canada

Pacific time

2008-01-01T01:06:16+00:00

How to put this. How to say it in words. How to damp down thought, impression, compulsion into mere vocabulary, and leave it out for the world to see.

I hugged Brad, and I made a squeaky noise. When I had awakened earlier that morning and realized that I would see him and Alice that day, I realized it had been too long since I had seen them. Years too long.

I look back this afternoon on the years that have suddenly slipped past me and it makes me catch my breath to realize the person I crossed a border to see was someone who, through a bit of luck and good timing, has been a quiet, long-standing witness to the teenage, twenty-something, and thirty-something versions of me.

I turned to Jordan, Adam's brother, who knew none of this back story, and tried to think of a way to put it all into words. How to convey that if I dig back far enough in my memories I can remember years of my life in which Brad was just a name, a screen name, a familiar rhythm of text messages on a screen that despite all odds formed a real friendship? This man flew cross-country for my wedding, for God's sake, and I never got around to putting my hands on him yesterday, giving him a good shake, and saying, "Did you know that of all the things I remember about my wedding, the memory of your showing up to see it happen is one of the best parts?"

The thing is: we don't say these things. I want to say that I don't know why, but I do. It's self-preservation. If we temper what we show the world, hide a bit of emotion and feeling, we don't expose the tenderest part of ourselves. The world has sharp corners everywhere, and if we didn't protect ourselves a bit we'd spend our lives bruised.

* * * * *

The changing of a calendar year provokes introspection. This morning over coffee and donuts in Tim Horton's I looked at my friend, savored the pleasure of face-to-face conversation, and I ached when I realized that he was the only person at the table who actually had memories of my family, my teenage years, my college life. I could tell every person at the table that every year that passes makes me think of the people I've loved who are not alive to see this calendar change, but Brad actually knew three of the people on that list.

I don't know how to take New Year's. It's a holiday that has intense personal significance to me, but it's a time of mingling melancholy and excitement. Ring in the new. Remember the old. Celebrate who you are with but remember who is gone.

I'll make some calls on the midnights tonight, but tonight, mine is Pacific time. Tonight, everyone, not just me, thinks about where they've been and where they are going, and if my eyes leak a little, I have a socially-acceptable reason to do so.

So here's to 2007. Births and deaths, love and loss, the unending bounty of ceaseless change that is life and the people we share it with. Not everyone I love lived to see this new 2008. Not everyone I love will remember this day when they grow up, even though they lived it.

If you take away anything from my New Year's Eve, take this: be proud to be the friend that makes everyone laugh because you squeak and tacklehug them after not seeing them for years. Tell them you love them, even if it's risky. (Scratch that: especially if it's risky.)

So here's to 2008. Stick around, and we'll see how it goes.

A short Canadian holiday: in pictures, II

2001-08-29T04:28:45+00:00

Vancouver. Two words: good food. Cheap sushi and fabulous Ethiopian food.

Gastown: the group, us around a statue, and a very strangely-formed building.
Nyala, a fabulous Ethiopian restaurant: on our way there, Brad and Alice, Jeff/Amy/Jeff, and the carnage. Oh, and Andy trying not to explode.
Heather and Jeff at Shabusen.
A very strange sign. Another.
Various shots of the skyline: Amy, Andy and Heather, Heather, Jess, random mountains, Heather's silhouette, and Jess standing on a rather large tree trunk. Also, a couple of random shots at dusk with no one in them.
Jeff Alami imitating the statue.
A really enormous old tree in Stanley Park: yes, that's a real tree, and we're all standing inside it.

If you only look at one picture, take a look at the one of us standing inside the tree. If I hadn't seen that tree with with my own eyes—and stood inside it—I don't think I would have believed it from the pictures.

Anyway. You've probably wondered about the impersonal nature of the updates this week. It's nothing terrible, but dragon*con is coming up. Depending on the state of my exhaustion and stability of net access, there may or may not be entries before Tuesday.

If there are, though, expect commentary on all things dragon*con. I'm interested in not just the 'con events, but also the people who would attend an event such as this. I'll probably find all kinds of content fodder. Then again, as someone pointed out to me recently, just about everything's grist for the mill these days.

A short Canadian holiday: in pictures

2001-08-28T04:00:45+00:00

You might recall that we took a nice short holiday in Canada a couple of months ago. Now that Jess has made available the last of her pictures from Vancouver, I've got the full set. What I'm posting tonight are the pictures from out on the island (i.e., all pictures taken in Victoria). There are quite a bit more from Vancouver, back on the mainland, but I think I'm going to save those for tomorrow. These are plenty enough for now.

First shots: the largest undefended border on the planet (if you don't count US Customs agents).
On the ferry to Victoria: the fantastic view, Heather and Andy posing, Jeff and I posing, and two more pictures of Heather.
First night there: Brad at our dinner together. Then, when everyone else had the sense to go sleep, Heather and I said, "So what if we've been up for over 24 hours straight? Let's go clubbing with Brad!"
Shots from Brad's apartment: Alice sprawled on Brad's lap, Andy so tired he can't move, more tiredness with Heather, Brad sprawled out on the floor, Heather dragging Andy by his belt loop, Heather's CD carnage from A&B Sound.
Dim sum: The group (shots one and two). Heather and Amy afterwards, Brad and Will afterwards.
In downtown Victoria: The group of us at the Cheesecake Restaurant. At long last, a picture of Alice and Brad. The cradlerobbers rejoice at their young female finds. Jessica-the-starlady gets a star-shaped cluestick. We found a boat named Karina at the dock.
At Judy's house for dinner: Amy with Guinness, Brad with beer, Frank (king of spaghetti), Heather pontificating, people crowded in Judy's kitchen. Jess contemplates climbing into Brad's old treehouse. Some group shots (1, 2, 3, 4). More shots from the backyard (1, 2, 3, 4). Judy's martinis are legendary and potent. She has the cutest piece of kitty art on the wall. Andy is mystified by pasta forks. Four random shots of her house (1, 2, 3, 4).
The Trans-Canada Highway has a mile 0, so we went. Me, alone. Andy, fearless explorer. Andy and Heather. Heather. Jeff and Amy at the marker. Jess on the promontory. Alice and Brad hugging. Jeff and I again. Andy and Heather. The group (and again). The shoreline.
A quiet pub crawl: The group. Amy, Heather, and Jess playing pool. A rather amusing bit of signpost graffiti we spotted on the way back.
Some random scenery: Alice and Brad hugging, and a closeup of that shot. Also a similar one of Heather and Andy.
On the ferry back to Vancouver: Alice and Brad catching a snooze, and Amy and Jeff having a schmoo moment.

Those of you who use the "Brad's Blues" skin will undoubtedly notice that the picture of me playing pool looks a bit familiar.

No, I haven't had these images sitting on my hard drive for a couple of months…really, I haven't!

Vancouver pictures tomorrow.

A scribbled travelogue, II

2001-05-30T22:37:16+00:00

Under normal circumstances I would agree that the journey taken is better than the destination reached. This, however, I do not believe could be termed a normal set of circumstances. Our flights home: a truly nasty bit of thunderstorm downdraft coupled with delayed flights and sleep deprivation. In my mind, those can't compare to a relatively normal vacation.

I am home. To prolong the quiet joy of recounting my vacation time, I am writing this entry with pen instead of keyboard, sprawled out on the couch. Stomach down, chin propped on left fist, I can rest my pen and close my eyes when yielding to the power of a still-fresh memory. I will translate these scribbles into typed words tomorrow afternoon and leave them as a fait accompli.

I have two rolls of vacation pictures to be developed. A few of the pictures from the first roll, I think, will be absolutely stunning. The Tsawwassen-Swartz Bay ferry route holds no shortage of exquisitely powerful vistas—that, I should add, vistas that the 'native folk' routinely ignore.

The smaller islands are accessible only by boat or ferry. The houses face out, toward the water; roads appear to be almost nonexistent on the islands. The houses may as well have dragged themselves up from out of the water and left themselves sprawled gloriously on the beach; they certainly do not seem to have been built by means of roads. They are, I think, houses for people like myself—houses for people who are appreciative of human contact but yet have urges in their heart to live intentionally distant, quiet, remote. I understand the kind of person who would choose to live in such a place.

The landscape bears almost no resemblance to the landscapes I know from home: a rough, starkly beautiful set of juxtapositions. Water and rock, rock and snow, rock and sky, cloud and sand, sky and water. At home I could pick a scattering of these and see them individually in different places, but here in British Columbia they are thrown together into a landscape made beautiful precisely through its dissonance.

A simple thing, a ferry, but the differences between island and mainland are more than can be quantified by distance. Living on a piece of land reachable only by 1.5-hour ferry rides teaches a type of patience, slowness, relaxation, acceptance unseen on the mainland. No need to scurry off to the mainland for every little thing. Be patient, and go back only when you truly need to. It is a thoroughly different mode of thought, and one whose very alienness attracts me.

While on the island, I performed the required ablutions: the harbour, the walking, the rummaging-through of book / CD / assorted shops. We ate, we laughed, we saw Brad's apartment and met his girlfriend for the first time. We walked, we rested, we bickered and got over it, we danced …

So much to tell.

… for now, Jeff sleeps. It is 8:50 p.m., by my watch. Jeff crawled into bed, fully clothed, at 7:00 p.m. Since that hour I have occasionally heard his soft snoring coming from our bedroom, but other than those faint noises of breathing, he has made no sound nor movement this evening. He was unable to sleep on last night's planes, and that inability—plus jet lag—is catching up with him the day after we returned home.

In my memories, Vancouver is faster-paced than Victoria. More pedestrians, a different tempo, more definite delineations between neighborhoods. An hour's intense shopping with $40 in Vancouver's Punjabi Market purchased me a few lengths of silk, which I shall make into various bits of clothing.

As I write, I hold one of those in my hand; the seven-yard bolt of tan silk, delicate, strong, soft. I first held it up in the crammed shop and could not imagine what I would do with it, only that I must have take it home with me so that when the inspiration came, I would not regret having left it behind, unbought, in Vancouver.

I lean toward having a dress made from it; something softly skirted, comfortable, and elegant. For now, my cats sniff it warily, trusting their noses to know that this piece of cloth does not come from home, but instead some faraway place that they do not understand or recognize.

Tenzing suspects it would make an excellent kitty bed; I must convince him otherwise.

Next up: airport thoughts, the variegation of humans, and whatever else my pen produces.

A scribbled travelogue

2001-05-30T00:42:46+00:00

Written on Saturday morning in Victoria:

* * *

Me, in shorts, sitting crosslegged in front of a locked hotel lobby in British Columbia. Such is the joy of getting up early to write and then discovering the joys of a) your spouse having the only room key, which you discovered (too late) that you needed to have to get back inside the hotel and b) that your travelling companions are still asleep and have the only key that will unlock the rental car.

We are in a satellite building of the hotel. Thwarted in my quest to get my favorite pen and scribbling notebook, I wandered down to the main lobby, attempted to explain my predicament, and for my trouble / confused look / riddance I was given four pieces of plain white paper and the kind of pen I hate. I am currently sitting outside the satellite building's lobby, where I will wait until some kindly soul decides he needs to come back inside. At that point, I'll inobtrusively rise and catch the door before it locks again…

…which I have just now done. Ah, much better.

I am still more than a little in love with Victoria, and, like last year, I am still more than a little at odds to figure out why. She is quaint, a little archaic, blatantly touristy, blaring her stunning gardens for visitors to gawk at. Less than a day after my arrival I found myself already saying, "I can see why Brad can't imagine living anywhere else."

How can one not be affectionate toward a cityscape that slyly shows her ankles beneath her skirts, slipping you glances of the harbour, blue and shining, between the grey stone and metal of the buildings of downtown?

I know I'm enjoying myself, in my own strange way. I have not thought about the cats, my house, or my hometown since yesterday morning. It is a mixed blessing. The removal of the weight of the everyday is a pleasure to behold. It is a pleasure filled with foreboding, for I know that the weights that are my daily life have not been eradicated, only momentarily dropped. They will return, and the knowledge that my carefree gaiety will vanish as suddenly as it came tinges even the serenest of relaxation with shades of sorrow and regret.

Would that I could sign my name to this sheet of typing paper, lay down my pen, and go. Where, I don't know, exactly. Turn off my cell phone and throw it in the soil of the potted plant to my right, straighten my shirt, pull down my cap, and walk.

Walk, anonymously, perhaps to the harbour. Find a vantage point with good light, the tang of marine life, and a view of the ships coming in—and sit so quietly and so still that someday a plaque to the unknown statue-girl would be placed by my crossed feet.

Later, when I had time to think through it all and understand everything, I would shake off the stone of contemplation, to the amazement of the tourists posing with their cameras, and simply walk away.

Today is not that day, no matter how much I might attempt to fantasize it into being.

Today is the second full day in Victoria, and it may be my only chance to take some time to myself and write. We'll go see the telescopes and eat dim sum with Brad and Alice today. We will walk, and I will ignore the fact that my quadriceps ache constantly. (Why? One, because I was a silly woman and danced until past midnight, and two, things like muscle aches shouldn't be discussed while everyone's away from home. No need to worry them now—they can chew on me when I post this later.)

Ahhh—someone is holding the lobby door open. With it comes an onrush of outside air, seemingly scrubbed clean and left wet and shining by the expanse of water that surrounds this island.

As always, Monday will come too soon.

I've been mulling over the words of my seatmate on my Memphis-Seattle flight. "If the words are telling you that they want to come out, you must find the bravery to let them."

She, probably in her fifties, having finally taken the leap and finished her first book. How I must look to her. Twenty-four, young, married, and with seemingly no cares. Yet I confess to her that I have a storyline, a plot, a narrative hanging tenaciously to my mind, despite my attempts to let it go. It simply will not leave me, and I can't find the courage to start. She minced no words at her amazement: "It will never be easier for you than it is now. Why not allow the words to come?"

A paraphrase: you might fail, yes, but what is the failure? You are going to write, whether or not you receive payment for it. Don't worry about the failure—worry about the satisfaction you'll receive in doing what your creativity dictates you must.

* * *

With that, Andy, Heather, and Jeff appeared from the elevator, and my day began. Or continued, depending on how you look at it.

Canuckistan

2001-05-23T21:32:25+00:00

We're on vacation. I—and the entries I post to domesticat—will return very very late Monday night. Cheerio!

- Amy