Flying to Toronto on New Years Eve! Well actually, flying to Mississauga. Well, actually, flying to Montreal and THEN flying to Mississauga. An epic adventure on borrowed time. Gifted to me by the sweet twist of a fated winter storm.
To call these last three days serendipitous would in no way be an exaggeration. From the moment the first massive chunky snowflakes started to fall on Tuesday, I had a feeling inside that something was right. I woke up feeling wrong about leaving PEI that morning actually. Like I hadn’t experienced something yet. Like the much desired “switch” hadn’t been flipped, and my brain and spirit were still on Toronto time. I’d yet to truly let go and relax. I felt like I hadn’t hugged my mother enough. Like I hadn’t seen my nephew enough. Like Dad and I didn’t sit and hug on the couch long enough reminiscing about mine and his youth. And waxing poetic about our potential futures. I’d had a evening out with my boys the previous night that ran into the wee hours of the morning. I woke up later then I’d wanted, just in time to see my Mom leaving for work. I saw her pulling out of the driveway and was heartbroken. So when the announcement came over the loudspeaker at Charlottetown Airport later that afternoon to say the flight was canceled, I was elated. I felt a great release. Like a valve had been opened to vent the built up back pressure that had plagued me through the other 12 days of my Christmas trip. They made the announcement that I’d be stuck on the island for at least one more night, and I finally let go. Let go of the inner city pressure. Of the constant state of readiness the metropolis forces me to live in. I love that state. I thrive on it. But I desperately needed refute after being in it for a solid year. Everything in moderation.
What I needed, was to let go. To not worry. To relax. And in that moment on Tuesday, I did. I fell heavily into that airport waiting room chair and held my Mother’s hand. Sitting between her and my Father, in a state of mischievous satisfaction, I finally let go. Most people were frantically scrambling to figure out they’re alternative traveling plans, as my father suggested I do immediately... but I didn’t budge. I was so pleased. So happy. So relaxed. Not even worried about it!
Right now I’m on board a crotchety old Dash 8, in the most exciting seat! Window, right beside the big whirling loud 4 bladed turbo prop. We’re passing over some rural area of New Brunswick and the lights look fantastic! Like a webwork of orange pathways, all linked together and converging at concentrated pockets of sparkling brilliance. I’d reach down for my camera to try and capture this stunning view... but the old Rebel doesn’t excel in low light situations like this, and the quarters are so cramped that I don’t want to subject my seat mate to another awkward rifling through my over filled bag.
My flight path is a relatively long one. A direct flight from Charlottetown to Toronto on a decent sized aircraft takes less then two hours. Even 1.5 hours with a tail wind. This trip has me in the air for two hours aboard this archaic little turbo prop before landing in Montreal. When I get to La Belle Province I’ve got an hour to saunter through the airport to catch my connecting flight at my convenience. Again, I’m blessed with this healing alone time in transit. I love it. The Tuesday flight was going to see me stuck in the Halifax airport for several hours waiting for a connection. I’d rather spend the extra time in the air aboard this charming old people carrier anyway. And Montreal is a much better city to possibly get stuck in for New Years eve in my humble opinion.
So the switch got flipped on Tuesday when they announced the flight was canceled, and the magic had only begun then! As soon as I’d heard the flight was canceled I told Facebook. Facebook then told my friends, who all proceeded to txt me to tell me I had to come out that night! I casually mentioned to my rentals that I was already getting the call out, and Mom responded with “Well you’d better go out tonight and have some fun! No more complaining about how you didn’t get to go out!”
Little did I know what an epic, and soul healing night was waiting for me out in the little city with the big soul.
The previous week I’d been out to Babas with awesome results. Also a Tuesday, the bar was unusually jam packed with people. Many of whom were just back for Christmas break like me! The energy was frenetic and palpably intensified from what a normal Tuesday night at Babas is like. Babas is always a feel good spot, but it’s not always a high energy place. The fervor comes in waves and nodes. The swells were big on the previous Tuesday, but they crested and broke in unison this week!
Last week, I’d seen the chalk board marquee on the back covered smoking patio and saw John Connolly was scheduled to play on the 29th. The very day I was supposed to leave. John Connolly is a great artist, great friend, and hands down my most satisfying design client. The quality and length of the bro grab I get for him on the oft chances we see one another says it all. They’re always awkwardly long, but never awkward. Our friendship transcends many of the normal constraints we as a society place on such unions. I don’t have to call him often, or see him, or even speak to him via any of the currently popular social mediums. But when we connect, it’s electric!
So I start getting the txt message call-outs before I even get an opportunity to recall that he’s playing that night. I agree to come out strictly based on the desires of my island friends. Babas it is!
...
I was unable to finish this above entry on that flight. The snacks came, and away went my laptop. So now, I’m re-reading it, on another Tuesday night. This time I’m not in Charlottetown. I’m on a GO bus from Square One to Union Station. The scenic route back from Mississauga. I just drove Ivan’s Mazda 3 out to him after a nearly missed orthodontist appointment had it stranded downtown. I should probably be working now... I’ve been getting a surprisingly satisfying amount of freelance copy writing work lately! So I’m still spending a lot of time writing... but none on my blog... I just went to visit it before cracking open the work documents.... It’s in a horrible state! It’s got a very unwelcoming post as it’s main one now for two whole months! (Eeeew, stagnant self expression!) :^P I needed to post something on there! I was so distraught with how it looked, that I stripped all the theme colours off and hastily replaced the header with a logo I use for my print design invoices... :^P
My iTunes shuffle actually played the downtempo version of “Inner City Pressure” while I was reading the line about inner city pressure I had written on the flight home. That’s how I knew I had to just friggin’ post the unfinished entry. hehe
And this horribly unformatted and rushed adendu....
.....
Addendum I was trying to type! But then I got distracted by the Tower. THEY TURNED IT INTO A FRIGGIN’ 1500 FOOT TALL LED TV for frig sakes!! The damned thing looks INCREDIBLE!
I know I have a sweet view of it from my place, and believe me, I take advantage of that! But seeing it from the outer arteries as you’re driving into the city is AWESOME!
Toronto looks MUCH different then it did when I left in 2004! The CN Tower isn’t the only structure to have been highlighted with some kind of LED array. Tons of the new condo towers have blades of colour. But most of them stick to a single colour, and a static panel of it. Not like the dynamic lighting they added to Toronto’s giant phallus. Hahaha
Love this city.
I can also see the Peakcock building (U of T brutalist library. Massive concrete slabs at jagged angled laid out in the shape of a cubist peacock. Must been seen to be beheld.)
Ok. Home now. Sleep time. Better blog soon.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Friday, November 6, 2009
Page 3. An unbridled reflective rant!
<<<< This entry was written three days ago in some word processing software that has a page counter. It's "3 pages" long. I only got the guts to post it this morning >>>>>
I’ve got a freelance writing project that I could be working on during this train ride, but alas, I’ve left the creative brief at home. So instead, we’re gonna have a little freestyle session. Now THIS I haven’t done in a while. I read part of the book “The Artists Way” and used to do the “morning pages” exercises. Basically, you force yourself to write three full pages of free associative rambles. There’s no intended structure, no goal, no subject. You just WRITE. Needless to say it’s very therapeutic. There’s some magic that happens when you write without subject or goals. Where the objective is quantity, and not quality, or communicative. I always learned something amazing about myself in the final moments of the third page. No matter how banal or uninspired the opening was, the simple act of forcing myself to produce, always yielded a result. The book says: You worry about the quantity, fate will look after the quality”. And it’s true! I might write more if I didn’t have such high expectations of what my writing is or needs to accomplish. So here, out of habit now, I’ve found a nice corner seat on the train car, stuck my longboard up against the wall, and begun typing. I have to say, it’s already terribly liberating. I just noticed that I haven’t done any of my regular “return key pacing” tricks. That bad habit I have of spacing my phrases like I want them to be read. I usually plot out my sentences in a way that I hope, forces the reader to read with the same cadence that I’m thinking in. I control the rhythm and timing by designing my paragraphs. Like those poems we read in school that were shaped like their subjects. This is fine for my blogging, but I find myself studying a lot more high school english class theory on proper paragraph structure now that I’m picking up more corporate copy writing work. Bad habits. Good habits. I used to think ALL habits were bad habits. I hated the expected. Loathed the laziness and predictability of a comfortable routine. Thrived on facing the unknown with gusto. But my priorities are changing as I climb towards 30. I almost typed “as I speed down the tracks of the roller coaster of life, approaching 30.” but I think that kind of speaking/thinking is very dangerous. People ask me how I maintain such a positive outlook on life. Well, it’s all about building good habits. One good habit I’m building, is that I only project what I desire, instead of what I fear. I WANT to be climbing towards 30. I FEAR that I’m falling towards it. So in that moment, I’m faced with a decision. Do I want to propagate my fear? or my desire? So here, as I climb towards 30, I’m discovering the value of a properly planned and executed habitual behavior. There’s a REASON the world operates on a regular, repeated schedule. Granted, I think we’d be better off on a 28 day, 13 months calender, that would better match our own natural rhythms. But I’m finding a way to make the 12 month calendar, 7 day week, work a bit harder for me. And that’s really part of the magic. Build your habits with intent. Plot every move. Oh sure, I’m a “go with the flow” kind of guy. I roll with the punches, and make the best of what life gives me. That’s how I make it appear at least. The truth is, that I make conscious decisions to take control of EVERYthing that happens to me. By choosing how I react to a situation, and by controlling what parts of my life I project outward unto others. It ALL matters. The way you do one thing, is the way you do everything. So, even seemingly small events always present you with this decision. The decision can always be broken into this “Desire or Fear” yin and a yang. I also believe there is only one right answer for YOU to these questions. My fear might be your desire, and vice versa. There’s no right answer, only the one that’s right for you! The problems arise when you ad another human being to the mix. Someone else’s feelings/fears/desires is almost always the source of any pain and frustration I ever feel in my day to day life. I always KNOW what the right path in the fork is for me. My current challenge in life, is to stop taking the path that I feel is right for OTHER people. So as I climb towards 30, I’m making a conscious effort to pick the path that I KNOW is right for ME. And not worrying so much about what I expect that others need or want from me. It’s been really hard to do. I’ve always been terribly obsessed with, and connected to, the feelings of others. I say all the time that my heightened sense of empathy is my power and my crux. My blessing and my curse. But I’m getting better at it. Getting better at hearing my first instincts when they present themselves, and not burying them under a pile of “what if”s and “what does she think”s. I’m getting really particular in my old age. The next person who breaks through my shell and really gets my heart is gonna have to be one fucking strong woman I can tell that much. I’m just not going to be satisfied with settling for anything less then what I believe and know in my heart that I want. So what is the secret to my seemingly amazing outlook on life? To my boundless energy and constant smile? Well, it’s two things. FIRST, you make one, big, declarative decision. “I AM GOING TO BE HAPPY”. Sounds irritatingly simple. I know. But here’s where it gets complicated and difficult. In order for this one decision to stick, you then have to back it up, with COUNTLESS other decisions. Everything that EVER happens to you has the potential to be a brick on the house of your dreams, or a brick on the prison cell of your fears. You have to recognize that EVERYTHING is connected. And EVERYTHING matters. Everything you do. Every reaction you have to anything that happens to you throughout your day, shapes either, your dreams, or your fears. The powerful thing, is that NO one, can control WHERE you put your brick. NO ONE. YOU are the one in control of WHERE you place these experiences. And so, when you see me on Facebook, or on Twitter, or on my blog, and I’m going off projecting all of this positivity, know that JUST as much BULLSHIT is happening to me in my life every day as it is to you. But, when I GET that load of shit thrown in my face, I scrape it off to reveal my smile has not weakened. Then, using the straw of my experiences, I turn the shit into a brick, and knowingly, carefully, intentionally, place it on the house of my dreams. IT WORKS. I used to be suicidally depressed at one point in my life. From the age of I would say 9, until about 14, I was in a steep decline that culminated in my having serious suicidal thoughts and intentions. Lucky for me, my father was there to pull me out of the hole with some real straight talk. He laid out all the disgusting realities of what suicide really was, and what it would do to him and my family to have to clean up after my selfish act. It was a real turning point. Later in that week, I reconnected with my creative side. My gift of drawing. Which, in many ways, is just an extension of my love for my Father. He gave me the gift of visual arts. My Grandfather gave me my voice. So, without going into too much detail about the circumstances, I recall the DAY I made the decision to be a happy person. THE DAY. I remember sitting on that bed, in that room, and watching that show on that TV about comic artists. I picked up my pencil and paper, and drew myself out of the grave I’d spent 5-6 years digging. Depression is a terrible self centered sickness. Everything was about me. Why did we move from New Brunswick to PEI? Why did I leave my friends behind? Why did the kids at this new school tease me so much? Only when I threatened the ultimate selfish act, and my father told me about how my bowels would release when I died and he’d be stuck cleaning shit off the dead body of his only son, did I see my great gaff. Now, 15 years later, the pendulum has swung a bit too far, and I’m realizing I need to back up a bit and be a bit more of that selfish, and sometimes sad kid. I need to allow myself a little bit more down days then I do. To embrace the bad moods and anger I sometimes feel. Still creating those bricks out of the experiences and using them to build my dreams. But realizing you get a sturdier brick out of a bigger hunk of shit! So I made the decision that day to be a happy person. To be thankful that I’m alive. That I have both legs. Both eyes. Both nuts. That I can speak properly. (thanks speech therapist in grade 5 who helped me loose my lisp!) That I can DRAW ANYTHING I can imagine. That I can SING. That I can write. That I’m blessed every single morning that I wake up. And that with this blessing, and these powers, and these gifts, come a great responsibility. I have a responsibility to myself to make me, the best me I can be. To fight every single damned fucking day to move closer to achieving my potential. Truth is, I’ll never be satisfied with where I’m at. I’ll always want more. But that’s great! That’s why we die. To push us forward in a battle to be the best us we can be in the short time we have. So I made that decision that faithful day, and now I make dozens, or hundreds of subsequent decisions every moment of every day to back the first one up. Hahahaha. Well looky here. I’m halfway through the third page and about to reach some truth. Hahaha. How do I know the truth is coming? Well, I just had a passing thought as to weather or not I’m going to post this. My FIRST instinct told me this HAD to be posted on my blog. I HAVE to commit this thought. But it’s so crass? And declarative. And bold, and combative, and not properly structured and ... and ... and ... The list of excuses could be long enough to fill the rest of the third page. But, I’m not going to allow that. I see my demon now sitting right in front of me. He IS me. He’s telling me that, because I’m worried about what other people think of me, I shouldn’t post this. Well, Mr. inner Demon, explain to me, WHY, I felt compelled to omit my regular spacing habit on this entry? Hmmm? And why is it then, that the person I’m going to be writing for tonight when I get home and start my corporate copy writing, mentioned the Artist Way book and the morning pages to me when I met with him for the first time at the coffee shop? See, that’s the problem Demon. You’re transparent. I know you too well. You can’t pull the wool over these eyes. Especially not my third eye. That one is tuned to perfection. And I use it to peer right through you into the truth. No, I was compelled NOT to space this entry, because I was meant to come to this conclusion by SEEING the end of the third page approaching. This lesson was a visual one. BOLD, and in my face! Real tangible evidence that I’m on the right path. That my current battle is the right one. That the lesson I’m learning this year, about not worrying as much about how others perceive me, or how my actions affect their feelings, is of utmost importance! So I’ll trod on, un-daunted, and push myself passed what I know it a great obstacle that stands in the way of me reaching the next level of my potential. I will post this on my blog and I will not care that it may be ill received. I heard a quote once from John Lennon that I found really compelling. He was asked by a 16 year old Toronto boy about “messages” in his music. His answer to the kid, was that the messages were all there, in the music, but that they weren’t planned. He revealed that he sometimes writes, records, and then listens to his own song, sometimes hundreds of times before ever hearing the message. But that it’s there, and it sometimes reveals itself magically to him. I feel this way about my art. People used to ask me “how did you draw that” and I would say “it was already there. Already in the paper, in the pencil. I just spent enough time on it that it came out!”. I hesitate to say things like that because people might think I’m crazy. But it’s the truth. So I just write. And the message takes care of itself!
I’ve got a freelance writing project that I could be working on during this train ride, but alas, I’ve left the creative brief at home. So instead, we’re gonna have a little freestyle session. Now THIS I haven’t done in a while. I read part of the book “The Artists Way” and used to do the “morning pages” exercises. Basically, you force yourself to write three full pages of free associative rambles. There’s no intended structure, no goal, no subject. You just WRITE. Needless to say it’s very therapeutic. There’s some magic that happens when you write without subject or goals. Where the objective is quantity, and not quality, or communicative. I always learned something amazing about myself in the final moments of the third page. No matter how banal or uninspired the opening was, the simple act of forcing myself to produce, always yielded a result. The book says: You worry about the quantity, fate will look after the quality”. And it’s true! I might write more if I didn’t have such high expectations of what my writing is or needs to accomplish. So here, out of habit now, I’ve found a nice corner seat on the train car, stuck my longboard up against the wall, and begun typing. I have to say, it’s already terribly liberating. I just noticed that I haven’t done any of my regular “return key pacing” tricks. That bad habit I have of spacing my phrases like I want them to be read. I usually plot out my sentences in a way that I hope, forces the reader to read with the same cadence that I’m thinking in. I control the rhythm and timing by designing my paragraphs. Like those poems we read in school that were shaped like their subjects. This is fine for my blogging, but I find myself studying a lot more high school english class theory on proper paragraph structure now that I’m picking up more corporate copy writing work. Bad habits. Good habits. I used to think ALL habits were bad habits. I hated the expected. Loathed the laziness and predictability of a comfortable routine. Thrived on facing the unknown with gusto. But my priorities are changing as I climb towards 30. I almost typed “as I speed down the tracks of the roller coaster of life, approaching 30.” but I think that kind of speaking/thinking is very dangerous. People ask me how I maintain such a positive outlook on life. Well, it’s all about building good habits. One good habit I’m building, is that I only project what I desire, instead of what I fear. I WANT to be climbing towards 30. I FEAR that I’m falling towards it. So in that moment, I’m faced with a decision. Do I want to propagate my fear? or my desire? So here, as I climb towards 30, I’m discovering the value of a properly planned and executed habitual behavior. There’s a REASON the world operates on a regular, repeated schedule. Granted, I think we’d be better off on a 28 day, 13 months calender, that would better match our own natural rhythms. But I’m finding a way to make the 12 month calendar, 7 day week, work a bit harder for me. And that’s really part of the magic. Build your habits with intent. Plot every move. Oh sure, I’m a “go with the flow” kind of guy. I roll with the punches, and make the best of what life gives me. That’s how I make it appear at least. The truth is, that I make conscious decisions to take control of EVERYthing that happens to me. By choosing how I react to a situation, and by controlling what parts of my life I project outward unto others. It ALL matters. The way you do one thing, is the way you do everything. So, even seemingly small events always present you with this decision. The decision can always be broken into this “Desire or Fear” yin and a yang. I also believe there is only one right answer for YOU to these questions. My fear might be your desire, and vice versa. There’s no right answer, only the one that’s right for you! The problems arise when you ad another human being to the mix. Someone else’s feelings/fears/desires is almost always the source of any pain and frustration I ever feel in my day to day life. I always KNOW what the right path in the fork is for me. My current challenge in life, is to stop taking the path that I feel is right for OTHER people. So as I climb towards 30, I’m making a conscious effort to pick the path that I KNOW is right for ME. And not worrying so much about what I expect that others need or want from me. It’s been really hard to do. I’ve always been terribly obsessed with, and connected to, the feelings of others. I say all the time that my heightened sense of empathy is my power and my crux. My blessing and my curse. But I’m getting better at it. Getting better at hearing my first instincts when they present themselves, and not burying them under a pile of “what if”s and “what does she think”s. I’m getting really particular in my old age. The next person who breaks through my shell and really gets my heart is gonna have to be one fucking strong woman I can tell that much. I’m just not going to be satisfied with settling for anything less then what I believe and know in my heart that I want. So what is the secret to my seemingly amazing outlook on life? To my boundless energy and constant smile? Well, it’s two things. FIRST, you make one, big, declarative decision. “I AM GOING TO BE HAPPY”. Sounds irritatingly simple. I know. But here’s where it gets complicated and difficult. In order for this one decision to stick, you then have to back it up, with COUNTLESS other decisions. Everything that EVER happens to you has the potential to be a brick on the house of your dreams, or a brick on the prison cell of your fears. You have to recognize that EVERYTHING is connected. And EVERYTHING matters. Everything you do. Every reaction you have to anything that happens to you throughout your day, shapes either, your dreams, or your fears. The powerful thing, is that NO one, can control WHERE you put your brick. NO ONE. YOU are the one in control of WHERE you place these experiences. And so, when you see me on Facebook, or on Twitter, or on my blog, and I’m going off projecting all of this positivity, know that JUST as much BULLSHIT is happening to me in my life every day as it is to you. But, when I GET that load of shit thrown in my face, I scrape it off to reveal my smile has not weakened. Then, using the straw of my experiences, I turn the shit into a brick, and knowingly, carefully, intentionally, place it on the house of my dreams. IT WORKS. I used to be suicidally depressed at one point in my life. From the age of I would say 9, until about 14, I was in a steep decline that culminated in my having serious suicidal thoughts and intentions. Lucky for me, my father was there to pull me out of the hole with some real straight talk. He laid out all the disgusting realities of what suicide really was, and what it would do to him and my family to have to clean up after my selfish act. It was a real turning point. Later in that week, I reconnected with my creative side. My gift of drawing. Which, in many ways, is just an extension of my love for my Father. He gave me the gift of visual arts. My Grandfather gave me my voice. So, without going into too much detail about the circumstances, I recall the DAY I made the decision to be a happy person. THE DAY. I remember sitting on that bed, in that room, and watching that show on that TV about comic artists. I picked up my pencil and paper, and drew myself out of the grave I’d spent 5-6 years digging. Depression is a terrible self centered sickness. Everything was about me. Why did we move from New Brunswick to PEI? Why did I leave my friends behind? Why did the kids at this new school tease me so much? Only when I threatened the ultimate selfish act, and my father told me about how my bowels would release when I died and he’d be stuck cleaning shit off the dead body of his only son, did I see my great gaff. Now, 15 years later, the pendulum has swung a bit too far, and I’m realizing I need to back up a bit and be a bit more of that selfish, and sometimes sad kid. I need to allow myself a little bit more down days then I do. To embrace the bad moods and anger I sometimes feel. Still creating those bricks out of the experiences and using them to build my dreams. But realizing you get a sturdier brick out of a bigger hunk of shit! So I made the decision that day to be a happy person. To be thankful that I’m alive. That I have both legs. Both eyes. Both nuts. That I can speak properly. (thanks speech therapist in grade 5 who helped me loose my lisp!) That I can DRAW ANYTHING I can imagine. That I can SING. That I can write. That I’m blessed every single morning that I wake up. And that with this blessing, and these powers, and these gifts, come a great responsibility. I have a responsibility to myself to make me, the best me I can be. To fight every single damned fucking day to move closer to achieving my potential. Truth is, I’ll never be satisfied with where I’m at. I’ll always want more. But that’s great! That’s why we die. To push us forward in a battle to be the best us we can be in the short time we have. So I made that decision that faithful day, and now I make dozens, or hundreds of subsequent decisions every moment of every day to back the first one up. Hahahaha. Well looky here. I’m halfway through the third page and about to reach some truth. Hahaha. How do I know the truth is coming? Well, I just had a passing thought as to weather or not I’m going to post this. My FIRST instinct told me this HAD to be posted on my blog. I HAVE to commit this thought. But it’s so crass? And declarative. And bold, and combative, and not properly structured and ... and ... and ... The list of excuses could be long enough to fill the rest of the third page. But, I’m not going to allow that. I see my demon now sitting right in front of me. He IS me. He’s telling me that, because I’m worried about what other people think of me, I shouldn’t post this. Well, Mr. inner Demon, explain to me, WHY, I felt compelled to omit my regular spacing habit on this entry? Hmmm? And why is it then, that the person I’m going to be writing for tonight when I get home and start my corporate copy writing, mentioned the Artist Way book and the morning pages to me when I met with him for the first time at the coffee shop? See, that’s the problem Demon. You’re transparent. I know you too well. You can’t pull the wool over these eyes. Especially not my third eye. That one is tuned to perfection. And I use it to peer right through you into the truth. No, I was compelled NOT to space this entry, because I was meant to come to this conclusion by SEEING the end of the third page approaching. This lesson was a visual one. BOLD, and in my face! Real tangible evidence that I’m on the right path. That my current battle is the right one. That the lesson I’m learning this year, about not worrying as much about how others perceive me, or how my actions affect their feelings, is of utmost importance! So I’ll trod on, un-daunted, and push myself passed what I know it a great obstacle that stands in the way of me reaching the next level of my potential. I will post this on my blog and I will not care that it may be ill received. I heard a quote once from John Lennon that I found really compelling. He was asked by a 16 year old Toronto boy about “messages” in his music. His answer to the kid, was that the messages were all there, in the music, but that they weren’t planned. He revealed that he sometimes writes, records, and then listens to his own song, sometimes hundreds of times before ever hearing the message. But that it’s there, and it sometimes reveals itself magically to him. I feel this way about my art. People used to ask me “how did you draw that” and I would say “it was already there. Already in the paper, in the pencil. I just spent enough time on it that it came out!”. I hesitate to say things like that because people might think I’m crazy. But it’s the truth. So I just write. And the message takes care of itself!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Bronchial Melancholia
So my cold is in it's final stages. The final irritating faze where you feel fine at idle, but loose energy quickly when trying to build up speed. I feel healthy for lengthy moments, only to get dizzy when I stand up, or winded when I move around.
But I'm going to work tomorrow. Working from home today was hellish. No longer do I have a nice niche carved out in my own corner of the apartment. The kitchen renovations have tapped all of our previously spacious common areas. Leaving me to attempt design work from the couch today. Nothing doing! Cords strewn about. Hard drives overheating on micro fiber upholstery. Basically, I spent 6 hours feeling massively blocked and got a whole lot of nothing done. So a little bit of the sniffles and a nagging lingering throat tickle aren't going to keep me from going downtown tomorrow and killing it!
I couldn't help but be bitten by melancholy today. I've just started to feel like true productivity is within my grasp working from the studio downtown. But then to have a minor cold banish me back to my domicile in the middle of crunch time was less then ideal.
In my unusually banal state I started to get nostalgic, as I often do in the rare moments when apathy overcomes my usual enthusiasm. Something came over me around dusk and I was inexplicably compelled to go check on my Vanagon. A Gorgeous Dark Chocolate and Platinum coloured, 1984 VW Vanagon that's been sitting dormant in the parking garage since over two months ago when I last drove it and the clutch failed on me. A harrowing trip back the 6 blocks to home with no clutch was something else!
So that had scared me out of driving her obviously. It's not Charlottetown. I can't just rip around Mississauga willy nilly and clutchless, turning off the engine at each light like I did back in PEI when the clutch failed the first time. And I haven't had the steady income I've needed to be able to justify taking her in for expensive repairs.
But today, I just couldn't help myself.
I'd had this itch of an idea in my mind for a while, that, somehow, with the extra clutch fluid I'd poured into the reservoir two months ago, that some settling would have occurred, and what had simply been a nasty air bubble in the hydraulic lines would have rectified itself... Like... I've somehow KNOWN for a couple weeks that the Vanagon would run if I went and tried to drive it. A strange compulsion that became too strong to ignore today in my less then enthusiastic state.
I had sent my roommate a txt msg asking him what we should do for dinner tonight. We're both pretty considerate Dudes, and tend to make sure the other person is looked after for mealtime. Nothing crazy... but if I'm gonna go grab food, I make sure he's not about to land home hungry 20 minutes later...
So not having heard back from him, I couldn't wait without eating any longer. Instead of grabbing my longboard, or bicycle, as has been my habit of late, I grabbed my keys.
Down the hallway to the elevator, with an odd certainty. I pressed the P1 button to take me to the parking garage.
As a side note, a very thuggish, and "angry all the time" looking fellow got on to the elevator at another floor. He smelled TERRIFIC, which I found hilarious. Here this man went through so much effort to maintain his hardened demeanor, then he bathes in floral musk. Hilarious!
I got down to the garage level, and proudly walked to the other, farther doors that lead to the Vanagon. Unlike the closer door I've been taking lately to get to Ivan's parking spot and the Mazda 3.
The parking garage was relatively vacant. Most people probably don't finish fighting their way back through gridlock until after dark this time of year.
So the Vanagon was sitting there in all her regal glory with nary another vehicle in sight to ruin my view. I walked triumphantly to her, and with slight trepidation, stuck the key in the lock. A waft of hippy stink, gasoline, oil, and a broken lemon zest glade scented oil refill smacked me in the face. My cold must be all but gone if I can smell all of these things so clearly!
I lifted myself up into the cab and was overcome with a bevy of strong feelings. (I hate that word; bevy. *shudder*)
The drive up here from PEI was such a fucking epic adventure, that I can't help but be overwhelmed by the memory of it now as I'm sitting up on my perch as captain of this great vessel.
The Vanagon is in a sad state right now. The inside of the cab is a mess of fast food napkins, bits of wire from a partially completed stereo install, and a host of other non-necessities I've lazily left floating around in her.
I'm ashamed that she's reverted into such a state of chaos. And yet, oddly proud to be reconnected to my humble origins. Such a stark contrast between the earthy vintage mess of my ride... and the pristine urban shine of Mississauga City Centre.
So I'm sitting in the 4 Ton behemoth that, to my knowledge, does not have a working clutch. Again, this odd 6th sense tells me that I'm not just going to sit in it. I FEEL that it's going to run. I pump the clutch a couple times, trying to recall how much resistance it had when it was repaired back at Dave's service centre in Charlottetown. I could feel that it wasn't at 100%. But there was enough resistance for me to keep moving forward with whatever it was I was attempting.
I put the shifter through it's motions....
It didn't feel good. Not smooth at all. Thank god I'm alone. Nothing like being alone to make me brave. I tend to second guess myself the second another human being is in my space. But the lot was empty. Just me, and my ride.
So I muddle with the shifter a few times while pumping the clutch sporadically until I finally get it to run from first to fourth gear smoothly. Well... that shouldn't be possible. The clutch is supposed to be dead. It was fully fucking dead the last time I drove this thing. That's for sure.
Again, despite my frontal lobe telling me that this was a logical improbability, I continued my pre-flight tests.
I pushed firmly down on the big ball on the end of the extra long, truck style shifter, and jammed her into reverse. (reverse on a VW is like that; Push down, and then left and up, passed first gear. It's complicated, but safe. And oddly, smugly satisfying. Different for the sake of different.) I stuck it in reverse because I park the damned thing right up against a wall. The Vanagon has a frighteningly blunt front end. It almost feels as through your toes stick out passed the bumper sometimes when your sitting in it. That's why I love it so much, and what makes it so fun to drive. But I'm no slouch in the logic department, so I figure, if I'm gonna turn the engine over on this beast, and the clutch is, or is not going to work, I want the old girl to lurch AWAY from the concrete wall, rather then smack into it.
So I get it into reverse, and, against all logic, confidently turn the key for just a second.
KACHUNK!
She lurches backwards about a foot. As to be expected for a vehicle who's clutch does not function.
But some dumb unseen motivator is telling me to push on. To keep going.
I plunge the clutch down all the way and let it spring back up two or three more times, and try again.
KACHUNK!
The engine turns over once and the van heaves itself backwards another foot.
Crap.
By this time, my heart is beating out of my chest. My frontal lobe, screaming in agony as it's logic circuits continue to be scrambled by my blind determination.
I try and put it in neutral. Usually it's quite easy for me to slip it back out of the push in, up left, reverse position. But now it's not co-operating. The Van is now two feet too far back, and jutting out of my paid parking allotment. At very least, I need to get this poor beast back into neutral, and push it back into place.
Maybe it's not too late for me to walk away from this whole thing, and go back up and take my skateboard instead.
But wouldn't you know it. My stubborn inner miscreant wasn't going to let the responsible side of me walk. Nope. I'd been compelled to come down here for weeks now, and the logic circuits couldn't hold the curious instinctive side back any longer.
I got it out of gear! Dammit. In neutral the sheer weight of the bugger becomes instantly evident. Suddenly, the barely noticeable 5% grade I'm parked on becomes a terrifying hill. Without a gear to hold it, the Van wants to roll back. I jam in the break, pump the clutch again, and jam it back into first gear. FUCK.
Now what do I do.
It's 3 feet too far back out of it's spot, and on a hill!
I step out of the cab and begin the effort of trying to push this whale farther up the concrete beach! This involved me planting my feet on the floor, heart racing, and then reaching over the drivers seat to pull the shifter down into neutral. The door is open, and I'm pushing the frame and the drivers seat with all of my (sick therefore reduced) strength! I get a rocking motion going and realize I AM strong enough to move her. (Fuck, being a grownup is cool!) But I need to really use all of my strength. Everything I can muster. If I relax for even one second, and this thing goes rolling backwards, I could get uncomfortably jammed between the front open door, and the giant cement column that it will smash into in a matter of feet.
For some reason, and again, this goes back to me being alone, I was never really mad at myself for trying this. I was nervous for the Van, but didn't have the usual "worried about being in trouble" feeling that I get when I'm concerned for others feelings.
I knew that I was only fucking myself over if this didn't work... and for some nonsensical reason, still believed it would.
So... I get her pushed back forward, and leap up into the cab, jamming my foot onto the break.
Now. Common flipping sense would dictate that I call it quits at this point, and count my blessings. Walk away unscathed, knowing I almost went too far.
But no one is around.
I own the Van. It's paid for. It's mine. I'm alone. And I have this burning feeling that I need to keep going!
A couple more clutch pumps. Jam it into reverse again. Turn over the key....
No lurch!
I turned the engine over, and it didn't move! The clutch is engaged! The fucking clutch is engaged!
THE CLUTCH IS WORKING!
Turn the key again.
vrrrRRRROOOOOOMMMMMMMM
Putter putter putter putter....
It's ALIIIIIIVE!!!
Hahahahahaha
By this point, I hear another car has triggered the electric door into the garage. I'm no longer surrounded by the safety of loneliness.
A sudden urgent need to escape the underground in my newly revived beast overwhelms me. I let the clutch out gently, and the Vanagon gracefully backs up, like it did so many other times for the first few months I was here and driving it!
VRRRRROOOOOOM VRRRRROOOOOOOMMMMM VRROOOOOOOM!!!
I confidently rev the engine while I pull the shifter out of reverse and into neutral.
*Pow, Kapow pow pow*
The engine backfires as it had been for months before I parked it. (Another issue the Van Doctor is confident he can fix for me)
I slip the shifter into first with frantic satisfaction. The other car that had just entered the garages headlights can be seen illuminating the path in front of me. I ease the Van forward cautiously and come to the corner where I see the other car to my left.
My goodness lady. Get on your own god damned side of the parking garage!!! Common courtesy! STAY ON THE RIGHT SIDE! DON'T YOU KNOW?! THIS THING COULD GO OFF AT ANY SECOND!! GET THE EFF OUT OF THE WAY!!
The sub compact car complies with my searing stare and shuttles its way to the correct side just in time for me to grease by, engine puttering and stuttering to ever more vibrant life.
for a 1.9 litre flat four cylinder (translation: tiny) engine, this bad boy makes a LOT of noise. Especially in an underground parking garage.
I drive with my hand hovering over the ignition. If I feel even the SLIGHTEST feedback on these pedals that tells me this clutch isn't properly engaged, I cut the engine and hit the break, and no one gets hurt.
We lumber triumphantly around another corner, and the automatic garage door springs to life!
VRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!
The blasting echo of indoor, becomes the sweet softness of outside as the Vanagon proudly marches up the steep incline out of the underground. The wooden barricade at the top mocks me as I approach. It doesn't have any sensitivity to my newly miraculously engaged clutch. It requires me to bring the massive beast to a full stop on a 30 degree incline and hold it there for the longest 3 seconds of my life.
THE CLUTCH HOLDS!
I spring through the barricade as it lifts itself up and out of my way cordially.
MY GOD!
The heart pounds even harder at the sudden feeling of freedom, control, and independence that has all at once been restored by this singular miraculous event!
I cruise down Confederation Street triumphant! First gear... VROOOM... Second gear... VROOOOOM... third gear.. VROOOOOOOOOMMMM POW pop pikaw plop pop bang....
I drove that damned thing around the block 2-3 times in disbelief. The clutch held by god, it held. I could feel that it was still not right mind you. I was definitely leaving more then 10 car lengths between myself and anyone else for the first couple blocks until I was REALLY confident it was going to be ok. Even then, as I approached lights in first gear, I had my hand on that key, ready to cut the power if I felt the clutch disengage.
I did feel it slip a couple times. It's definitely broken. 3 times as I came to a stop I felt the van shudder a bit from the clutch wanting to let go. But something didn't let it. Something. Some unseen, inexplicable force... being it divine intervention, or blind, dumb ambition and unwavering faith, made sure that that clutch held on just long enough for my little joyride.
I was even able to take her through the drive thru at A&W for a teen burger and an old fashioned root beer!
I don't have any clue what compelled me to try this RIDICULOUSLY STUPID thing tonight. But as you can tell, it got me jazzed up and energized to say the least.
I'm moving to Toronto December first, for better or worse.
But in that 15 minute joyride, I knew that my destiny is still on the open road. I'm still going to take this beautiful Van of mine across this gorgeous country of ours and make a photo book. I'm gonna take it to the Van doctor as soon as tomorrow (now that I have a more reliable source of income!) and many more times between now and next summer.
If Toronto is as lucrative as it has the potential to be for me, then a Subaru Engine conversion will not be out of the question!
Imagine, Vanagon... you and me, and a brand new Subaru four cylinder!
POWER! RELIABILITY! QUIET! And best of all, no leaky gasoline smell to give me and my passengers a headache as I drive!
You know. I don't know why I went down there and had that moment of absolutely reckless bravery... but boy am I happy I did it.
I brought the Vanagon back to it's parking space safely... grabbed my food, and gave it a kiss.
I used to kiss the Van every time I drove it. But it has been so long since it ran well, that I'd forgotten to show it love lately.
I planted a nice firm one on her before coming back upstairs triumphant.
Whatever force guided me to take that risk, is the same one that made me get back up out of bed to write this entry.
And I gotta tell ya, I feel a whole lot better now as I finish this, then I did when I started writing it. And even better still then I did before I snapped into auto pilot and went walking towards the elevator.
Thanks instincts. And thanks to myself for following them.
My roommate just sent me a text to say he's on his way home with McDonald's.
:^)
Amazing what a little blog rant and a bit of bravery can do for a man's spirits!
GOOD NIGHT!
But I'm going to work tomorrow. Working from home today was hellish. No longer do I have a nice niche carved out in my own corner of the apartment. The kitchen renovations have tapped all of our previously spacious common areas. Leaving me to attempt design work from the couch today. Nothing doing! Cords strewn about. Hard drives overheating on micro fiber upholstery. Basically, I spent 6 hours feeling massively blocked and got a whole lot of nothing done. So a little bit of the sniffles and a nagging lingering throat tickle aren't going to keep me from going downtown tomorrow and killing it!
I couldn't help but be bitten by melancholy today. I've just started to feel like true productivity is within my grasp working from the studio downtown. But then to have a minor cold banish me back to my domicile in the middle of crunch time was less then ideal.
In my unusually banal state I started to get nostalgic, as I often do in the rare moments when apathy overcomes my usual enthusiasm. Something came over me around dusk and I was inexplicably compelled to go check on my Vanagon. A Gorgeous Dark Chocolate and Platinum coloured, 1984 VW Vanagon that's been sitting dormant in the parking garage since over two months ago when I last drove it and the clutch failed on me. A harrowing trip back the 6 blocks to home with no clutch was something else!
So that had scared me out of driving her obviously. It's not Charlottetown. I can't just rip around Mississauga willy nilly and clutchless, turning off the engine at each light like I did back in PEI when the clutch failed the first time. And I haven't had the steady income I've needed to be able to justify taking her in for expensive repairs.
But today, I just couldn't help myself.
I'd had this itch of an idea in my mind for a while, that, somehow, with the extra clutch fluid I'd poured into the reservoir two months ago, that some settling would have occurred, and what had simply been a nasty air bubble in the hydraulic lines would have rectified itself... Like... I've somehow KNOWN for a couple weeks that the Vanagon would run if I went and tried to drive it. A strange compulsion that became too strong to ignore today in my less then enthusiastic state.
I had sent my roommate a txt msg asking him what we should do for dinner tonight. We're both pretty considerate Dudes, and tend to make sure the other person is looked after for mealtime. Nothing crazy... but if I'm gonna go grab food, I make sure he's not about to land home hungry 20 minutes later...
So not having heard back from him, I couldn't wait without eating any longer. Instead of grabbing my longboard, or bicycle, as has been my habit of late, I grabbed my keys.
Down the hallway to the elevator, with an odd certainty. I pressed the P1 button to take me to the parking garage.
As a side note, a very thuggish, and "angry all the time" looking fellow got on to the elevator at another floor. He smelled TERRIFIC, which I found hilarious. Here this man went through so much effort to maintain his hardened demeanor, then he bathes in floral musk. Hilarious!
I got down to the garage level, and proudly walked to the other, farther doors that lead to the Vanagon. Unlike the closer door I've been taking lately to get to Ivan's parking spot and the Mazda 3.
The parking garage was relatively vacant. Most people probably don't finish fighting their way back through gridlock until after dark this time of year.
So the Vanagon was sitting there in all her regal glory with nary another vehicle in sight to ruin my view. I walked triumphantly to her, and with slight trepidation, stuck the key in the lock. A waft of hippy stink, gasoline, oil, and a broken lemon zest glade scented oil refill smacked me in the face. My cold must be all but gone if I can smell all of these things so clearly!
I lifted myself up into the cab and was overcome with a bevy of strong feelings. (I hate that word; bevy. *shudder*)
The drive up here from PEI was such a fucking epic adventure, that I can't help but be overwhelmed by the memory of it now as I'm sitting up on my perch as captain of this great vessel.
The Vanagon is in a sad state right now. The inside of the cab is a mess of fast food napkins, bits of wire from a partially completed stereo install, and a host of other non-necessities I've lazily left floating around in her.
I'm ashamed that she's reverted into such a state of chaos. And yet, oddly proud to be reconnected to my humble origins. Such a stark contrast between the earthy vintage mess of my ride... and the pristine urban shine of Mississauga City Centre.
So I'm sitting in the 4 Ton behemoth that, to my knowledge, does not have a working clutch. Again, this odd 6th sense tells me that I'm not just going to sit in it. I FEEL that it's going to run. I pump the clutch a couple times, trying to recall how much resistance it had when it was repaired back at Dave's service centre in Charlottetown. I could feel that it wasn't at 100%. But there was enough resistance for me to keep moving forward with whatever it was I was attempting.
I put the shifter through it's motions....
It didn't feel good. Not smooth at all. Thank god I'm alone. Nothing like being alone to make me brave. I tend to second guess myself the second another human being is in my space. But the lot was empty. Just me, and my ride.
So I muddle with the shifter a few times while pumping the clutch sporadically until I finally get it to run from first to fourth gear smoothly. Well... that shouldn't be possible. The clutch is supposed to be dead. It was fully fucking dead the last time I drove this thing. That's for sure.
Again, despite my frontal lobe telling me that this was a logical improbability, I continued my pre-flight tests.
I pushed firmly down on the big ball on the end of the extra long, truck style shifter, and jammed her into reverse. (reverse on a VW is like that; Push down, and then left and up, passed first gear. It's complicated, but safe. And oddly, smugly satisfying. Different for the sake of different.) I stuck it in reverse because I park the damned thing right up against a wall. The Vanagon has a frighteningly blunt front end. It almost feels as through your toes stick out passed the bumper sometimes when your sitting in it. That's why I love it so much, and what makes it so fun to drive. But I'm no slouch in the logic department, so I figure, if I'm gonna turn the engine over on this beast, and the clutch is, or is not going to work, I want the old girl to lurch AWAY from the concrete wall, rather then smack into it.
So I get it into reverse, and, against all logic, confidently turn the key for just a second.
KACHUNK!
She lurches backwards about a foot. As to be expected for a vehicle who's clutch does not function.
But some dumb unseen motivator is telling me to push on. To keep going.
I plunge the clutch down all the way and let it spring back up two or three more times, and try again.
KACHUNK!
The engine turns over once and the van heaves itself backwards another foot.
Crap.
By this time, my heart is beating out of my chest. My frontal lobe, screaming in agony as it's logic circuits continue to be scrambled by my blind determination.
I try and put it in neutral. Usually it's quite easy for me to slip it back out of the push in, up left, reverse position. But now it's not co-operating. The Van is now two feet too far back, and jutting out of my paid parking allotment. At very least, I need to get this poor beast back into neutral, and push it back into place.
Maybe it's not too late for me to walk away from this whole thing, and go back up and take my skateboard instead.
But wouldn't you know it. My stubborn inner miscreant wasn't going to let the responsible side of me walk. Nope. I'd been compelled to come down here for weeks now, and the logic circuits couldn't hold the curious instinctive side back any longer.
I got it out of gear! Dammit. In neutral the sheer weight of the bugger becomes instantly evident. Suddenly, the barely noticeable 5% grade I'm parked on becomes a terrifying hill. Without a gear to hold it, the Van wants to roll back. I jam in the break, pump the clutch again, and jam it back into first gear. FUCK.
Now what do I do.
It's 3 feet too far back out of it's spot, and on a hill!
I step out of the cab and begin the effort of trying to push this whale farther up the concrete beach! This involved me planting my feet on the floor, heart racing, and then reaching over the drivers seat to pull the shifter down into neutral. The door is open, and I'm pushing the frame and the drivers seat with all of my (sick therefore reduced) strength! I get a rocking motion going and realize I AM strong enough to move her. (Fuck, being a grownup is cool!) But I need to really use all of my strength. Everything I can muster. If I relax for even one second, and this thing goes rolling backwards, I could get uncomfortably jammed between the front open door, and the giant cement column that it will smash into in a matter of feet.
For some reason, and again, this goes back to me being alone, I was never really mad at myself for trying this. I was nervous for the Van, but didn't have the usual "worried about being in trouble" feeling that I get when I'm concerned for others feelings.
I knew that I was only fucking myself over if this didn't work... and for some nonsensical reason, still believed it would.
So... I get her pushed back forward, and leap up into the cab, jamming my foot onto the break.
Now. Common flipping sense would dictate that I call it quits at this point, and count my blessings. Walk away unscathed, knowing I almost went too far.
But no one is around.
I own the Van. It's paid for. It's mine. I'm alone. And I have this burning feeling that I need to keep going!
A couple more clutch pumps. Jam it into reverse again. Turn over the key....
No lurch!
I turned the engine over, and it didn't move! The clutch is engaged! The fucking clutch is engaged!
THE CLUTCH IS WORKING!
Turn the key again.
vrrrRRRROOOOOOMMMMMMMM
Putter putter putter putter....
It's ALIIIIIIVE!!!
Hahahahahaha
By this point, I hear another car has triggered the electric door into the garage. I'm no longer surrounded by the safety of loneliness.
A sudden urgent need to escape the underground in my newly revived beast overwhelms me. I let the clutch out gently, and the Vanagon gracefully backs up, like it did so many other times for the first few months I was here and driving it!
VRRRRROOOOOOM VRRRRROOOOOOOMMMMM VRROOOOOOOM!!!
I confidently rev the engine while I pull the shifter out of reverse and into neutral.
*Pow, Kapow pow pow*
The engine backfires as it had been for months before I parked it. (Another issue the Van Doctor is confident he can fix for me)
I slip the shifter into first with frantic satisfaction. The other car that had just entered the garages headlights can be seen illuminating the path in front of me. I ease the Van forward cautiously and come to the corner where I see the other car to my left.
My goodness lady. Get on your own god damned side of the parking garage!!! Common courtesy! STAY ON THE RIGHT SIDE! DON'T YOU KNOW?! THIS THING COULD GO OFF AT ANY SECOND!! GET THE EFF OUT OF THE WAY!!
The sub compact car complies with my searing stare and shuttles its way to the correct side just in time for me to grease by, engine puttering and stuttering to ever more vibrant life.
for a 1.9 litre flat four cylinder (translation: tiny) engine, this bad boy makes a LOT of noise. Especially in an underground parking garage.
I drive with my hand hovering over the ignition. If I feel even the SLIGHTEST feedback on these pedals that tells me this clutch isn't properly engaged, I cut the engine and hit the break, and no one gets hurt.
We lumber triumphantly around another corner, and the automatic garage door springs to life!
VRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!
The blasting echo of indoor, becomes the sweet softness of outside as the Vanagon proudly marches up the steep incline out of the underground. The wooden barricade at the top mocks me as I approach. It doesn't have any sensitivity to my newly miraculously engaged clutch. It requires me to bring the massive beast to a full stop on a 30 degree incline and hold it there for the longest 3 seconds of my life.
THE CLUTCH HOLDS!
I spring through the barricade as it lifts itself up and out of my way cordially.
MY GOD!
The heart pounds even harder at the sudden feeling of freedom, control, and independence that has all at once been restored by this singular miraculous event!
I cruise down Confederation Street triumphant! First gear... VROOOM... Second gear... VROOOOOM... third gear.. VROOOOOOOOOMMMM POW pop pikaw plop pop bang....
I drove that damned thing around the block 2-3 times in disbelief. The clutch held by god, it held. I could feel that it was still not right mind you. I was definitely leaving more then 10 car lengths between myself and anyone else for the first couple blocks until I was REALLY confident it was going to be ok. Even then, as I approached lights in first gear, I had my hand on that key, ready to cut the power if I felt the clutch disengage.
I did feel it slip a couple times. It's definitely broken. 3 times as I came to a stop I felt the van shudder a bit from the clutch wanting to let go. But something didn't let it. Something. Some unseen, inexplicable force... being it divine intervention, or blind, dumb ambition and unwavering faith, made sure that that clutch held on just long enough for my little joyride.
I was even able to take her through the drive thru at A&W for a teen burger and an old fashioned root beer!
I don't have any clue what compelled me to try this RIDICULOUSLY STUPID thing tonight. But as you can tell, it got me jazzed up and energized to say the least.
I'm moving to Toronto December first, for better or worse.
But in that 15 minute joyride, I knew that my destiny is still on the open road. I'm still going to take this beautiful Van of mine across this gorgeous country of ours and make a photo book. I'm gonna take it to the Van doctor as soon as tomorrow (now that I have a more reliable source of income!) and many more times between now and next summer.
If Toronto is as lucrative as it has the potential to be for me, then a Subaru Engine conversion will not be out of the question!
Imagine, Vanagon... you and me, and a brand new Subaru four cylinder!
POWER! RELIABILITY! QUIET! And best of all, no leaky gasoline smell to give me and my passengers a headache as I drive!
You know. I don't know why I went down there and had that moment of absolutely reckless bravery... but boy am I happy I did it.
I brought the Vanagon back to it's parking space safely... grabbed my food, and gave it a kiss.
I used to kiss the Van every time I drove it. But it has been so long since it ran well, that I'd forgotten to show it love lately.
I planted a nice firm one on her before coming back upstairs triumphant.
Whatever force guided me to take that risk, is the same one that made me get back up out of bed to write this entry.
And I gotta tell ya, I feel a whole lot better now as I finish this, then I did when I started writing it. And even better still then I did before I snapped into auto pilot and went walking towards the elevator.
Thanks instincts. And thanks to myself for following them.
My roommate just sent me a text to say he's on his way home with McDonald's.
:^)
Amazing what a little blog rant and a bit of bravery can do for a man's spirits!
GOOD NIGHT!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Hungry Man
Just sitting on the Subway and feel compelled to blog. It's a real blessing that I can't connect to the internet on here. It's so easy for us to self medicate with short bursts of satisfaction and instant gratification. It's no wonder I have a hard time working when I'm "online". Too easy to sustain short pops of fulfillment then to work towards real accomplishments and deserved satisfaction.
Fulfillment. That brings me closer to the topic that prompted this entry. It's pretty late right now; 7:52 pm. I had lunch at Rich Tree with my buddy Phil and his wife at noon, and hadn't eaten since then. So I was HUNGRY. Really hungry. The kind of hungry that negates taste, and requires immediate rapid sustenance. I had a Koubi sandwich. But not a Lebanese Koubi. A Persian version, that, while it was good, did not ignite any hint of nostalgia for my Father's or Grandmother's Lebanese Koubi.
Something else lit the nostalgic feeling.
I really miss my Father right now. Not in the normal way where you think of some specific activity you miss. But the carnal spiritual way. The kind where, for brief moments, I'm 4 years old again and in his arms. Lying on his massive chest, listening to the air fill his impossibly large lungs, and trying my best to time my breathing with his.
My father is a good looking man. A lot of lady friends I know always make really awkward comments/compliments where they tell me that I have a hot future ahead of me because they think my Dad is a hot old guy. But even good looking people have ugly moments. My Dad turns into an animal when he eats. It's always fascinated me. I used to pride myself on gorging on large plates of food, and packing them away very quickly, because I wanted to be just like Dad. Later in life it became a sore spot for my sister. A point of embarrassment. But I always found it very endearing. After all, Dad was God for me growing up. Everything he did was perfect. And I wanted to be just like him. So seeing him when he was eating, was a rare glimpse into the humanity behind the God.
In my later teens and early 20's I became a bit enthralled with this concept. What happens to people when they get really hungry. How much of their survival instincts kick in and overpowers their trained social skills. I just broke one of my own cardinal rules. I ate some stank ass food on a crowded train in front of people. And I didn't pay a lot of attention to how nice I looked while I was doing it.
Hunger broke down my social armor, and turned me back into the animal my species once was. And in many ways underneath all the fluff still is!
I've been passively planning a photo series for years now. I want to do side by sides of people. One classic "head shot" portrait, where I use all of my skills to make the person look their very best. And then, beside that, a photo of them stuffing their face! I think there's a great truth in the face of a person who is truly hungry, and eating just to live. Not a fancy sit down meal, but a real, "I need to get all of whatever this is down my neck ASAP" experience.
If hunger can break the perfection of my father into a dribbling sloppy savage, then it must do the same for everyone.
So in this moment of sustenance, when I was breaking my own social rules, and forcibly feeding myself in a frantic bid for survival, I felt myself reconnecting with my Father. Very vivid and carnal connection. Like, I could FEEL him with me. The way you can feel a parent or teacher when they are leaning over your shoulder. You don't see or touch them, but it's very apparent they are there, in your space. I felt him with me while I was eating on the train.
I see his humanity reflected as my own. His vulnerability is mine. His love and care for his family, and his desire to feed us properly (Dad did all the cooking in the house) resonates with great truth. I feel a humility and am humbled by the great sacrifices he made in order to give me the life I am so blessed to live.
So on this train ride, as I finish feeding myself, and look up to realize I'm on a train packed full of people, I had to get this out of my system.
It's now 8:23... I'm on the bus. The internet is connected, tweetie is open and telling me there is new content to read with it's little blue light. Instant gratification awaits, and the food has finished delivering it's energy to me. I no longer feel the weakness. My shield is back up.
But I'm glad I took time while the window of weakness and humanity were open, to express the vulnerable animal I have inside.
And to thank my Father.
Love you Dad.
Fulfillment. That brings me closer to the topic that prompted this entry. It's pretty late right now; 7:52 pm. I had lunch at Rich Tree with my buddy Phil and his wife at noon, and hadn't eaten since then. So I was HUNGRY. Really hungry. The kind of hungry that negates taste, and requires immediate rapid sustenance. I had a Koubi sandwich. But not a Lebanese Koubi. A Persian version, that, while it was good, did not ignite any hint of nostalgia for my Father's or Grandmother's Lebanese Koubi.
Something else lit the nostalgic feeling.
I really miss my Father right now. Not in the normal way where you think of some specific activity you miss. But the carnal spiritual way. The kind where, for brief moments, I'm 4 years old again and in his arms. Lying on his massive chest, listening to the air fill his impossibly large lungs, and trying my best to time my breathing with his.
My father is a good looking man. A lot of lady friends I know always make really awkward comments/compliments where they tell me that I have a hot future ahead of me because they think my Dad is a hot old guy. But even good looking people have ugly moments. My Dad turns into an animal when he eats. It's always fascinated me. I used to pride myself on gorging on large plates of food, and packing them away very quickly, because I wanted to be just like Dad. Later in life it became a sore spot for my sister. A point of embarrassment. But I always found it very endearing. After all, Dad was God for me growing up. Everything he did was perfect. And I wanted to be just like him. So seeing him when he was eating, was a rare glimpse into the humanity behind the God.
In my later teens and early 20's I became a bit enthralled with this concept. What happens to people when they get really hungry. How much of their survival instincts kick in and overpowers their trained social skills. I just broke one of my own cardinal rules. I ate some stank ass food on a crowded train in front of people. And I didn't pay a lot of attention to how nice I looked while I was doing it.
Hunger broke down my social armor, and turned me back into the animal my species once was. And in many ways underneath all the fluff still is!
I've been passively planning a photo series for years now. I want to do side by sides of people. One classic "head shot" portrait, where I use all of my skills to make the person look their very best. And then, beside that, a photo of them stuffing their face! I think there's a great truth in the face of a person who is truly hungry, and eating just to live. Not a fancy sit down meal, but a real, "I need to get all of whatever this is down my neck ASAP" experience.
If hunger can break the perfection of my father into a dribbling sloppy savage, then it must do the same for everyone.
So in this moment of sustenance, when I was breaking my own social rules, and forcibly feeding myself in a frantic bid for survival, I felt myself reconnecting with my Father. Very vivid and carnal connection. Like, I could FEEL him with me. The way you can feel a parent or teacher when they are leaning over your shoulder. You don't see or touch them, but it's very apparent they are there, in your space. I felt him with me while I was eating on the train.
I see his humanity reflected as my own. His vulnerability is mine. His love and care for his family, and his desire to feed us properly (Dad did all the cooking in the house) resonates with great truth. I feel a humility and am humbled by the great sacrifices he made in order to give me the life I am so blessed to live.
So on this train ride, as I finish feeding myself, and look up to realize I'm on a train packed full of people, I had to get this out of my system.
It's now 8:23... I'm on the bus. The internet is connected, tweetie is open and telling me there is new content to read with it's little blue light. Instant gratification awaits, and the food has finished delivering it's energy to me. I no longer feel the weakness. My shield is back up.
But I'm glad I took time while the window of weakness and humanity were open, to express the vulnerable animal I have inside.
And to thank my Father.
Love you Dad.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Journey - In Transit
Well...
It's been a while since I've waxed in self analytic reflection on here. Partly out of disgust with how long it's been since I've had a visual refresh of this forum... and partly waiting to have subjects worthy of discourse... I came to a realization today. An epiphany who's truth resonates ever stronger as I type these very words. Let me get the quote out of the way before the momentum of rant takes this paragraph too far off the beaten subject:
I really enjoy life in transit.
That's it at it's simplest.
Now lets elaborate...shall we?
:^D
Oh man... I've got a huge smile on right now. Sitting at an outdoor bus terminal in Mississauga... Square One to be exact:
View Larger Map
I've got my Macbook Pro tethered to my iPhone, borrowing it's healthy, and surprisingly viable 3G connection. I've got a Venti Carmel Machiato to keep my fingers warm when the wind picks up. And I've got the itch to write! No, not the itch... the hunger! The desperation inside that says: get all of these words out, or risk loosing sanity!
I've just missed another bus. That's ok! I'm going in to work on a holiday Monday. Thanksgiving actually. I shouldn't say going into work. I'm going into the office. But to do freelance work. It's pretty awesome having an office to go to. It's certainly unlocked a freedom I've been craving for some time now. Being that I'm someone who always tries to propagate the positives, I haven't been blogging lately. Too much financial worry getting in the way of unabashed enthusiasm. :^)
But now, I have an office to go to. Some pay to depend on. A light at the end of my broke-ass artist tunnel!
And so, I'm happily going in on my day off, to put in some time that will move me forward. Allow me to break free of the financial pressure of freelance. Or more so the TIME pressure of freelance. Of the inability to separate work life from home life. Up time from down time.
I'm spending one more supposed weekend day as a freelancer... so that I can take back my weekends, moving forward! No more will people own me during the times I select as my rest and refute from work. Business calls will be screened during hours of supreme lethargy. And leisure will be penciled into the schedule as a top priority at least one day out of the week!
Oh, here's a bus that will get me to the Subway. The # 20... I think it's a slightly longer trip to Islington station then the # 3. Perfect!
So I'm on the bus now... a bit sad to leave my sweet outdoor seat at the terminal. But my 3G connection comes with me! And I prefer a life in transit anyway. :^)
Back to that!
When I was 9 and 3/4 years old I flew on an airliner alone for the first time. Charlottetown to Moncton. It was a remarkably liberating experience. I was a regular kid rounding out his single digits and headed into doubles, and as such, had a healthy anti-parental disposition. My Father, and the woman I proudly and lovingly call Mom were the establishment, and my not too often seen Bio-Mom was the blurry figurehead and instrument of escapism. I'd see her once every few years, as fate (or behind the scenes adult tomfoolery) dictated possible. Never often enough to form any sort of reality or rules based interaction. She was an escape. Someone, who, though sporadically and briefly, appeared to love and lavish me dearly. Without risk of much reactionary behavioral correction. And I was flying, alone, to see her.
So imagine the pure freedom I felt.
Back in the 90's... a kid flying alone was a super star. Ridiculously lovely looking, sounding, smelling, acting, uniformed women chauffeured me from one check point to another. Passing me between themselves while outwardly reminding one another, and myself, of my importance, independence, and bravery. I was their most precious cargo. The chosen child, unique and revered. They gave me a special person kit; including a colouring and activity book, crayons, and my very own lapel "wings". They even invited me up to see the cockpit!
This was the pinnacle of achievement for a 9 and 3/4 year old boy. The cockpit of an airliner. Of a giant miraculous flying machine. One single instrument on this dashboard would have kept my curiosity satisfied for hours. The hundreds of them in concert together was overwhelming. The only comparable experience would have perhaps been driving an Excavator. But since that didn't end up happening until adulthood, seeing the cockpit of an airliner was IT!
Needless to say, without going into homoerotic detail about the perceived virility of the Pilot and Co-Pilot... I was having the time of my life, and felt like THE MAN.
Escaping.
Flying.
V.I.Peej treatment.
Absolute Freedom.
In this moment... in this process... in this transit, I was totally free. Reflecting on it now, and comparing it in context to the feelings I've had today which have sparked this entry, I've realized something.
The destination was almost never as pleasing as the journey. And I like to go it alone!
Sure, I imagined this person I was going to visit to be the bearer of the freedom flag. But in reality, the visits were never free. So much emotion, contradiction, confusion, and overcompensation took an emotional toll. Anytime you put people in a scheduled "vacation" setting it's tiring. A drain. No, the journey itself was the true bliss.
The true release happened "in Transit".
And this feeling is something I've kept with me all my life and on well into adulthood. I LOVE BEING IN TRANSIT ALONE.
Anyone who has been dipping a toe into the psychological cesspool that is my blog, may already know I get really comfortable in airports alone. This feeling transcends to all places designed for personal transport. The airport is still the favorite. But the feelings can be tapped at a bus stop, in a subway station. Any place where loads of people rush around frantically, and where I can melt into a puddle of cool calm reflection and independence.
Today I have that comfortable feeling. The liberation. I've discarded all responsibilities to any other person, at least for the time I will spend in transit. Once I get to the office, I will again be at the mercy of the clients. But here, now, it's just me. Me and the physical instruments of my freedom. (laptop, cameras, skateboard). No parents, no teachers, no boss. No guidance, no suggestions, no other people's needs imposed.
Ivan and his girl left the condo today around the same time as I did. They were heading to Panera for some baked goods, and asked me if I needed a ride to the terminal. No thanks, I said without really thinking about it. Not that I don't love the two of them. They are great. But I'd rather skate the 0.7 km to the terminal myself. :^)
I lazily meandered to Starbucks before hitting the terminal, and didn't sweat it when I had to go back to make change and missed a couple buses.
I'm comfortable in transit.
Now, there are some stipulations that regulate the free feeling.
It's hard to capture the feeling with another person. I can think of less then a handful of souls who could join me in the flighty feeling and not impede the perceived release of responsibility.
"But airports are places full of responsibility and structure and control"
If you think that, then your not one of those people in my handful. Sorry. But your interpretation of the airports stifling control is just that, an interpretation. For me, it's bliss. I strive to turn those tooth pulling banal interactions into beautiful brightening displays of humility and reality. I pride myself on pulling these strangers OUT of their contrived and scripted routines and lighting them up with some unexpectedly bright and flowing interaction. If you're someone who stresses out, and then takes that stress out on the staff, then we wouldn't work together in my dream land. I make damned sure that I'm the sweetest most personable mother fucker any of them have spoken to all week. A little humility and humanity go a long way in these places. These people aren't pleased about having to ask you to take your shoes off either. And having the freedom to be as polite, or as revoltingly pleasant as I want, is something I usually only get to do on my own. Without someone else who's needs and discomfort supersede my flighty ambitions.
But, the one BIG stipulation, is that it doesn't work when I'm late. Lateness can take ALL of the joy and freedom out of the experience. It ruins the stress free relaxation and turns it on it's head. Late usually means, someone else waiting on another end, depending on me to be on time. If I'm flying somewhere for myself, no problem. I can even miss a flight and not worry one bit. (talked my way into having flights changed free of charge before after missing them.)
Partly why I felt the freedom so strongly this morning. I don't really NEED to be ANYwhere today. It's Thanksgiving.
There was an eerie sense of calm and solitude at the terminal today. The buses were sparsely populated at best. The sprawling mall parking lots, completely vacant. Everyone is at home. But not me. I'm in transit. Glorious transit.
The journey has changed gears again. I just looked up from my seat to see the subway train is at Old Mill Station. We cross a bridge over a river near, you guess it, an Old Mill, and for a brief moment, natural light fills the train car prompting me to look up. A track that was once underground, plunges outward over a brightly lit abyss. This is also a short window back into Cyberspace. The iPhone grabs just enough of a connection for a Tweet or status update between stations.
But I pay little attention to that fact, as I'm busy trying to allow my fingers to dance out these words as quickly as I think them. It's hard for someone born just on the technological cusp. And who didn't adopt and accept typing as early as some of his contemporaries. I don't type with two fingers... but I'm no stenographer either.
:^P
So the transit period has ended. I've arrived at my destination, for now. Here I will sit, and bang out design work corrections. Cross t's, dot i's, until I can take no more of the stagnant geo-location and have to resume the transit.
I don't know where I'm going tonight. I've left my options open. I'd like to go exploring somewhere. I brought my cameras and laptop... surely something will be created. :^D
I'm going to allow myself to be satisfied with this entry at it's present length. No need to try saving the world. It's a first step back into the swing of Blogging. I should really cherish these next few weeks of working downtown, while still living in Mississauga. After all, I will soon live downtown, and not have a need to spend 1.5 hrs moving from one place to another by myself. I'm about to buckle down for a long season work and discovery. So that I might be able to financially build myself back into position to resume transit once again. I've got bills to pay, and a Vanagon to repair and rebuild. For now, I'm blessed with a great deal of bus and train riding in the weeks ahead.
:^)
Excelsior!
Enjoy the Ride!
It's been a while since I've waxed in self analytic reflection on here. Partly out of disgust with how long it's been since I've had a visual refresh of this forum... and partly waiting to have subjects worthy of discourse... I came to a realization today. An epiphany who's truth resonates ever stronger as I type these very words. Let me get the quote out of the way before the momentum of rant takes this paragraph too far off the beaten subject:
I really enjoy life in transit.
That's it at it's simplest.
Now lets elaborate...shall we?
:^D
Oh man... I've got a huge smile on right now. Sitting at an outdoor bus terminal in Mississauga... Square One to be exact:
View Larger Map
I've got my Macbook Pro tethered to my iPhone, borrowing it's healthy, and surprisingly viable 3G connection. I've got a Venti Carmel Machiato to keep my fingers warm when the wind picks up. And I've got the itch to write! No, not the itch... the hunger! The desperation inside that says: get all of these words out, or risk loosing sanity!
I've just missed another bus. That's ok! I'm going in to work on a holiday Monday. Thanksgiving actually. I shouldn't say going into work. I'm going into the office. But to do freelance work. It's pretty awesome having an office to go to. It's certainly unlocked a freedom I've been craving for some time now. Being that I'm someone who always tries to propagate the positives, I haven't been blogging lately. Too much financial worry getting in the way of unabashed enthusiasm. :^)
But now, I have an office to go to. Some pay to depend on. A light at the end of my broke-ass artist tunnel!
And so, I'm happily going in on my day off, to put in some time that will move me forward. Allow me to break free of the financial pressure of freelance. Or more so the TIME pressure of freelance. Of the inability to separate work life from home life. Up time from down time.
I'm spending one more supposed weekend day as a freelancer... so that I can take back my weekends, moving forward! No more will people own me during the times I select as my rest and refute from work. Business calls will be screened during hours of supreme lethargy. And leisure will be penciled into the schedule as a top priority at least one day out of the week!
Oh, here's a bus that will get me to the Subway. The # 20... I think it's a slightly longer trip to Islington station then the # 3. Perfect!
So I'm on the bus now... a bit sad to leave my sweet outdoor seat at the terminal. But my 3G connection comes with me! And I prefer a life in transit anyway. :^)
Back to that!
When I was 9 and 3/4 years old I flew on an airliner alone for the first time. Charlottetown to Moncton. It was a remarkably liberating experience. I was a regular kid rounding out his single digits and headed into doubles, and as such, had a healthy anti-parental disposition. My Father, and the woman I proudly and lovingly call Mom were the establishment, and my not too often seen Bio-Mom was the blurry figurehead and instrument of escapism. I'd see her once every few years, as fate (or behind the scenes adult tomfoolery) dictated possible. Never often enough to form any sort of reality or rules based interaction. She was an escape. Someone, who, though sporadically and briefly, appeared to love and lavish me dearly. Without risk of much reactionary behavioral correction. And I was flying, alone, to see her.
So imagine the pure freedom I felt.
Back in the 90's... a kid flying alone was a super star. Ridiculously lovely looking, sounding, smelling, acting, uniformed women chauffeured me from one check point to another. Passing me between themselves while outwardly reminding one another, and myself, of my importance, independence, and bravery. I was their most precious cargo. The chosen child, unique and revered. They gave me a special person kit; including a colouring and activity book, crayons, and my very own lapel "wings". They even invited me up to see the cockpit!
This was the pinnacle of achievement for a 9 and 3/4 year old boy. The cockpit of an airliner. Of a giant miraculous flying machine. One single instrument on this dashboard would have kept my curiosity satisfied for hours. The hundreds of them in concert together was overwhelming. The only comparable experience would have perhaps been driving an Excavator. But since that didn't end up happening until adulthood, seeing the cockpit of an airliner was IT!
Needless to say, without going into homoerotic detail about the perceived virility of the Pilot and Co-Pilot... I was having the time of my life, and felt like THE MAN.
Escaping.
Flying.
V.I.Peej treatment.
Absolute Freedom.
In this moment... in this process... in this transit, I was totally free. Reflecting on it now, and comparing it in context to the feelings I've had today which have sparked this entry, I've realized something.
The destination was almost never as pleasing as the journey. And I like to go it alone!
Sure, I imagined this person I was going to visit to be the bearer of the freedom flag. But in reality, the visits were never free. So much emotion, contradiction, confusion, and overcompensation took an emotional toll. Anytime you put people in a scheduled "vacation" setting it's tiring. A drain. No, the journey itself was the true bliss.
The true release happened "in Transit".
And this feeling is something I've kept with me all my life and on well into adulthood. I LOVE BEING IN TRANSIT ALONE.
Anyone who has been dipping a toe into the psychological cesspool that is my blog, may already know I get really comfortable in airports alone. This feeling transcends to all places designed for personal transport. The airport is still the favorite. But the feelings can be tapped at a bus stop, in a subway station. Any place where loads of people rush around frantically, and where I can melt into a puddle of cool calm reflection and independence.
Today I have that comfortable feeling. The liberation. I've discarded all responsibilities to any other person, at least for the time I will spend in transit. Once I get to the office, I will again be at the mercy of the clients. But here, now, it's just me. Me and the physical instruments of my freedom. (laptop, cameras, skateboard). No parents, no teachers, no boss. No guidance, no suggestions, no other people's needs imposed.
Ivan and his girl left the condo today around the same time as I did. They were heading to Panera for some baked goods, and asked me if I needed a ride to the terminal. No thanks, I said without really thinking about it. Not that I don't love the two of them. They are great. But I'd rather skate the 0.7 km to the terminal myself. :^)
I lazily meandered to Starbucks before hitting the terminal, and didn't sweat it when I had to go back to make change and missed a couple buses.
I'm comfortable in transit.
Now, there are some stipulations that regulate the free feeling.
It's hard to capture the feeling with another person. I can think of less then a handful of souls who could join me in the flighty feeling and not impede the perceived release of responsibility.
"But airports are places full of responsibility and structure and control"
If you think that, then your not one of those people in my handful. Sorry. But your interpretation of the airports stifling control is just that, an interpretation. For me, it's bliss. I strive to turn those tooth pulling banal interactions into beautiful brightening displays of humility and reality. I pride myself on pulling these strangers OUT of their contrived and scripted routines and lighting them up with some unexpectedly bright and flowing interaction. If you're someone who stresses out, and then takes that stress out on the staff, then we wouldn't work together in my dream land. I make damned sure that I'm the sweetest most personable mother fucker any of them have spoken to all week. A little humility and humanity go a long way in these places. These people aren't pleased about having to ask you to take your shoes off either. And having the freedom to be as polite, or as revoltingly pleasant as I want, is something I usually only get to do on my own. Without someone else who's needs and discomfort supersede my flighty ambitions.
But, the one BIG stipulation, is that it doesn't work when I'm late. Lateness can take ALL of the joy and freedom out of the experience. It ruins the stress free relaxation and turns it on it's head. Late usually means, someone else waiting on another end, depending on me to be on time. If I'm flying somewhere for myself, no problem. I can even miss a flight and not worry one bit. (talked my way into having flights changed free of charge before after missing them.)
Partly why I felt the freedom so strongly this morning. I don't really NEED to be ANYwhere today. It's Thanksgiving.
There was an eerie sense of calm and solitude at the terminal today. The buses were sparsely populated at best. The sprawling mall parking lots, completely vacant. Everyone is at home. But not me. I'm in transit. Glorious transit.
The journey has changed gears again. I just looked up from my seat to see the subway train is at Old Mill Station. We cross a bridge over a river near, you guess it, an Old Mill, and for a brief moment, natural light fills the train car prompting me to look up. A track that was once underground, plunges outward over a brightly lit abyss. This is also a short window back into Cyberspace. The iPhone grabs just enough of a connection for a Tweet or status update between stations.
But I pay little attention to that fact, as I'm busy trying to allow my fingers to dance out these words as quickly as I think them. It's hard for someone born just on the technological cusp. And who didn't adopt and accept typing as early as some of his contemporaries. I don't type with two fingers... but I'm no stenographer either.
:^P
So the transit period has ended. I've arrived at my destination, for now. Here I will sit, and bang out design work corrections. Cross t's, dot i's, until I can take no more of the stagnant geo-location and have to resume the transit.
I don't know where I'm going tonight. I've left my options open. I'd like to go exploring somewhere. I brought my cameras and laptop... surely something will be created. :^D
I'm going to allow myself to be satisfied with this entry at it's present length. No need to try saving the world. It's a first step back into the swing of Blogging. I should really cherish these next few weeks of working downtown, while still living in Mississauga. After all, I will soon live downtown, and not have a need to spend 1.5 hrs moving from one place to another by myself. I'm about to buckle down for a long season work and discovery. So that I might be able to financially build myself back into position to resume transit once again. I've got bills to pay, and a Vanagon to repair and rebuild. For now, I'm blessed with a great deal of bus and train riding in the weeks ahead.
:^)
Excelsior!
Enjoy the Ride!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Using Mac OS X to "meassure" things on the web!
I'm setting up some embedded YouTube content for a client. Trying to figure out if the dimensions on the embed dialogue on the YouTube site are total player dimensions... or just video content dimensions with the actually player controls outside those dimensions.
I'm going to embed a 480 x 295 example of video here... then use Mac OS X built in screen grabber tool to measure the box.
Command > Shift > 4 to do a custom screen grab of just one section. Note the metrics displayed beside the cross hairs as you click and drag out a selection of your screen to be captured! Measure without even taking the screen cap by clicking and dragging around your selection, then hitting the "escape" key before letting go of your mouse button. This way, you can keep pressing Command > Shift > 4 to initialize the screen grabber, and yet only save the ones you need.
I use this native Mac OS X functionality to measure things on the web all the time!
:^)
I <3 my Mac!
Edit: Well, that's strange... it's showing 412 x 295 ... How Random!
Edit Again: Not so random after all. My super powered Brainz have deduced that my Blogger Template scripting is superseding the YouTube Embed Code... iiiinteresting.
I'm going to embed a 480 x 295 example of video here... then use Mac OS X built in screen grabber tool to measure the box.
Command > Shift > 4 to do a custom screen grab of just one section. Note the metrics displayed beside the cross hairs as you click and drag out a selection of your screen to be captured! Measure without even taking the screen cap by clicking and dragging around your selection, then hitting the "escape" key before letting go of your mouse button. This way, you can keep pressing Command > Shift > 4 to initialize the screen grabber, and yet only save the ones you need.
I use this native Mac OS X functionality to measure things on the web all the time!
:^)
I <3 my Mac!
Edit: Well, that's strange... it's showing 412 x 295 ... How Random!
Edit Again: Not so random after all. My super powered Brainz have deduced that my Blogger Template scripting is superseding the YouTube Embed Code... iiiinteresting.
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