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 quite funny. 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 that's perched on the tip top of the extra long, big rig 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. That frontal lobe I'd previously mentioned, screaming in agony as it's logic circuits continue to be scrambled by my blind determination.
I try and pull it into 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. EFF WORD.
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. (Frig, 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 doing 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 GOODNESS!
My 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 gosh, 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!
Friday, October 30, 2009
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.
Friday, October 2, 2009
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