing Big Box stores. Or the youngish drummer who shared his joint outside a jazz cellar.) The only things that could claim parallel attention have been the elections, so that I know who to censure the next 3 years. And the labour union heads, who'll be running in the next elections. I commit to clipping stories out of newspapers I don't believe, to remember what seizes my credibility.
More and more I consider the internet a luxury. I prefer this view to the one that dictates that it is widely accessible. I'm finding it reviving, to be away from computer screens. My sense of time has changed since the past year and a half. My sense of time is always changing. The internet is something else that wants to yank time away from long walks past my favourite building, the British Columbia Sugar Refinery Co..
The first of December. For many, the beginning of the end.
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[Mon Oct 10 2005 ∞ 06:01pm] |
I never knew that Murakami is a jazz fan. Of course, I don't know for sure, but I suspect it. In the background of his characters' actions, there's always some Albert Ayler or Bill Evans tune playing. No one listens to Albert Ayler unless they've been introduced. The introduction may be proper or improper. Anyway, all the constant jazz references Norwegian Wood sort of piqued me. I went to a record store and by coincidence, they were having a weekend sale. I picked up Coltrane's My Favourite Things and Bill Evans' You Must Believe in Spring, and I was looking for another Mingus album similar to the gospel-ly Ah Um, and found a copy of Mingus Dynasty, which clearly stated on its sticky label that it was a companion album to Ah Um. I ahhed and ummed. I'm anxious when buying jazz albums that I'll end up with something clinical, pretentious, and cerebral sounding, but all three of my purchases sound warm and tender, and intelligent. Not only that, but they fit in with the rest of my cds; they're at home with me.
I was getting off the skytrain from coquitlam where I'd been at the value village, and there were a pair of drummers on Broadway and Commercial. The intersection felt like their stage. Sometimes they grew quieter, changed their rhythm, and began anew to pound the new rhythm like a wooden mallet into the heads of everyone waiting for the B-line.
dum-da-da-dum-dum dum-dum-DUM
dum-da-da-dum-dum dum-dum-DUM
and syncopated in between:
boc-boc boc-a-boc-boc
boc-boc boc-a-boc-boc
Everyone kept staring straight ahead. Little by little, I felt we were becoming hypnotized. The sound of the drumming was somewhat of a relief. For once, I didn't have to listen to a lot of swearing ("That FUGGING beetch, she bought me the FUCGGING wrong size of boots!!!") and I couldn't hear cell phones chiming above the din.
Thanksgiving. Downtown's half-populated, I walked to my parents store. On holidays like this, I like to go to the Bay, and buy stockings or shoes. The Bay always has sales on long weekends, those little cards you scratch and save. It kind of reminds me of being taken to the mall with my sister by our mom when we were off school and needed new boots. Wet leaves, it's easy to slip in my heels. I've been thinking of getting an MP3 player, because sometimes the noises of the city are overwhelming. Happy Thanksgiving, my dear ones.
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[Wed Oct 5 2005 ∞ 01:35pm] |
How brave Spinoza was! He turned from his Hebrew teachers, bringing upon himself threats of violence from the community he left, to explore the Biblical texts in a novel way. I've been incredibly thrilled by his writings.
Have also spent time with Murakami, gulping down his novels in my underwear. Intermittent showers have gotten in the way of the sun's warm patches that quilted my bed.
I see more of my co-workers than anyone else and I'm wistful to see friends. It does seem like the people I choose in my life tend to travel, work and study intensely, maybe because of the time of their lives or because I feel I can relate more to such fast-moving kids. So that even if I'm stagnant, I get to hear about a stream of projects. Though I'm increasingly less stagnant now- since the spring I've felt my old determination and optimism come back. I'm even impatient, grabby- and it's easy to feel like I'm not doing enough. This, I've realized in the past year, is one of my unhealthy thinking patterns. It's better to think of what I do in a day as enough. Life's eager hunger can be satiated with small-built meals, a page a day.
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[Thu Sep 22 2005 ∞ 06:26pm] |
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The double birthdays of my parents'- yesterday my dad, tomorrow my mother's. We're going next door to Coast for dinner; we hope they won't make too much fuss over us. This morning I bought a torte from the fantastic Fratelli's on the Drive. I want to try out every cafe there. I wonder continually at having grocery co-ops, bookstores with politics that align with mine a few steps away. In the mornings the light warms the whole room, and it is an excellent workroom. It is a joy to write there that I ache to have to leave it to run errands or to go to work, but then walking out & gathering sights is joyous too. I'm addicted to tofu scramble, this Cuban Organic coffee at the Bean, the only coffee that can give me a buzz now. I'm addicted to thinking about happiness being measured on a barometre, whether its possible that the average pressure of the atmosphere around you is ever accurate, when its the precise points that sway us. When I sleep, the buzz doesn't seem to wear off, only tucks itself into the small of my back.
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| occupations |
[Thu Sep 15 2005 ∞ 02:47pm] |
Despite the absence of phone and internet, paradoxically I feel more connected than usual. End of Aug. migrations took the rest of my small, close flock of girlfriends from my program at university away, and my friendslist reflects the relocation of many permanant and temporary Vancouver inhabitants. On this site, in this season, I feel like the west coast correspondant, wiring news on the smoke that's drifted up for days from the bog fire in Delta, or the welcome-back tents, pitched like annual travelling temples in front of the SUB.
The majority of the people I care about live in cities other than the one I choose to chase dust in, and a five years ago when I crossed the country, I wondered frantically about how to transform the loss which was like a travelling companion. Loss of nearness, of familiarity. Somehow, absences became presences, or confirmations of the closeness that I'd had, and in a way, that I would have again.
This spring, the way I felt on this salt water float changed. Instead of feeling floating, detached, or in a fog, I felt embedded in where I lived, like a tile grouted in place. The change is accountable to not one thing; but I began to live in this city not like it was shoulder-bag burden, but with the same automaticness (autonomy?) as someone who reaches for something on a shelf without having to look, or who can fall backwards without thinking because the mattress is there. It has very much to do with physical space, with how my body is moving. And the way that cities and people inhabit us is linked to the way our presences circumscribe many absences.
With the reports coming in from you, the travellers, I feel like I have little to relate back. If a 24-hr surveillance camera were trained on me, it would look like all I did was move piles of paper around. I work; and to write about what I work on would sound insufferably longwinded here. Work is a container, and to write about working would be like having a conversation about talking. To talk with someone, to give them that attention, and to write, is like covering a distance.
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| more later |
[Tue Sep 6 2005 ∞ 11:09am] |
(edited 09/07/05 11am)
THE MAGIC MOVIE-MAKING MACHINE is visiting, laid out on the street in front of my parents' store. My parents are used to the spectacle; I can't help peeking out. What I don't understand is why crews look earnest while lugging their equipment about. Making a film seems to me a ridiculous, childlike, fantastic and expensive affair. Light through a giant box. Metres sliding on rails to keep them level. Actors, pores whited out so that their faces, in a stirring way, perhaps evokes masks used by the ancient Athenians. From the point of view of the Yaletown pigeons, or this girl's playing God imagination, such coerced machinations must look rehearsed in themselves.
Our move went smoothly. We woke 15 min. before the movers arrived. We don't have a phone line in yet, since we forgot about it, so the best way to reach me is on my cell. The evenings in Vancouver have turned nippy, I can't go out with bare ankles anymore, but I can't let go of my summer clothing. The #99 is once again full of scarved students, waiting to wake up, which will only partially happen in late October.
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| reading is bloody |
[Tue Aug 9 2005 ∞ 01:00pm] |
the livejournal site is improving itself out of my range of technological capture. My browser is not displaying the page to individual entries, so I can't post comments. please don't think me surly or unsocial. (can posting and commenting on blogs even be considered 'social' activities?)
I can, however, continue to provide fodder for Wastage of Time, an urgent requirement for today's young and restless workers, preventing burn-out, infiltrating tasty bites of pop-culture miscellany, and casting a vast map of cross-demographic social interactions into their imaginations.
here are my contributions.
yesterday I crossed a street (in the middle, of course) and walked into a conversation. The Conversation and I continued onto veggie burgers at the Templeton. He knew the waitress and she spoke insistantly about "growing up in a ghetto". I had just come from renting a mousetrap of a mailbox in the echoing cool corridors of the Post Office. I was on my way to a play on Granville Is. a co-worker was playing bass for and got there all coffeed up.
on sun., cowed by crowds of people who seemed to me to have eaten unhealthily for a very long time, I lower my head and work at pulling little lengths of wire around 4mm beads without chipping them and distinguishing one speck of an aqua crystal bead amongst its paler counterparts. Then a voice- "oh I've passed your store in yaletown- I live in yaletown-" I look at a woman who unmistakably, must live in an Urban Loft. She stands out from the sea of ribbed cotton, of overbright colours, yet initially, her taste does not seem original because, I realize, it is what all the younger women around her are imitating. Yet there is a sleekness to her that they lack, the fall of the fabric of her pants, the tight whorls of her earrings, her perfect tan- are all recognizable to me. Face to face with a woman such as this on Granville and Broadway, I would sling my vintage airline bag a little closer to my side, set my re-issue sneakers closer to the sidewalk edge. But in the suburbs, she is a reminder of my own lack of innocuousness, of my immersion in the city-culture like an acid bath, that I will soon be returning to with thanks and relief.
on sat., a couple of musicians came to play Jobim standards at work. Half an hour before, the extra staff and I looked at each other and the empty shop with doubt. But we stayed open an extra hour and a half, and when I had the chance to look up again, the coffeeshop seemed filled with a goldeny, summer night glow.
I wrote on Yottabite that I have been spending a lot of August so far on my bed in my underwear with alternating glasses of beer and water and iced tea, doing gobs of reading. I used to read like this as a child and teenager, through acres of Victorian moral fiction and Henry James. Now, it's medieval miracle plays, Iris Chang's The Rape of Nanking, prison writings of a well-read and sex deprived black man, Fanon's first work, bits of Marx, a short history of the Catholic Church by Hans Kung. I have a pet interest in classical, medieval and reformation philosophy. Especially Plato, which I see as writing the first dialectics, and the protestant movement, that in part, unlatched the individual from the dictation of the priests (and the filtration of truth, church hierarchy, indulgences), made meaning and interpretation the responsibility of each person, promoted vernacular languages and, in a way, literacy. I've been reading thirstily & not wanting to let up & after working in a coffeeshop going to the Bean on main and parking there with decaf & cigarettes to read more.
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witnessing's journal