paolo's visit

unusual westcoast winter

no more drama

It’s eight:thirty and I’m fighting to keep my eyelids open. I spent last night in a cabin in the woods with 32 students and 3 faculty associates. Great food, great story tellers, an afternoon hike, and an evening huddled around the fire making music made sleeping on cement floors bearable.

It was snowing again when I woke up. During breakfast, few people were worried how they were going to drive up the hill. Hoping they wouldn’t get stuck. This seems to be a recurring theme in Van City lately. Last week, Production Way (the road that goes up the hill to Simon Fraser University) was closed. All busses were rerouted, adding an extra half an hour to my 60 minutes morning commute. Also, the back and front fence of my house had been down since December, the roof of BC place is still deflated, Stanley Park looks like it has alopecia from all the fallen trees, the black-outs, and of course, the two weeks we had to boil our water.

I have to admit, I sort of enjoyed the silt in our water event. It gave a little drama to this lovely city, but driving across Stanley Park today was depressing. From the Lions Bridge you could see bald spots and washed out roads. I hope no more drama is in store and I’m counting down the days cherry blossoms make their appearance

I haven’t written on this in awhile. There are tons of things to write, but I haven’t had time to sit down and tap away at the keys. There is also the question of why I blog? Its self involved. It adds to the “me” culture which I’ve justified by thinking that writing is a selfish act. I still think this way, but recent interactions with unintended audiences made me re-evaluate how I want to control who has access to my writings . In two weeks my practicum begins. The last thing I want is to have faculty, colleagues, and students read something I’ve written and think that it is an accurate representation of me. At best my writing captures a fragment of truth which represents me at that moment.

I started this blog two years ago to keep in contact with friends. I haven’t been doing a good job with that so here’s an overview and self reminder of the last 6 months:

1. School started this week. One week down. 46 left to go.
2. Jen got married to Mark. Seeing them over Christmas made me believe in love again.
3. Ian is almost as tall as I am. And a trip home is not complete without eating tons of cookies at Anne's home.
4. Bowling with Geret and Robb in Winnipeg is priceless.
5. Time is the best gift you could give. A lesson my Mom Marg thought me over the holidays.
6. That you are never prepared to lose a love one, regardless of how long you’ve been separated.

7. Montreal has the best poutine.
8. Sharad is a pretty cool Indian
9. Hanging out in the farm with Aleks and her parents rocks.
10. A wedding along St. Lawrence is beautiful.
11. Tea with Vancouverite friends is not often enough.
(Pics soon to follow)

beautiful day, even brown water don't bother me

Its been hard to find inspiration with working two jobs and not much time for anything else. Days blended together. Honestly couldn’t recall when summer turned to fall. Five months had been lost in the routine of working ten hour day, seven days a week. I’ve needed space to fall apart but I was too tired even for that. The only thing that kept me from unraveling was the thought of starting my final year this January. Even when I had doubts that I was going to get accepted, I pushed that aside and reassured myself that being on the waiting list meant I would get in. Today, I got my acceptance from Simon Fraser's PDP Program.

This is the first day in long time that I feel like myself.

people watching in front of mcgill

I've become fascinated with faces and I wish I have a better camera.

ghosts

I love how strangers share the most intimate things. The seventy year old man I met in the Cameroon Highlands three years ago told me that his only love died of tuberculosis while they were attending university in England after the Second World War, and recently, the race car driver I sat beside in the plane told me about his Ana.

“This is Ana,” his eyes pointed at his computer screen. “We drove from Montreal to Vancouver.”
There was so much sadness mixed with happiness and longing in his voice that I had to ask where she was. When he replied with, “In Vancouver, but we don’t talk anymore,” my heart sunk for him. Looking over his shoulder, I saw files of his ghost.

As I cycle home after my night shifts, their narratives often play in my head, “She was my only….this is Ana….we met during the war….I was 17….she was 16….she designed this building.” Their stories blend. And I begin to ask what if there is no happy ending. Or more exact, what if there is no happy ending for me? Perhaps, my problem is that I read too many romance novels as a teenager. What if D is right, and that, love is not sprinkled with rose petals? What if love is being in love with memories? Or, being in love with what you had? Mostly, it is men that I know that have the hardest time letting go. They dance with ghosts for years. Even D admits that before he goes to bed, he imagines his ex lying beside him. This is nine years after they broke up.

If this is the case for many men, then many women are faced with dating men with ghosts. As much as the romantic in me love the stories of the old man and the race car driver, I find it pointless to long for someone because that person captured your youth, or a part of a dream, a lifestyle that you once lived. But then a part of me wishes that I am someone's ghost.

a wedding along the st. lawrence river

Here the present took place in the past. And the past is in every blade of grass, in branches that tickle the sky, in the silver dressed current that twirls for the sun. In the land of the Iroquois, time rocks back and forward, and stands just long enough for you to kiss.

A race car driver I sat beside in the plane had never heard of this place 150 km from his coppered roof city. He said it three times. Each time the word peeled off his tongue slower. Iro –kwoi. ir-rro-kwaaa. eee-rrro-kwwaaaa.

day of the living dead

I saw her. The woman whose lover I kissed. She was one of the seductress zombies behind the art gallery with a bloody hand print on her face. She didn’t notice me. I was a fish, swimming in the sea of tourists’ lights.

I haven’t had much time to read these days, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised by Vanity Fair and by a Tasmanian author. Richard Flanagan’s Gould’s book of Fish made me float three inches off ground. At the same time, Henry Porter’s Blair’s Big Brother Legacy instills hope that not everyone in the media has sold their souls to conservative Satans.

robots and beautiful people

Sharad and I are in the West Coast Life section of the Vancouver Sun newspaper today. After having martinis and bland chewy calamari at the top of Vancouver Revolving Restaurant, we went to a more boisterous Japanese izakaya in Gastown where the floor manager is rude and need to learn customer service in English. With that aside, all the male servers and bartenders and not to mention Sharad’s lone female server named Jina are all eye candies. It made us feel beautiful being in the company of good looking people. Well, this is until we saw our picture today. Man, how can a photographer take so many pictures and still make us look bad. Vancouver Sun approached us to have our pictures taken while we were drinking at the bar. We agreed, because we got free food, and heck, it was something to do. But, he gave us ridiculous instructions on how to pose that Sharad and I laughed our heads off between takes, and I guess during the shots. Well, our two seconds in fame captured us with double chin, bad hair and drunk with sake (for future reference to restaurant critic Mia Stainsby, it is spelled SAKE, not saki).

With our heads cloudy from martinis and sake, we went to Vancouver’s first sky train party. It was fun running from cart to cart holding hands with robots of all make. The sky train police were baffled and tried to restrain us. We performed Mr. Roboto to appease them. Sadly, they had no sense of humour and called the real big boys. By the time we got to New West stop, cops were waiting for us. The beauty about the sky train party was that it was legal, we weren’t breaking any laws. Unlike, the sky train cops, the Vancouver cops were chilled and just reminded us that body surfing was not such a good idea in a train full of robots. We smiled. Blew them robot kisses. And off we went.

North Van

The rain killed my plan to go to Bowen Island. Instead, I hopped on the sea bus and sat in a café in Lonsdale Quaye reading a book. North Van is a wonderful place ten minutes from downtown Vancouver. I like the empty streets and the small cluster of restaurants close to the harbour. I like the way the streets are not lined with panhandlers. I understand the sociological reasons behind people living on the street. Just sometimes, I wish I can wait for the bus on Broadway and Commercial and not be asked if I have change. I foresee some of the emails I will receive tomorrow regarding my lack of compassion. But sometimes, I need to escape from reality and pretend that the sidewalks are filled with petunias and dahlias.

I walked around the old pier, watched the sunset and was reminded of my childhood fascination with rust. One day I’ll tell you about my third once removed cousin and his near death experience with tetanus.

Last Thursday was my only day off for the next 21 days. It also marked my one month of being single. So, I put on my rain coat, inhaled the ocean breeze and embraced the old familiar feeling of oneness.

The sun comes up and I start again

A month of heat and sun makes me welcome the rain. I’ve forgotten why I have a blog. Tonight, I remember—to improve my writing and to keep in contact with friends. Lately, there’s been less writing, less reading, and more starring at spaces. Spaces of what could have been, would have been, things that should have been said. I’m not a frequent visitor of loss spaces, of wanting to return to the past and correct my words, but there are times when the present could only make sense by unraveling the past.

This last week have been full of activities: lunches with Geret, breakfast with Hitomi, dinner with Ariel, a night with Anya and the “Japan Gang,” feeling light as smoke and touching the ground again by filling my belly with insanely delicious poutine at Fritz at four in the morning, a night of talking about strippers with the boys, and not being able to get in to their local stripper bar on Granville. I find I’m no longer shock that Canadian men frequent such establishments, that I’d be curious enough to even check it out and find out what they’re about. Dinner again with Berlene, her husband, and her friends. All these plus a six day work week.

This Thursday, I’m jumping on the ferry to Bowen Island with Sharad. His time in Vancouver is coming to an end, and soon, I’ll be without a roommate to explore Vancouver. Another great roommate with a departure date.

It’s almost four. I’m waiting for the sun to come up. Other than drunken nights in Tokyo, waiting for the train to start running again, it had been years since I stayed up for the sunrise. I miss Kildonan Park, my roller blades, the pink and tangerine colored horizon over the Red.

Friday night raucous

the power of words

Last night, I served three elderly Egyptian men. They were discussing Lebanon. Their disgust for the US government continued support on Israel weren't surprising. In our kitchen, between lunch and dinner rush, one of the owners who is also our chef, watches the continued coverage on the Middle East. At night, after our last guest leaves, the owners and their friends gather in the patio to unwind, bounce ideas from each other, and lately, talk about the region close to their home country.

Three years ago, I went on holidays with a woman I barely knew to the islands of Cebu and Bohol. During this trip, my ignorance on the Middle East issues became apparent. She tried to convince me that Israel's actions are just form of retaliations against "terrorists." Even with my ignorance, I couldn't accept what she was saying, because she lacked analytical perspective. Since then, I've tried to inform myself regarding issues outside my little bubble. I came across this documentary awhile back. It helped me understand why the Palestinians need the world to know the circumstances they live in.

the world makes no sense

The situation in Lebanon and the US government response to this crisis goes far beyond tragic. It is ridiculous to condemn a country's government which has no control over Hezbollah. Even more preposterous, is the US support on Israel. Israel justifies its current aggression on Lebanese and their territorial expansion on Palestinian land, as a form of eradicating terrorists. No one seems to ask why Hezbollah is created in 1982, or the events which led to the capture of the two Israeli soldiers. In our news, none of them seems to be important. Neither, the hundreds of dead Lebanese, they are not reasons enough for a ceasefire.

My favorite uncle got tired of cutting his toe nails, so one day he pulled them all out with pliers. Everyone asked him why? He said something in the line of fixing the body’s inadequacies to stay clean. He was a rice farmer who spent three months of the year in knee deep muddy water, so everyone bought his story. Words of his practicality spread in the neighbourhood. People even started to come for advice. Years later, I learned from my mother that he pulled his toe nails as an act of emptying his heart. He wanted to remember his hurt after his heart had healed.

Yay! more flowers

library visits and women with agendas

People who frequent public libraries have too much time on their hands. That’s where I was this afternoon, at Main and Broadway’s branch, reading trashy magazines, but only because I had no choice. An old man was hording the recent copies of Harpers and Adbusters on his lap while reading a Gardening magazine. I thought of snatching them but the idea of causing him to have a heart attack kept me on my vinyl duck taped blue chair. I made eye contact several times, hoping to start a conversation, wishing him a younger man. It was his fault, he reduced me to reading Bridal magazines, which is worse than trashy magazines; the whole time I was a hairstylist, I never read a single article, I scanned them for updos and nothing more.

I was at a party recently and I realized how annoying women could be about marriage. I felt bad for one particular man. To me it’s pointless to badger a boyfriend to propose or set a deadline for marriage. What’s important is that you couldn’t live peacefully without him, the way he's comforted by waking up with you in the morning, the glitter in his eyes when he first sees you after being apart less than a week, that he makes you feel you’re the most beautiful woman. Isn’t that more important than a ring or a white gown? That night, I felt like whispering to one of the guys, “Run brother! Not all women are in love with the packaged Snow White wedding myth."