Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

“Listen: bound to the realms of this existence, I can only look as far as my eyes can see. And I can only hold for as long as my lungs can take. But take the plunge with me and you’ll sense the impermanence.”

We breathe in staccatos, afraid to let go of the last…bits and swallow abruptly. We cling. Do we not? We tug at futility, raging at the constant ebb and flow of impulses — some involuntarily, while others concocted from the myriad lapses of logic and perspective.

Slowly, and gently, a mother falcon nudges her chick away from the precipice, beckoning with shrill laughter at the seemingly hapless indecisiveness of the young one who has never felt a thermal updraft or the shimmering mist beside a waterfall. Does she plunge, will she follow? You were there. And you mocked at your reflection then, taunting it with words that didn’t break any bones nor any mirror. You broke a lot then, didn’t you? All that swelled inside you burst forth, but all that ulcerated inside have yet to cleanse.

Would you rather pick up the broken bits, or step on them? I have questions from many and answers for few, and I have feathers from afar, but songs that never travel far. Interpretations give way to irreverence, and all the traveller has in the end to show for his trip is a bag of rustic postcards. They are all filled with words of intent, but they lack intentions.

Here’s a bus ride with only one passenger: you. You choose to sit at the very back, on the left, because you’ve always favoured your left shoulder when leaning on the window. You choose to sit behind because then you can stretch your feet without having to position yourself sideways. You choose to sit at the back because you like the way the streets play out before you in front of all those empty seats. And the driver that you never met? Is he wearing a hat? Does she call out every stop in a singsong way? Is he wearing shorts, or is she gaining at all the wrong places?

Outside, it is just past twilight and the streets are dim with lights that are slowly coming aglow. It is pouring today. Or tonight. Can you tell? The fogged up windows and the trickling drops outside cloud your orientation. And now you’re unsure about which stop you passed by, which curve and what slope you descended into. The bus travels along at a brisk speed, the whipping rain now completely blinding the windshield, and yet the driver ignores the wipers. Do you slowly panic now? Or are you beyond reprieve?

You rub your eyes and wipe the windows, but it doesn’t help. Nausea creeps in from some absurd corner of your gut. Your hands feel distant, aloof and almost independent of your thoughts. You’ve forgotten your backpack, stereo headphones emitting tiny crackles of choruses that you never bothered to uncover. Do you stand up, or do you sit? Transfixed. A feeble attempt at opening the overhead window is met with a blunt noncompliance. You’re moving at an average speed of 66 kph, but you’re paralyzed inside.

You’re hurtling through space at a blistering pace of thirty kilometers per second, but you’re stuck. You’re barely hanging on, it seems. Clinging seems more appropriate. Do you chuckle at your inane thoughts now? Are you “reflecting”?

When the woods have cleared and you’ve brushed aside the sweat on your forehead, take a look behind the seemingly wayward journey of yours and you’ll discover an uneven path. A path strewn with broken branches and carelessly tossed tissue papers. A path, nonetheless. The falcon cries in the distant — of wonders that have yet to be beset upon, and pitfalls that lie beneath every bed of flowers.

Follow or plunge. Pack heartily in any case.

It happened sometime in the middle of the March 10 rally as our procession was slowly turning the corner from Queen St. and heading north of St. George St. towards the Toronto Chinese Consulate. I was leading a pack of hyperactive, bratty kids – some barely out of pre-school – and I was thinking to myself that this wasn’t a good route at all, that we were going through a residential neighbourhood with a general exposure level of almost nil. Zilch. Some people dumping their weekend house garbage and recycling materials stared at us curiously, but otherwise went about their ways. Some looked from their windows and balconies, wondering what this long line of colourful flags and people clad in dresses were up to on this Saturday afternoon. Put bluntly, we were shouting to no one but ourselves.

So, as I was leading the line, minding the kids and trying not to get pissed off at whoever orchestrated this rally route, a small Tibetan girl tugged at my jacket and asked me impatiently as little children are wont to do, ‘Are we there yet?’

Are we there yet? A question so simple would require a rejoinder equally straightforward. But seeing as to how I had to constantly make sure that the children weren’t getting too close to the leading van and also not straying too far from the others behind, I ignored her, distractedly. The chorus, inevitably, soon followed. Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

I tried the soothing way first. ‘Not too long now, children, just another two blocks and you’ll see.’ ‘Come on, now! Let’s keep those feet rolling.’ And ‘Do you want the old people to go by us?’

It worked for a few minutes before they eventually caught up to my sweet nothings and demanded how long exactly this block I was referring to was. I then had to adopt the stern drill sergeant stance: glaring at them whenever they raised their hands despondently or accused me of lying. It didn’t work for long either.

It was then that I decided to get a little thorough with the kids. I slowed down to their trots, and tried to converse with an especially petulant and annoyed little boy. He had been screaming as fervently as he could for the past hour or so, and now that he was a little tired and bored, he had understandably deduced that this long walk wasn’t really as fun as it had originally started out as. I tried the peacekeeper way.

‘How goes there, kid?’ I elbowed him.

‘Dunno. When are we getting there?’ He asked a touch irritably.

‘It won’t be long now. See that light over there? As soon as we cross that, it’ll just be a block or so away.’

‘You said that about the first light. And the next one. And the next one. ’ He frowned and added, ‘I think you’re just lying to us.’

I bit my tongue and abated this swell of accusation about my supposed mendaciousness. I tried again. ‘You know, as soon as we get there (and it won’t be long), I’ll treat you with a cup of chocolate.’

The little kid ignored my olive branch offering and instead confirmed his suspicion about my dubiousness with his colleague next to him. They nodded gravely and quietly marched along.

I wasn’t going to let them slide by with such a pernicious attitude towards me, and the Chinese Consulate was close so! I sidled up next to him again, although that isn’t quite exactly how you would put it as he was barely up to my chest. He didn’t look up at me, choosing instead to stare at his dragging feet.

‘Do you know why we’re here today?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, about China’s taking over Tibet and stuff.’ He mused on it for a while and continued, ‘We’re here to free Tibet, aren’t we?’

I beamed and poked further, a little hopefully, ‘Do you know what’s happening in Tibet right now?’

‘Not really. I don’t care, really. What are we doing here anyways? I’m tired and I wanna go home.’

Sensing a dead end again, I quickly followed, ‘You know, every step that you take today means that one more Tibetan in Tibet won’t have to suffer for long.’

He finally looked up to me and asked in a suspicious, yet entirely childlike way, ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, man. Whenever you walk in rallies and shout the slogans, more people will know about what’s happening in Tibet and eventually, people will start to realize that what’s happening in Tibet is wrong.’

‘How does that help Tibet? It’s not like we’re shooting and bombing the Chinese.’

‘Like this: every time another person knows about Tibet suffering, they can act in ways that can help Tibet and the Tibetans.’

‘Like shooting the Chinese?’ He asked a little hopefully.

‘No, no. We don’t shoot the Chinese.’ Why not, asked collectively by some kids from behind. ‘Because that’s not the way Tibetans are supposed to solve our problems. Because that’s what the Dalai Lama told us to.’

Why, they prodded further; their inquisitive nature now taking over their exhaustion as always. ‘Because we don’t believe in harming other people. Because that’s not the right thing to do and there are other, better ways of solving problems.’

‘Yeah right,’ some snarky kid from the back.

‘No, because, as soon as you start harming the Chinese, by shooting at them, bombing them, whatever, you are encouraging the use of violence and bloodshed. Killing and harming aren’t the only ways to solve problems.’

‘Because, when you harm someone, you will have to pay for it later. Everything you do now will somehow end up getting back at you.’

How so, was the question this time.

‘I don’t really know,’ I said, quite earnestly. ‘Just remember that for every person you harm, that person or that person’s children will try and get back to you in the future.’

A distinct murmur spread across the precocious group and I was preparing myself for another barrage of rhetorical, existential inquiries when the consulate building mercifully came into view. This seemed to shut them up better than any sweet currying I’d attempted earlier.

As they disbanded quickly as they’d assembled, with that surge of energy that always burst forth whenever there were springs to skip across or snow to make snowballs into, I sighed a relief that I tried to mask as best as I could.

I found a ledge and tried to lean on it, tired from all that coordinating and convincing. The little kid from earlier approached me and handed me his placard. ‘Thanks,’ he said quickly.

‘No worries,’ I replied, hoping now that he would allow me some few minutes before I have to start packing things up.

‘Do you need any help collecting all your signs?’ He asked.

I smiled. ‘Sure.’

I’m sorry. I just couldn’t think up of an adequate enough title for today’s post. I know it’s been quite a while, but I’ve been really busy running around, accomplishing never-ending tasks, errands and such ever since I landed back here in TO. I was actually looking forward to buying some supplies for the SFT Art Party this weekend and catching up with some old chums today but then this happened. I am quite deflated at the moment. Deflated and stewing. And that’s how I ended up with finally getting around to making a half-assed post today. Oh man, I’m even refusing to refer to this nature’s twisted idea of a sense of humour. Instead, let me parlay it unto you by what I do best in, some of the times anyways:

It was cute and all when it first happened in Vancouver and when the first storm hit Ontario. But this is just ridiculous. I was getting prepared for some fresh shower since that was what the weatherman had predicted earlier, but this? This?

So, as I slink back in my chair, clutching a novel that I’ve meant to finish for quite a while now, I curse slowly under my breath. Thank you Ontario. Thank you so much for warmly welcoming back in your cold, cold embrace.

I wonder who’s turn it’ll be to shovel tomorrow morning.

Kamera

- by Wilco

I need a camera to my eye.
To my eye, reminding
Which lies that I have been hiding
Which echoes belong.
I’ve counted out
Days to see how far
I’ve driven in the dark,
With echoes in my heart.

Phone my family, tell them I’m lost –
On the sidewalk.
And no, it’s not OK.

I smashed a camera.
I wanna know why
To my eye deciding
Which lies that I have been hiding,
Which echoes belong.
I’m counting on
A heart I know by heart
To walk me through this war.
Memories distort…

Phone my family, tell them I’m lost –
On the sidewalk.
And no, it’s not OK.

I’ve counted out
And no one knows how far.
I’ve driven in the dark
With echoes in my heart.

Phone my family, tell them I’m lost –
Yeah, I’m lost.
And no, it’s not OK.

So how’s the New Year been to all of you? I’ve been overwhelmed with uneventfulness so far. Ordinary and routine have already gnawed past my knees and are now taking root into my hips. Not that I’ve been a particularly rambunctious maverick or anything before, but this is quite the new low. There were traces of illumination but those all quickly evaporated under the dead weight of work, fatigue, stress and work. Oh, and about my work, just because you all clearly care about every second of my well-being, I’m pumped to say that this next week will be my last week of whoring for a corporation. Well, I’m actually employed by a single propreitorship company and they’ve actually been a really decent emplyer and I do like the time spent with my co-workers and…ah but to hell with it all. I can’t stay at one place for too long. I’ve already figured out all the good Pho restaurants here in Vancouver and I pretty much know all the various transit routes and you know what, it’s about time I saddled up and moseyed over to another, er, place. What can I say? I’m a loose cannon. This caravan needs to buck up and look for greener pastures. I, um, am starting to miss Toronto and y’know, dude needs some home-cooking every now and then. Jesus, I JUST CAN’T FUCKING STAND THE RAIN NO MORE! Alright? You got me officer. You caught me red, lying, cheating, drunk, hapless, broken down and dishevelled. I need some time in the slammer to wise up. Maybe a whiff of inspiration will grace me there. O Spring, where art thou?

Holy Hobo! I feel as if I’m privy to some apocalyptic undoing of Canada’s alleged western treasure trove because the way things have been unfolding here have been way too random. Not long after the fruity storm that barged its way past the coast and into the busy schedules of Vancouverites angling to break away to the mountains, we are now overwhelmed by uncharacteristically heavy snowfalls and frigid temperatures. And it’s not even December yet!

I’ll tell you what though, this cataclysmic shift in weather patterns has been long due. I remember my first winter here a year ago: you could never go by a day without the locals staring at the sky glumly and wistfully cursing the weather under their breath. It was contagious too because I found myself muttering in the same morose tones and looking up expectantly whenever there was the slightest break in the clouds, only to be disappointed and muttering solemnly a few moments later. And then there was that pathological spell last year when Vancouverites were actually cheering on the rain and hoping to beat their own record for the longest consecutive days of rainfall. It’s no wonder people can be a little distant and cold here. When you’ve got a gorgeous tract of land; uncompromising weather for much of the year; outrageous housing prices; a beloved, schizophrenic hockey team; an inept transit system; an international airport that could get submerged in the Pacific should the plates underneath decide to shake things up a bit; and so on and so forth…it’s too much on their plates, really. Between cursing at unyielding Chinese drivers on the highway and the frustrations of trying on pricey Lululemon yoga pants, who can afford the time to be open or inviting or warm? Certainly not me. Now excuse me while I get in line to order a tall cup of organic, fair trade coffee while secretly hoping to chat up with that cute UBC undergrad barista who’s probably undecided on her major and hoping to just “get away from it all!” somewhere in southeast Asia backpacking to the tunes of Jack Johnson but damn those creeps and homeless people who keep stealing packets of sugar, can’t they, like, get a job or something?

Sorry to digress there, but yeah, going back to the weather: I think it’s healthy for people here to experience all the vicissitudes of weather that mother nature has in her disposal. It’s invigorating and — never mind the fact that I’ve fully extended my premise for using the word “vicissitude” — it puts a jolt of survival mode into the sedentary minds of individuals who would’ve otherwise just toiled along to the steady drumming of incessant showers and the shades of gray that come along with it. Even the cold itself, which is challenging and piercing, is a stark contrast to that otherwise dull, gnawing sensation of cold wind and rain. And now that the snow has rightly deposited itself next to our doorsteps, and not somewhere far and convenient like on the mountains, the residents here will need to step up to the challenges: of shoveling snow (or snoveling show like my co-worker said, ok fine I said it!), salting, layering, walking carefully so as not to slip (which I failed to do so this morning), driving for once like you actually care for the well-being of the cyclists who are strangely non-existent. It took 40 minutes for the bus that I take to work which regularly stops by every 10 minutes. So, now that they’ve been finally relegated to the life that most other Canadians have to go through every winter, maybe it’ll bring about a sense of humility and cease the inherent aloofness and expectant attitude of someone who was born and raised along the coast. I just hope Vancouver can get interesting for once and not be just so content with its postcard surroundings and mild weather. Maybe I should start as well. And maybe I need to buy a pair of shoes with more gripping prowess.

Is there ever a worse feeling than when you drearily open your eyes and glare at the alarm clock and then get drawn to the cold rain that’s knocking on the window, those traces of lifeless water snaking its way mercilessly on the glass? Suddenly, it hits you that – shit! you’re gonna miss the damn bus again – and as you’re just about to fling that heavenly, warm abode of yours all in haste; that tiny voice of reason lodged up some high alpine in your brain calmly points out amidst the blizzard of irrationality that – wait, o restless one, for today is a Sunday, and unless you’re a devout Catholic, there should be nary a reason for you to abscond from your safe hearth. Rest now, child, and savour this flow of comfort and oneness while you can.

And then you sigh deeply and just so very ardently. This momentary bliss that so enraptures your fleeting consciousness that you harken back to those careless days of rolling down dirt mounds and giggling uncontrollably at the sight of your dogs panting along obediently. You can almost imagine yourself with that stupid smile on your face as you’re just about to leap from that bridge, gravity be damned!

I imagine at least a few other Vancouverites feeling the way I did this morning. It’s just such an effortless joy and you can’t help but smile beside yourself.

And for all the unfortunate souls who grumbled and tumbled their way out this morning towards whatever obligations that they or others placed on themselves, I offer you this remnant of my creation:

I hope you appreciate the sad humour inherent in this portrait. I had the dubious lack of foresight of not giving it a name, but I think that’s beside the point now. The forces of gravity have forced it to fold unto itself, and the incessant gnawings of rude micro-organisms have bared its integrity for all that it could bear. Here’s to hoping that its brief cycle of existence — replete with uninspired carvings and meaninglessness — harbours the last fading visage of a harmless Fall and the arrival of an inconsiderate Winter.