Becoming a Vancouverite

Vancouver is a lover I slept with for nine months but barely knew. Once while walking on Broadway, Jen remarked how she loves the way he smells of barley and maple on windy afternoons. I glanced at her and acknowledged that I’ve never smelled his belly. My experience had been confined to UBC then home, with the occasional visit to NewWest and even more occasional visit to Vancouver Art Gallery. We moved together at the same time, yet she knew him more intimately. She could compose maps of his alleys on the back of her hands.

The last two weeks, I’ve been exploring Vancouver greedily. There are so many things in this city awaiting to be learned. On my morning commute to work, I watch old people in the park by my house do Tai Chi. They’re neighbours, I’ve never seen. Taking the downtown bus, and then, the sky train is equally interesting. Faces and the coffee cups they carry become familiar. The varieties of people I see are endless, in comparison to riding the 43 bus filled with students.

I have two more weeks before I start my second job and the weather is gorgeous. Back in January and February, I was ready to pack my bags and relocate. I’m glad I stayed and waited out the rain. It’s unusual for me to take nine months to get intimate with a place. Usually, when I move, I fall to the ground and let the grass stain my skin.

Sunday Stroll at Stanley Park

Unspoken Pick-up lines

1. bring your hot girl-friends to the bar and watch your studness soar
2. Yeah, these will convince Paolo that we actually have a life. Huh, take that, he'll be sorry he never invited us to LA.
3. Hey, how you doing? Here's a 20 girls, now split.

ariel's clothes swap project

ariel's clothes swap project

broken...i did it, but blame it on the rich, i don't know, maybe the rain

How can you rationalize it? How can you make sense of anything at all? You’re here and they’re there. Everything breaks down to borders. Even the poorest poor isn’t as poor as third world poor, we all know that.

I finally applied for my BC health card. Mostly, it’s because I need to go to a doctor and I’m afraid my Visa wouldn’t be able to sustain the damage. Only if this damn infection would go away and, would let me hear on my left ear again, then I could push away admitting that I’m a BC resident. The messed up thing about paper work, heck about everything and anything, even leaving my house, is that I’m faced with economic classification. I hate filling out an extra page because I’m a low income; I hate riding the bus with people trotting their fake Louis Vuitton purses, what statement are they trying to make— I’m broke and I have bad taste. I hate living in the East side slum and having to see that glitter of admiration from my recent immigrant neighbours, one day I’m going to shake them and scream, I’m as broke as they are and like them, I have a family I cannot save. I hate privilege whinny people that see the world only for their comfort. They have this veneer of fakeness that deserves to be spit on, here patronize this.

Why am I so angry? My body slides and shifts. I don’t know where I’m heading. I’m annoyed with my insufficiency. I read that BC minus NY produces more literature than any place in North America, that UBC’s creative writing program turns more published author than any university in Canada; that the ocean and mountains…being so closed to the American border….different ethnicities living together…the lines that separate East and West Hastings, the rain…the rain…the rain…whatever paradox you want, it is here.

I haven’t written anything since I moved here.

Today, I dusted my novel. It’s cold and dead.

rain rain go AWAY

Day like this makes me understand why Vancouverites read more per capita than any other Canadians. Everything is grey and flat. And, I’m reminded of the injuries my runners sustained during the 29 days straight, January rain. I hate replacing things I’ve only had for less than two years. And due to my stubbornness, I walked forty blocks carrying my criminal record clearance, completely miserable. These runners would have lasted me four years in the prairies. Thought like this runs in my head when I’m frustrated and I can’t remember the feel of the sun on my skin.

Nothing made me laugh today, not even the thought of stealing flowers. During my walk, I didn’t make any mental note of people’s houses that I could return to at night with my shears. I’m bored and DISENGAGED.

storm front

Can I stay at your Place

Well, I’m still unemployed. I stopped writing resumes and cover letters a week ago. I’m waiting for my landlord to evict me since I can’t pay this month’s rent. Of course, I’m exaggerating, but not too much. I have one month to get my stuff together, otherwise I’m going to be knocking on friends' doors. I’m now considering printing a slew of resumes and hitting restaurants and cafes. Something, I vowed not to do since the overprized snobby tea house left a bad taste in my mouth.

On to good news, the Academy I applied for contacted me again. Apparently, I passed the surprised grammar test that I was certain I failed. Whew! Now, I’m on the second stage of the interview. I have to do a lesson on passive and active verbs and, demonstrate them to a grade six student. This should be easy. The director also mentioned something about a Math test. I’m not sure about this one. I don’t have anything to lose, so what the heck, bring it on.

stillness and a full tank of gas

She knows the way a new city hides her sadness. No rinds on square pavements to slide happier times, no concern eyes that reflect pity as they hand out comforting words they don’t believe. Here, no one knows the taste of her tears. The ocean accepts them as offering and the city of glass shatters them in fragments.

Three words changed the position of the sun. She’s aware of time, of shifts between lovers, of loss. She has seen the single image on his library computer stored in an instant replay, the saved newspaper clippings. Six months powered by ten—how many times will the moon move under the shadow of the earth under these time intervals? Can she compete? Is this wise? A game against time is a game she’ll eventually lose. This is all too familiar—she’s a replacement part bought too soon.

This is two hours worth of writing. Arrrggghhh. Nothing is coming out today. Nada.

This is the first time I’ve allowed myself this much time off, the first time I am unemployed since I was fifteen. I’m enjoying myself. I’ve been spending heaps of time with friends and Jason, catching up on movies and reading books. But I do feel like I’m starting to get lazy. I’m lost without markers. The great thing about being unemployed is that I realized that I am cut from the same mold as my Lola (Grandma), in that, I like having a schedule, having a million things on my plate. This is sooo cool, I’m going to be a tyrant old woman with coconut oil lacquered hair that will drive everyone mad. Weeee!!!!

behind the scene

waiting for the bus

All these pictures are taken by Ariel Kg

Found

I found this letter in April at the back stage of the Old Auditorium. It seems that B still loves this person. I love the anger and frustration of the lines, "soon I won't live in the same city you do anymore. That would be a problem if I cared to see you again. I don't." I equally love that the person B wrote to, printed and folded this letter six times so that it could fit into the pocket of his/her jeans.

I'm thinking of sending it to this site

Please Direct me to the Packaging Manuals

Looking for work is a practice in selling yourself. I started looking about two weeks ago, minus the one week Asuka and Tomomi were in town, so that makes it, one week of typing cover letters and resumes, one after another. I’m treating job hunting as a job. I get up early in the morning and do half an hour of yoga, have breakfast and then, the exercise of selling myself starts. I try to be creative in listing the selling points that make me valuable. Leave out the things that make me who I am. Like the way I trembled and cried while I watched the footage of Negros’ sugar can workers. Or the way, my heart flutters when I meet my Lover’s eyes across a crowded room. I leave these out. They aren’t marketable. I look at myself and ask: could I join the consumer game? Everybody’s in the business of selling. The sooner I learn how to package myself in store bought traits employers want, the sooner I’ll be able to get a job.

Step Right Up

Words written on achromatic paper, carbon bleeds on your fingertips. The words are too serious, self-consciously bland—unimaginative—packaged for consumption.

“What did they do to our children?” A woman writes for Adbuster in respond to the recent aggressive advertisements which target children. A child by the age of two could identify 12 brands. Nothing is sacred, everything is marketable. Twelve year old models with glossed lips are adorned with Tommy’s school wear.

I don’t know what is worst, twelve year olds pretending to be grown up or grown women with hello kitty complex. The botox.ca billboards that are on every major intersections stare at me, “Don’t you want to be hot?” Hot fades in my vocabulary.

I’m not aware when the transition happened. I was once a fashion pusher. I victimized many and they loved me:
“Caramel Kiss. It’s gorgeous on you.”
“Honey Blonde. It looks soooo great on the pillows.”
“Curls bring out your playful personality”
“That is sooo COOL.”
“Wow, that is hot!”
I sounded like a flamboyant gay man. But they gave comfort and I made people feel beautiful, even though their husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends hated it. I was good. Really good. Maybe I could fall back on that as a career. Shall I do it?

memory cards and too much time