The road less cycled

Looking back, it’s evident I’ve long been a complete rebel behind the scenes, and a partial one in my conduct. I disliked everything unfamiliar to me in childhood, from music to vegetables to swimming. I’m paying for that now. As a teenager, it was being human that got my gander. If everybody was getting their first car, I was busy cycling around. If everybody was forming social groups, I wasn’t going to be part of any social clique, and I just did my own thing. If everyone was listening to whatever band was popular back then (and I kid you not, I really have no idea), I was only interested in differentiating between the calls of a black-headed grosbeak and a robin. (ever tried it? it ain’t easy). If everybody was celebrating some cultural holiday, I couldn’t really have cared less, seeing only an orgy of consumerism based on questionable history where others saw an excuse to celebrate. Back in teenage days, sex too, was new of course, and even there I just said, well hey, all 20 billion (or whatever the number is) of us humans who’ve ever graced this planet do that… Sure, I’m sure it’s fun, but what’s unique in that? As a friend of mine quotes on her profile, a quote I rather like, “Human beings are here because of several million years of sexy ancestors.” (G & K Hendricks). Well, I can pick holes all through that argument, but still there’s a lot of truth there.

I bring these things up because I sometimes lament my lack of rebellion, despite the fact that I disagree with consumerism, growth at all costs, genetic modification, over-harvesting, burning gas so prolifically, eating animal flesh unnecessarily, not cycling places, monopolizing resources, make-up, fashion, over-consumption, capitalism, socialism, and most other “ism’s,” violence of any sort for most if not all reasons, etc. etc. etc. Hell, I’ve rebelled against just about everything we do as a species, just not in overly blatant or confrontational ways. It’s no wonder my psyche was where it was and is where it is, or that lately I delight in flagrantly and hypocritically counteracting my supposed worldview of ideal conduct.

You’ve likely realized by now how easily I put a positive spin on things. We humans are really capable of rationalizing anything, a theme I return to time and time again, and I have only barely gotten started. Fortunately, I’ve held off of acquiring too much history to have to rationalize.

Because I’m no illusionist, as she warned against. No, it’s all laid out for all to see. I realize I sometimes seem to invoke a certain stereotype more often associated with the feminine; that of being “complicated”. Well, first of all, I’ve never liked stereotypes or put much stock into them, but secondly if being “simple” is an attractive attribute, what planet do you hail from?

“You don’t date people” she observed, with characteristic abruptness, a few months ago now when the topic came up. It is an observation that is more or less true, though there are undoubtedly episodes she doesn’t know about. Generally though, I’m not the guy who shows up with a new girl in tow the night after a break-up, or even the one who’s never without a girlfriend for more than a few weeks. Though I’m not one to obsess over these things, since I mostly allow life to run its course, it is something that’s been eating away at me for a little bit now. So despite being something of a “non-interventionist” in the sense that I too often allow life to unfold as it will, rather than taking a “grab life by the horns approach,” as well as a technophobe (in the sense that I don’t particularly like technological gizmos rather than that they confound me) I  did decide recently to explore an online dating site, something I haven’t ever done in the past. But the question remains, why don’t I very often get around to dating people? Well yeah, there’s the classic  ”I have high standards line,” but I think that one’s a little bit too stock, too stereotypical of an explanation, but partially true nonetheless. I think the other part of the answer to that is two-fold, only one of which I’ll dwell on here.

I think it’s undeniable that I hold some rather odd opinions, that not a great many people share, and which put me at odds with a lot of the people I come across.  Like the time I was hanging out with my brother recently, and we were chatting with a friend of mine, and they shook hands in saying good-bye, and he complimented my bro on his handshake – a perfect opportunity for me to chime in (after he left) and say, “That’s BS – what does the firmness of your handshake matter?” after which a good 20 minute “animated discussion” ensued, not over whether or not it was important to have a strong handshake, but over whether that was something we should really value. I won’t get into the whole discussion, since I’m just using this as an example of where I had an opinion that runs counter to what I think is the predominant view in our culture, and if you’re really pressed and trying to carve out a niche for yourself in a pretty competitive economy, definitely the most practical viewpoint. I certainly won’t deny that practicality is definitely something I need to pay more attention to at some point, getting off this rollercoaster of academics interspersed with temporary jobs and sometimes rather aimless, drifting search for both the meaning behind why we do things the way we do, and a deeper meaning behind this oh-so-mysterious human experience.

Then there’s my scorn of the oh-so pervasive suburban lifestyle, of sacrosanct institutions and customs that we simply adhere to without questioning, and in Abbotsford, the particularly difficult one of spurning (for the most part) the use of an automobile, something my tailbone is all too aware of right now, not to mention I don’t currently have a bike to ride. I in fact disagree with so many people about so many things that I’ve taken to just listening, patiently, and not bothering to point out where I think their reasoning is off.

Because it’s not like I have a ton of solutions to offer at this point anyway. I often even offer a counter opinion to one of my best friends in Abbotsford, who, one time after we’d left a billiard hall, said he hadn’t really connected with anybody, and that when somebody asked him how he was, he just said, “Opinionated”……which was such a breath of fresh air. To end this piece on a solid note, some things I know I do like and want to be part of my future are the thrill of physical exertion after a run, bike ride, or hike, the satisfaction of being able to produce your own food or know the people who did so, and the knowledge that the natural systems, the streams and the rivers and forests, that ultimately are the source of life on this planet, are intact and not compromised by our presence. That’s been one of the guiding principles of my life to date, but one that’s taken a little bit of a backseat to Edward Abbey’s admonishment, which I’ll paraphrase since my innernet’s down: That it’s not enough to simply fight for the preservation of our wilderness areas; we have to take the time to enjoy them, to experience them, so that we can truly understand them.

Well, I now have the ‘Net again. Here’s what he really said (my paraphrase was SOOOO not worth it):

“It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.”
— Edward Abbey

Canucks mania has spread like wildfire in the Fraser Valley. Establishments frequented by hockey mad folk are thanking the heavens for the rush of euphoria that is helping to counteract the effects of the recession. People schedule tasks around Canucks games, gladly opting to take a few hours away from the grind to relax in front of the tube, knowing that remaining caught up in the status of the NHL playoffs will benefit them. You might think that that’s an odd thought; how on Earth can keeping one’s eyes fixed to a hockey screen displaying unrelated men vying to insert a black rubber disk into a net, and doing this for three hours, possibly benefit one?  Around playoff time we humans certainly exhibit some strange behaviour, but upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that it’s not as if this type of behaviour is at all impractical on a personal level. A lot of stuff I don’t like isn’t, actually.

Drivers and pedestrians celebrating the Canucks Game 2 win

Before I go any further, I just want to point out that until the last year or two, I was as big of a Canucks fan as anybody I know; hell, I made friends on the basis of talking about hockey and the Canucks together. Even today, I still get a kick out of watching the game; if I’m at home I’ll still follow the game log or watch the game despite having a grainy, wavy CBC image. We don’t have any cable TV; never have and I probably never will.

Recently however, I’m not really the kid who would want his sports section along with the morning oatmeal in Gr.5. I still want my oatmeal, but not so much the sports. But the question remains, what could possibly drive people to become so rabid over something so inconsequential?

The first big benefit is pretty simple. Hunkering down in front of “the game” relaxes people! Taking a few hours out of a busy day to do nothing productive and focus on cheering on a favorite team, be it mentally or physically, is a powerful urge because it gives us an excuse to take a long break. It would be one thing if that break was taken in isolation, but what’s even better is that in this case there are huge social benefits! Since everybody’s talking hockey these days, if you can join in or even direct the chatter by knowing what’s going on, you’ve immediately got a social leg-up. For basically doing nothing.

At the same time, though I’ve done absolutely no research on this and have no intention of doing so, I believe it’s been shown that having a championship team locally gives a region a big boost. There’s a general sense of euphoria as people have their innate desires of seeing “their” team win fulfilled. This tends to raise feelings of goodwill. Also, having a local play-off team gives people a reason to get together and celebrate, and what do people do when they celebrate? They buy stuff and consume it, so it boosts the economy. Whether it provides a long term boost is questionable, but there’s a high likelihood that all the simultaneous celebrations result in increased sales, which in turn makes local retailers happy and also boosts the euphoria level. As with the social benefits, this is all well and good until you think about the fact that all this is accomplished through manic support for a group of millionaires, most of whom have nothing to do with the local community and are only playing here because a General Manager, who also likely hails from somewhere else, had the aptitude to bring them in. By cheering these people on, we’re basically saying that being here by default makes you a better player or manager than all the other players or managers in the league. It’s senseless, but hey, it boosts the economy and makes us feel better so we’re going to go party, alright?

After Game 2, a 3-0 Canucks win in which Sundin scored the first goal, a buddy and I walked out to South Fraser Way to check out the celebrations. The dominant thought that I had as people beetled down Abbotsford’s main artery honking and waving and basically letting go of some steam, was, “Gosh, when does Abbotsford ever get excited about anything? Now look at this!” I’ve heard estimates of around 1000 people out celebrating, and that doesn’t include the many thousands more who stayed home. It’s basically a herd mentality; what we’re basically saying is that, “Even though few of the Canucks actually hail from Vancouver, when they win we feel happy and drink beer and consume other stuff and watch lots of ads, so let’s all join in!!” How’s that for logic eh?

Somewhat miraculously, I apparently am in near complete agreement with my brother on what I’m going to say next. This pretty much never happens. We respect each other, but live very different lifestyles and hold some pretty different viewpoints, so I’m pretty flabbergasted whenever we agree on something.

What I heard him saying yesterday is basically an exact replica of what I was arguing with my buddy a couple nights ago; that it’s great to see Abbotsford citizens out in numbers to support something, but how in hell have we come to a point where the only time they will ever come out in numbers for anything is when something of absolutely no consequence except how they ‘feel’ goes in their favour? How assinine have we become, and how has this happened? How is it that about issues such as land use or transportation or tax rates or pollution we raise nary a peep, by comparison, but when a bunch of millionares defeat some other millionaires by playing with marginally more skill, and subsequently causes the supporters of the other millionaires to be dejected and generate a collective pall over their goings on, that we rejoice!?

When our very food and drink is at stake because of development on agricultural land, and our ability to feed our family is threatened by economic rumblings, we clamor but do nothing, but when ‘our’ team wins we celebrate and drink beer and give ourselves a collective pat on the back.

Is that we’re completely happy with the way things are organized by our governments and leading personalities? Is it that we’re all too confused to adamantly advocate anything? Are we too apathetic to stick out our necks for anything when there is the slightest element of risk, which there is none of when celebrating a Canucks win? Have the forces of media forced us into enough of a philosophical straightjacket that we trust that our duly elected leaders will do the right thing?

So, you down for some drinks when the next series starts? Sure, I’ll buy.

I mean, you did read this far didn’t you?

They’re viewed as pests by some; as natural marvels by others. Cunning, highly social, and omnipresent, crows evoke strong imagery by their presence. They are commonly used in literature and films. I’ve been told about a Hitchcock thriller in which crows turn violent and turn on people; since then I’ve had the occasional nightmare including such imagery. Crows act as Saruman’s spies in The Fellowship of the Ring. Ernest Thompson Seton writes of a wise old crow named Silverspot, who led a band of crows for years before being murdered by an owl, and in The Secret Garden, Dicken had a pet crow, I do believe.

I once observed two crows making out in a cottonwood tree, to the best of their ability (we are far better equipped for that).  This is one of several moments which impressed on me how little removed we really are from the rest of nature, and how much we have in common with all life, and how interconnected everything is.

The night I took this picture, the sky, in places, was black with crows. Hundreds of thousands swooped and perched and cawed in this area of southern Aldergrove. Their presence changed the very mood of the area. A few moments ago I heard a beautiful birdsong that perhaps will kick off a low-key winter dawn chorus, but the sound of many crows together is harsh and raucous; it sends chills down your spine and makes your hair stand on end. Crows have a mystique, a stigma about them that many people dislike, but which I find fascinating. This night the trees were weighed down with crows, it was as if they had gathered here for a grand congress, the entire crow family coming together to meet and talk and elect leaders and draft policy. I have no doubt there is meaningful communication going on at these gatherings.

For a rare moment, humans were not the predominant, overriding presence on the landscape. These black winged animals drowned out the human presence. They flew in from all  corners of the region, they blackened the sky, they were a reminder that we must yet cooperate with nature and live within its limitations.

With some free time on my  hands, I did a short jaunt on the Railway Trail today, which hugs the west side of Stave/Hayward Lake. Sometime soon I’d like to do the full 17km loop, but today I only did a few kilometres, two hours or so, round trip. I need to start earlier in the mornings so I can spend more time though.

Is it possible that things are really as bad as they seem? Does the word responsibility have any meaning in the context of eternity? Assigning blame is an impossibility liable to result in a frenzied, uncontrollable descent into internal chaos.

Please forgive my blank stare and tight-lipped frown. My mind is torn between fully processing what you have said and its infinite implications and

Buses without schedules are tempting devices, beckoning and quietly whispering what you know to be true: You can leave all that surrounds you behind and it will not matter.

Soul-mind connections are all that matter. They cannot happen without the acceptance of limitations.

The masses are wise in eschewing politics, but in so doing they guarantee the continuation of injustice.

Where are the Tao Te Ching, Ecclesiastes, and the New Testament when you need them? Right, forgone in favor of microprocessors, cosmetics, keys, plastic swipey things, condoms, useless movies, knick-knacks, odds ‘n ends…

The best skill to master is the mental kick in the ass.

Fuck you, auto censor.

What would happen to the world were no one ever to cut a lock of hair? I’d pay barbers and hairdressers to spin me around in an adjustable height chair with a hair smock, comb my hair, and make idle chatter even if scissors never again entered the equation.

The pendulum has swung too far towards randomness and chaos theory.

Pangaea is the future as well as the past.

Words don’t always come, you know. You have to coax them, squeeze them, and hang on like the dickens when they do. Say a word of thanks for every one that does. It didn’t have to, it was only doing you a favor.

Power, prestige, prominence, all are meaningless and it matters not a whit whether you ever grace their territories. Oblivion is much more to be admired and cherished.

99.9% of the world’s knowledge will escape you in this lifetime. Protest all you wish; perhaps you may adjust that number by one-tenth of one percent.

Wednesday morning I woke up, as did most of us, to a blanket of white draped over everything. I’d read that a Northern Hawk Owl had been seen up around the McKee area early in December, so it looked like a perfect place to go for a holiday excursion – accessible by car and not something that would take up my entire day (I had to work and run some errands yet that day). I hadn’t, however, counted on this much snow.

Getting up McKee was a difficult drive; the snow was still fresh and it’s essentially one big hill. It’s called McKee Peak for a reason. If I thought the drive was difficult, finding parking was another story altogether, as all the roadsides were no more than deep snowdrifts. Eventually I parked, somewhat dangerously, on the shoulder but a little too close to traffic for my liking.

The hike itself was fairly short, but stunningly beautiful. There were “private property – no trespassing” signs everywhere, but I was fairly certain that this was in fact a legitimate mountain bike trail, so I kept on marching.

Perhaps marching isn’t the world. Galumphing might be more appropriate. Stopping and starting with my head pointed straight upwards, scanning treetops for owls. So far only the persistent din of a flock of Black-Capped Chickadees, and a Downy Woodpecker. Somebody had been here already this morning, as there were some partly snowed in tracks leading the way. Some fourty-five minutes in, I turned around, only because by now I was afraid that somebody would call a towing company over my park job, and I hot-footed it down at breakneck speed, knowing that in my desperation to find a parking spot, I’d probably pushed the limits a little bit. I really need a jeep.

On the way down, I decided I wanted a shot of snow-covered Abbotsford from the viewpoint on Mckee Road, which again necessitated the finding of a parking spot. This involved much driving and spinning and verging on getting stuck in snowdrifts, after which I gave up and and drove down the hill a ways and parked on  a sidestreet, from where I found a trail heading back up the hill. Halfway up this trail I found the following gem:

By the time I reached the top, heavy flurries had re-started and the view had disappeared. It hadn’t really been a view of Abbotsford at all; more Matsqui Prairie, but exquisite all the same. While there, I decided to visit the rhododendron grove at the corner of McKee and Whatcom. Not many people know about this patch; here there are 100 year old rhododendrons that were planted by Dr. McKee. They have trunks up to 60 cm across and tower over your head. I’ve never been here in the winter before; only in summer and fall. Neither have I ever visited the grove in bloom.

These rhodos are threatened by development; there are plans to develop either housing or commercial on the site, something I’ve fought against, but to date the city has only agreed to move one or two of these amazing plants, citing cost and previous decisions by council.

And no, I never did see the Northern Hawk Owl.

A lot of thoughts simmering tonight, none of which I will elaborate on but several of which I will take time to outline.

A friend posted recently that activism was true education. I could not agree more. I’d like to that statement and add a dimension to it as well. For me, much as I resent the fact, activism is also the primary component of my social interaction. I very quickly get bored and frustrated and out of place when “hanging” with people to whom the word activism is raison d’etre to change the topic or turn up the volume. So I’ve been deliberating the role of activism in my life, and it’s a mixed bag. I want to be able to walk into a social setting and feel at home regardless of the context, but at the same time, if that context isn’t a purposeful one, I find it draining and de-motivating. In short, I suck at “just hanging.” I start pacing, and fidgeting, and staring at the ceiling, and generally being a less than sociable guest.

I have a hard time thinking of a better feeling, socially speaking (not physically or emotionally) than the aftermath of a successful event. The positive vibe created by the passionate airing of ideas and solutions to problems and the spirited social atmosphere which tends to prevail is something I find tremendously uplifting and is something I seek all the time. Perhaps it’s why I’m so frequently disappointed.

So I’ve established that my role is an activist one and that anything less leaves leaves me unsatisfied. Robert Jordan’s epic fantasy The Wheel of Time contains an intriguing concept; that of ta’veren. In the fantasy, the context of the events that transpire is The Pattern; the giant web of life in which each individual weaves his or her own thread. The Pattern is complex; not all can influence it significantly. It can absorb minor changes and weave around them, but only some individuals have the power to influence large-scale change; these individuals are ta’veren.

“sometimes the Wheel bends a life-thread, or several threads, in such a way that all the surrounding threads are forced to swirl around it, and those force other threads, and those still others, and on and on. The first bending to make the Web is ta’veren,” (http://www.generationterrorists.com/quotes/wot/eyeworld.html)

Ta’veren is a neat concept to run with. Are we all ta’veren or are just some of us, like for instance, Martin Luther King or Adolf Hitler, or JFK, ta’veren? Can we all change the world we live and do we have an obligation to try, or should we simply go with the flow and trust that things will work out? How have I changed the world? Will anything I’ve done trigger history-making change? Who can say?

That’s one concept, and for no very good reason, I’d just like to copy the opening to each book of the Wheel of Time, for its poetic and lyric beauty as well as its philosophical relevance, in light of a discussion with an old friend at Afterthoughts last night:

“The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legends fade to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the third age by some, an Age yet to come, an age long passed, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings or endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.”

In a different vein, we all have sacred places. We may not have as strong a connection to our environment, and by environment I mean more than just the natural world, as those who inhabited this land before us, but I think that inevitably most of us develop strong associations with certain places; places we go to for comfort, or for relaxation, or places to visit for inspiration. Places that hold strong memories, or perhaps places that touch a chord deep within us though we may not know why. What are yours, if any come to mind?

All of the places that are sacred to me occur right here in the Fraser Valley; I haven’t yet travelled extensively enough with sufficient duration to really get to know any other places. Most of them are closeby, not more than a 45 minute bike ride, though some are a little further. Some are sacred to me for the memories associated with the people who accompanied me there; some sacred for other, spiritual, or associative reasons.

Most have to do with waterways; salmon have been and are my passion, along with all that sustains them and us. One is the point where McLennan Creek goes under Olund Road, where two tributaries of it meet and converge into one fast riffle before emptying into a deep slow moving pool that serves as excellent habitat for juvenile fish, trout, good hunting grounds for heron and kingfisher, and a well earned respite for the salmon that travel upstream to this point.

Another is up Clayburn Road a ways; just downstream of where two Poignant Creek tributaries merge and form a unique waterfall; one of the most beautiful sites in all of Abbotsford. There are several waterfalls here, most magnificent in mid-winter during high flows, and no salmon can travel upstream of it. It’s where I got stoned for the first time; and where young people like to hang-out at night and build fires. I like during all times; during the day to admire it’s beauty, or during the night around a fire to hear its roar and absorb its wildness. It’s so uniquely un-Abbotsfordian; it doesn’t seem to fit in to this city of farms and flat roads and motorists.

There’s a giant Sitka Spruce along Downes Creek; perhaps the biggest tree remaining near the urban core, and almost no one knows of it. It has to be protected.

All libraries are sacred. They all have their own unique character and ambience and hold the records of that which we cannot afford to forget.

The place where I grew up that is now a parking lot is sacred, especially the crumpy Douglas Fir tree with perfect crow’s nest whorled branches that still stands in what used to be our front yard is sacred. It would have broken my heart if they’d cut that down, too.

A last thought – does loving make one lovable? Or is there more one must do?

I just want people’s stories.

My own story is not particularly interesting, not now, perhaps not later. Who can say?

I can’t help looking at people and wondering what drives them. Where have they grown up, and what have they experienced that I have not? What sort of twists and contortions and unpredictable events that surely made their lives far more interesting than if it had gone entirely to plan have they experienced?

I want your story, if you will share it. It’s important that your story is not forgotten. I could spend my whole life learning other people’s stories, if only I had the time. Do not tell me a partial story either; tell me the good and the bad, the joys and regrets, the shockers and highlights.

You, old man, who roams the parking lot every evening wearing your safety vest and dragging your garbage bin and plays with kids in the coffeeshop and drives a green truck , have you anything to share with someone who will listen? Have you any children, or grand-children?

You, shaggy haired man sleeping in a parking lot in Chilliwack, who doesn’t look like a Muslim, but then how can I know how a Muslim looks, how did you get there and where have you been that I have not and what stories could you tell me?

You, “Roxanne,” who prowls the streets selling the only thing you have to sell, do you despair or do you rejoice or do you just do and neither despair nor rejoice?

You, Mr. Headline Hog, you tell your story all the time but censor it so much that I am not interested.

Tell me your story, and I will not interrupt. I’ll say hardly a word, but rest assured I am mesmerized.

A mite dismayed am I at the quantity of electronic consumer goods I’ve been acquiring over the last year or so. Everytime I make such a purchase, I flinch a little bit, not because of the financial cost to my person, I can make up for that, but at the way I completely vouch for the sanity of our consumption based economy when I do.

To summarize, the last year has seen me acquire a laptop, a camera, headphones, and now a plug-in device for my cigarette lighter in my car, as well as a voice recorder. I felt like it was more, but that’s all that comes to mind at the moment. I’ve also gone a little overboard when it comes to buying/downloading music, if that’s even possible. I still don’t have a cellphone, blackberry, Ipod, or Mp3 player, which leaves me trailing most people I know. All of these things seem like necessities of life, and it’s nearly unthinkable to consider that a merely 25-50 years ago many of these accessories were not even available.

Whatever happened to the simple lifestyle characterized by hard work and strong community connections? What will happen when the 4 billion or so people who do not have the luxuries I do decide they want equality? There’s no doubt in my mind that the quality of my life is enhanced by these devices; I do not deny that I enjoy them immensely. Yet I also sense that they deprive me of time which could be used acquiring much more practical skills; wilderness survival, urban gardening, bike repair, the banjo, harmonica, flute, or mandolin, herbal medicine, etc.

In the end, I’m an optimist; while it’s clear that as a species we have the capacity to annihilate our life support systems, I don’t believe we have the capacity to annihilate the very reason for our existence; in other words, to fail at whatever it is we are supposed to accomplish. It has to be important that we learn collective self-restraint and abandon selfishness by embracing altruism and humility, and we have some level of free-will in determining our path, be it self-destruction or evolution to a higher level of consciousness, I have a hard time believing that all of this can end in the erasing of one of the universe’s chapters, namely the human chapter, with nothing to show for it. That we could simply fuck things up, orchestrate our own demise, and become a mere blip on the radar, a failed experiment on the part of God knows who.

No, there has to be something bigger, something we cannot discern, something beyond this world that we graduate to as the next step in our development. I’m not a nihilist in the sense that I think that no matter what we do, it’s of no consequence anyway so we may as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here in whatever way we know how. I’ve certainly moved a little towards nihilism on the idealism/nihilism spectrum, which is freeing, but at the same time I’ve still got one foot firmly in the idealism camp. I may not be a centrist on the political spectrum, but perhaps I am on what I’ll call the meaning of life spectrum.

Thanks for bearing with me Ironically, this treatise began while listening to Sam Roberts’ “Stripmall Religion”.

Today’s shift was ridiculously overwhelming; yet at the same time exhilarating. Twenty-two deliveries and I still did a quick close, making around $18.50/hour before subtracting gas costs. Those are the kind of shifts which keep me coming back to the pizza biz. I’m a little taken aback at the foul mouth I displayed today though, being incredibly ticked at having wrong addresses, idiot customers, and being the only driver. I learned an important lesson however.

I did a delivery out on Emerson Way. The fellow had left his address but not his buzzer, room number, or last name so I had no way on Earth of contacting him short of standing outside the building hollering, which I attempted as well. This oversight on his part left me irrationally beside myself with frustration at the idiocy of ordering a pizza pie, and not giving proper instructions as to how to actually deliver the damn thing. As I left the building, a stream of curses that I will not repeat here ripped from my mouth, most of them, I’m ashamed to say, directed at the customer, as I had more deliveries waiting at the store and couldn’t really be held up.

Tried calling him from a payphone, but he didn’t pick-up, which left me even more irate. In the end, I had to go back to the store with his food, and he didn’t end up getting his meal until well into the evening, at least two hours after he’d ordered. So what was his reaction? Did he use me as a scapegoat to berate the crappy service (customers never do admit they are in the wrong). Did he refrain from tipping because his pizza retained only the barest shards of warmth? Did he gesticulate wildly or frown solemnly at me to communicate his displeasure? No, he did none of these things.

This gentleman, an elderly fellow with a cane, wouldn’t even take a discount after I offered him the pizza for free. He insisted on paying the full price, saying he used to work in the restaurant business and everybody made mistakes. Furthermore, after waiting a good two hours to finally receive his food, he also tipped close to $4.00, well above average. Witnessing this act of patience and good humour on his part completely took the wind out of my sails. This fine gentleman, whom I’d vehemently berated when still in my car for forgetting to provide us with the proper information, who then had to wait for hours for his food, took it in stride, tipped generously, and uttered not a word of displeasure.

Personally, I think I just met my first angel.

Hahahaha.  You all believed me when I said “Valemount” would be my last blog entry for three weeks.  Fools.  As evidence that I constantly re-evaluate my decisions, here’s another entry.  By the time I left the library yesterday, it was around 4 p.m., and I still had a couple of errands, including buying rope to cache my food and checking out the IGA.  By then it was way too late to make it to Mt. Robson by nightfall, so instead I asked at the liquor store for a local bar.  It was, after all, a Friday night.  Here’s what I wrote in my notebook while in the bar last night:

Valemount, Day 2, August 1.

I’m here in Valemount, at a bar the name of which I’m not sure of, but it’s just north of the public library where I spent some time earlier today.  I’m here by myself, alas – tomorrow I’ll meet with my fellow SLLP’ers (Sustainable Living Leadership Program) in Mt. Robson, but for now I’m scribbling away by my lonesome.

A group of rowdies – all guys – are playing pool over to my right, and a speaker blasts out some pretty good tunes to my left.  I’ve had a gin and tonic and am on to a bottle of Becks – when I ordered I thought she said Vex, but it turned out to be Beck’s.  A mild beer with a bland name, brewed in Germany under the “German Purity Law of 1516.”

I’m munching on some granola I picked up at the Save-on-Foods in Abbotsford before I left, intended as breakfast/lunch/dinner food.  I bought more than I needed however, and I write better with some munchies.  Fittingly, I’ve always been a granola addict ever since acquiring a taste for it at Roots Health Foods in Maple Ridge. 

It’s much easier – though more expensive – to write here than in my tent.  Perhaps if I arrive at my campsite late enough and leave early enough I can avoid detection by Randy, the owner, and avoid paying.  Or I could just find a spot in the woods to camp, though a girl named Shiaka (aka. Stephanie) who I met outside Infinity Health Foods says there’s been reports of cougars stalking people right inside the town and that there’s been lots of grizzlies around as well.  I’ll play it safe and stick to the campsite, if that’s actually any safer.

My loosely vegan eating habits (I call myself a vegetableatarian – one who eats mostly plant food sources with the odd bit of meat/dairy) have been thrown out the window.  In a place where pizza goes for $4.50 a slice (since then I have found some saner prices), a hefty burger, potato salad, and bean stew all for $6.00 offered by the local Legion couldn’t be passed up.  I’m not a lover of trail food yet and hate to pass up a hot meal.  The legion atmosphere was nice – friendly people, if a little on the elderly side -and I passed a nice game of 8-ball pool with a fellow named Kurt.  The second game of pool in my life, and I can’t say I fared too well, with four balls left when I Kurt sank his 8-ball.  No matter; I’ve learned to play poker and 8-ball in the past week so I’m making strides.

It seems one great shortcoming of this town is the ratio of men to women here.  For every woman, there’s half a dozen men, and I’ve yet to see a genuinely attractive woman.  Perhaps residents would dispute that, but from what I’ve seen so far there’s not much grounds to deny it.  Perhaps I can ask somebody later tonight – might make a good conversation starter.  If there are any, they sure don’t frequent the bar on a Friday night.  Perhaps it’s only the average women who can handle the tough climates out here.

[Interjection:  Though some of the people whom I write about may read this blog, I pull no punches unless what I have to say might be personally hurtful].

My mind still compares everyone I meet to the woman I dated last summer, and few if any match up.  There was a sexy, intelligent woman and I’ve mised her ever since setting foot on the Greyhound on Thursday.  My major trips of the past year were both with her, one as partners and one merely as friends, and travel for me has become roughly synonymous with her.  It seems blatantly unfair, then, that when we’re both single and I’m ahem, more “open-minded” than at times in the past, that I travel alone. 

There’s a table of older gentleman and as usual, only one elderly woman, right in front of me.  The occupants stagger a little when they stand up – I recognize some of them from the Legion hall earlier, where they got started on the spirits.  One of them, a fellow with kindly eyes and red ball cap came over to say “Hi” and grab a handful of granola earlier, and another has come over three times now, most recently to ask what I’m writing about and then to lean over and try and read it.  I tell him I’m writing about whatever comes to mind – women, the town, my trip, my future, whatever, and he assures me his glasses can’t focus on the words anyway because they’re far-sighted.  Then  he shuffles away again.

It’s loud in here now – the volume is up and the people are getting into the action.  I haven’t seen anybody yet who I’d really be interested in chatting up – mostly rowdy guys gathered around the pool table, so I stay seated.  As further evidence of the unhealthily high ratio of men to women here, two guys stand up, clutching each other as if they want to dance, or maybe they’re just holding each other up, but nothing happens and I soon lose sight of them.

A fellow named Reid comes over and asks me, as he’s working the ATM, “What’s the coolest town you’ve been to?”

“This one,” I reply.  “It’s the only one I’ve been to.”

He’s obviously very drunk.  I beckon him over, and ask, “So is it true what I hear – that there’s no good looking women in Valemount?” 

He looks around before replying, “Well, I haven’t fucked a good looking one yet.”

“Write this down,” he tells me.  “Best line you’ll ever hear (Ha!).  I’ve fucked a lot of women, but I ain’t got no standards.  The only standards I got is they have to be automatic.”  He says this slowly with a slur, and I write it down all right, though I’m hesitant to do so – his words hardly bear repeating.  I only do to point out how far back in the Stone Age some people linger.

Before saying anything to me, he qualified even talking to me by saying, “You are straight, aren’t  you?”  I replied affirmatively because it’s true, but perhaps I should simply have said, “No, you homophobe,” and given him my best look.  Guys will be guys I suppose, and disapproving though I might be, who am I to pass judgement?  I’ve lots to learn yet.

Some more people have entered now, and I think maybe I’ll go for a walk around.

Woah.  Now a fight’s broken out.  I watch with interest – a lone granola crunching bearded figure smirking and scribbling away in the corner.  A table is knocked over as a couple of guys grapple on the floor.  The action is fast and furious, and like a wave, spreads to the other side of the room, where another table tips all its drinks onto the floor.  The waitresses – yes waitresses (Valemount’s equivalent of hockey referees) move in to break things up.  Miraculously, or perhaps not so, the guys break it up and order is soon restored, but it stays rowdy and the waitresses spend about 10 minutes calming things down and re-arranging tables and chairs.  A young woman standing beside me looks at me and says, “Only in Valemount!  I haven’t seen anything like this since the last time I was here!”  It does seem a rowdy place – lots of macho guys strutting around, and a few women watching with amusement, and hopefully, some measure of scorn.

I walk over and ask a couple of fellows if they have any idea what the fight was about, and one of them replies with one word:  “Chelsea.”

I reply, “Yeah?  Figures.”  I have no idea who Chelsea is, but I don’t need to either.  I’m starting to get the pulse of this town.  Well into the evening, everybody’s drunk, there’s been one good fight, loud, energetic music, a six to one guy to girl ratio, and the dance-floor’s empty and hasn’t been used either. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

That’s the end of last night’s journal entry – around midnight I pack up and leave, getting a ride from the shuttle bus to the other side of town where I need to be, though I really don’t need the ride - I’m completely sober.  A fellow in the bus, drunk as punch, says the guy and girl sitting next to me are “all fucked up” but he’s fine.  Then he goes on to accuse the elderly female driver of being a bullshitter and spreading rumours of some sort.  She smiles and turns up the volume as the fellow next to me starts to sing, atrociously. 

I hang around the 24 hour Petro for a while until the drunks have cleared away, and then I head to my campsite – about a 15 minute walk away, though in the blackness of the night it’s a bit of an eerie walk, and completely illogically, my nerves rear up and I start at small noises.  But I make it to my campsite, pitch my tent, brush my teeth, and hope the manager doesn’t show up in the morning to collect his fee.

In the morning, and I wake a little on the late side, late enough to make the walk to Mt. Robson a little daunting time-wise, I head over to the visitor centre where I re-fill the water canister I bought in Squamish last summer.  It’s a piece of shit, really - it leaks when on its side and is plastic lined, but it’ll do for now.  I have some breakfast – trail mix, almond butter on knackebrood, granola, and arrive at the decision not to attempt the long,  hard walk to Mt. Robson, but rather to wait until the Greyhound carrying the rest of the participants arrives in the afternoon.  Given the choice between lounging in the library and coffeeshops or sweating my way to Mt. Robson, I give in and opt to stick around.  I don’t regret it at all – the Kiwa coffeeshop is really nice, cozy and welcoming, and the girls behind the counter disprove the notion that Valemount is lacking in that department.  Perhaps it’s only the bars that come up far short.

Either way, I have a black organic coffee, and we chat pleasantly.  They express a lot of interest in the SLLP, and we talk about some local hikes and things.  As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m headed for lunch right about now.  I’d post some pictures, but not expecting to be able to download them I didn’t bring a USB cable, only a battery charger “just in case.”

I truly think this will be my last post, though I’m making no promises. 

I’ll close with a quotation from my 3rd ever weblog entry:

The Elders say we must let go of the shore, push off
into the middle of the River. Keep our eyes open
and our head above water
See who is there with you and celebrate.
At this time in history we are to take nothing personally,
least of all ourselves. For the moment that we do,
our spiritual growth and journey come to a halt.

Independence. Change. Better environment. Social situation. Space. Friends. Activism. Experience. Transportation. All reasons I’d cite as to why I desperately need a change of living area…

Money. The burden of extraordinary responsibility. The only reasons I can see to stay. I have to hit the sack, but I spoke somewhat heatedly with my dad today, and even he sort of agrees it’d be better for me to go. But the guilt factor….can I really move out now? I might have the best of intentions of being around often enough anyway, but will those materialize given the five courses and lots of other activities I plan to fill up my schedule with this Fall?

Have to put this on the shelf for a while. Not worth thinking about until I return at the end of August.

Something was eatin’ me real bad after work today. I drove today to take the car through AirCare which this little ‘86 Prelude passed with flying colors. Only problem was the thing kept on flying right out of the gates, and not two winks after the test I was slammed with a ~$130 speeding ticket. Still wondering how the hell they managed to point that radar gun through the hedges and houses separating me from their set-up, but no matter. Damage is done.

For whatever reason, there is some satisfaction in taking it stoically. It’s my first ticket for speeding, not for lack of trying mind you, and perhaps it’s petty but I can’t allow the satisfaction of any kind of reaction, so I basically grunt, take the ticket, and move on. At 60km/h.

But that’s not what was eating me. It’s only money, after all, and I haven’t learned to respect that yet; not enough, anyhow. Don’t rightly know what it was, but I fumed all the way home where I decided to keep on going to the Mt. Lehman City Blends to finish Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. Work was slow enough that I read several chapters during the day, and I simply had to finish it off. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Had to be done.

Turned out to be one of the best novels I’ve read. It’s historical fiction, written from the alternating viewpoints of five very different women, four of them the young daughters of a rabidly evangelical Reverend Nathaniel Price who is hell-bent on bringing Jesus Christ to the Congolese people, one person and one village at a time. The fifth is Price’s wife, Orleanna.

The setting is amidst the Congolese fight for independence from Belgium. Price and his family take up a missionary post in Kilanga, where he delivers fiery sermons to the villagers while completely neglecting his family and the customs of the people.

Kingsolver brilliantly brings together the subtleties of the Kilangan tongue with masterful reference to the Bible, capturing the complete incompatibility of the Baptist faith as presented by Price with the villager’s way of life. The personalities she creates are deep and believable, and historical context of the unfolding plot is riveting. The novel starts and ends a bit slow, but this is more than compensated for by the intricately woven plot.

I finished the novel, but what I really wanted to say is a thank-you, to GSR for being there randomly to chat on a rare intellectual as opposed to social plane, and to the young lady behind the counter, both of you for quite literally making my day. To GSR, well, you just rock, and to the young lady, I’ll be back for that Kaila special. You can count on it. (For those who know a Kaila in my life, no, not that one.)

Again, thanks, because I entered there under a black cloud and left with a grin.

And it wasn’t simply the iced hemp milk mocha.

Perhaps it’s time I began thinking about finding a roommate or two. I’ve no problems living at home, as in theory I have plenty of space. In theory. In reality, I have about all the furniture I could possibly want short of some shelving, and the rest of the space is taken up by the odds and ends Papa has accumulated over the years. I would say parents, but that wouldn’t really be fair. My mom is equally opposed to clutter as am I and we typically share a tirade everytime he finds another great deal somewhere.

Bottom line is I’m really tired of having a refrigerator, an old scratching post, an empty dog kennel, and half-functioning air conditioning units all occupying the balcony right outside the main door. The air conditioning unit is a classic example. One day he came home with like three of them, all identical, only to find that the air conditioning part didn’t work; only the air circulation part. So they’re just big fans that take up space. Great.

I walk past that everyday when I come home. Then downstairs are a half dozen half-functioning exercise machines, various chairs, a huge roll of carpet, a rack of dry-clean only clothing boxes of books, and more. This is what doesn’t fit into the storage room. Suffice to say I was elated when we finally disposed of a broken down treadmill a few months back, but that’s where progress stopped and now entering my room involves turning on all the lights so I can see where to walk, and then tip-toeing around the items that line a narrow walkway.

I’m contemplating setting a deadline; that I need to have a clean downstairs hallway area, by say, the end of September, or I’m officially looking for a roommate. That can’t be a bad thing; I can get along with just about anybody, and maybe getting out and having my own place (well, shared place at least) might just galvanize me to be a little more pro-active in some areas of my life.

Anyway, I’ve got some bargaining chips, and we’ll see where it goes in the next couple weeks and then after my trip. As for location, perhaps somewhere close to the University would do, though I think I’d like Mission as well. I even really liked the Okanagan area when I was up there recently. Financially, staying here makes a lot of sense; Papa won’t take my rent, telling me I’m better off investing it which of course I haven’t done, and there’s always some moving costs and things to consider.

Regardless of where I end up, I’m confident that for now, I’ll stay within SalmonNation. This strip of land from California to Alaska where we’re rained on perpetually from October to April and the trees grow so tall that walking the length of their shadow might take 5 or 10 minutes and the waves swoop off the ocean to pile up into the fjord coastlines has been my home for nineteen years, and I’ve no desire to leave.

Yet.

SD’s been writing these long notes on Facebook that have gotten me thinking. Nevermind that it’s 2:43 a.m. – that’s when I write my best stuff anyway. It’s when my inhibitions are dropped and I just spew out whatever comes to mind. She’s been writing about relationships, essentially spilling out the story of the ones she’s been through, displaying a lot of brutal honesty and awareness of the complexity of social relations, not simply bashing her exes but actually getting at the gist of what went wrong and even assigning herself some of the flack where appropriate. SD of course, is dating my brother and may end up being my sister-in-law at some point. I’d not be surprised.

What this all brings to mind is, unlike SD, the dearth of romantic relationships in my life. The one and only that I’ve found myself in was more testing the waters than anything else, just feeling my way around trying to get a handle on this whole relationship thing. Not surprisingly, given my lack of experience with women and her experience level with guys, that one didn’t last long. She’s been seeing various people for the last 6 or 7 years, and as such was at a completely different level than I was. After being together for a short period of time during which we did quite a bit together, we parted ways at her cue, very amiably and with no hard feelings. For that, I’m thankful. Today we’re still good friends, and that is something I value. I’ve never understood how people can allow something as mysterious and unquantifiable as romance, or rather, failed romance, to create an impassable rift between them. You were attracted to each other in the first place, so don’t throw away that connection entirely, surely there’s still value in it. Doing so is allowing pure emotion to dominate, and sometimes you just have to bottle that up, use some logic, and enable yourselves to avoid the heartache and turmoil that come with a bitter, emotionally violent break-up.

So that first relationship didn’t last very long despite all the things we had in common. Perhaps we almost had too much in common. Or I didn’t bring enough that was new to the table – most of what I knew, she knew and then some, with the exception of botanical and naturalistic knowledge. Botanical and naturalistic knowledge – that’s what I gained from those years where I was content to simply ramble the woods on my own. Socially, I didn’t think or act the same way as everybody else. I never really felt comfortable in social situations, and felt most inclined towards solitude. So that’s what I chose, at the expense of cultural and social awareness. I think, also, that the personality traits I struggle with manifested themselves – I can be very self-centred at times, and to include one or multiple other people in my circle of awareness can be difficult. The fact that I have a tendency to be rather scatterbrained and dreamy probably didn’t help much either – a good dose of focus, discipline, drive, and energy would go a long way. Abandoning the path of complacency, the “it’s all good, don’t worry about a thing” and overall lackadaisicallity that I see as hallmarks of my personality could use some re-examination.

She could be considered the latest in a long string of wonderful women to try to drum up a little something extra out of me. Throughout most of high-school I didn’t take much notice of the women around me. Certainly I had the petty infatuations and crushes, but never acted on them, being far too shy and reticent to do that, and even too much so to be receptive to any girls/women who hit on me. Even so, I can remember several girls who seemed to recognize something a little different about me and who expressed curiosity in that, and tried to draw out the stifled personality underneath all the shyness and self-consciousness. Perhaps most obvious was KB, who seemed continually frustrated at my lack of responsiveness. But even that dates way back to times like Bakerview Daycamp, where everyone would gather in a circle for lunch, and I’d be more than content to sit in a corner and eat my lunch, not realizing that this was considered odd behaviour, odd enough for my camp counsellor Mike to come over and see what was the matter. The answer to which was nothing, of course. That was just me, and still is. When the time for athletics came, I’d enthusiastically take part, often outshining most others, but doing so quietly and for the sheer joy of the sport. Throughout grade school, athletics were my social salvation – I hung with the jocks because I was a jock, but again never really became “one of the group” even when I was a star on the team.

Eventually, I lost interest in athletics too though, at least in the strictly competitive side of athletics. I didn’t see the point in the intense training and rigorous schedule required to remain competitive – what was it all in aid of? I didn’t know, so by Gr. 10, I tailed off in that regard, though I’m sure if I’d put in the work by doing weight training and spending spare time in the gym I could have been very successful in at least one of my major sports, be it soccer, basketball, of volleyball. I turned instead to my other major interest, the natural world, for answers and to pass the time. I still played sports, but not like I once did, not with the same passion, with the same sheer love of the game for the sake of the game. I turned also to conservation, in Gr. 11, beginning a period of intense community involvement in environmental groups, even starting my own little StreamKeepers student group, but today, none of that’s enough. Today I’m re-exploring the physical fitness side of things, not for the sake of competition, but for the sake of maximizing the potential of this wonderful body that I’ve been gifted with that is capable of so much and that thrives on exercise and use. The physical, however, isn’t enough anymore. Now I want to do everything all at once – travel, music, writing, singing, physical fitness, activism, dance, school, work, and it simply isn’t possible, but my level of personal development isn’t high enough to allow school and work take up all my time as they currently are.

What this is, in essence, is a lament for unused talent. Underneath, if I can only tap into it, lie incredible reserves of energy and drive and motivation, artistic ability, creative energies that I’m not using. Occasionally, I do, but usually only after some sort of a kick-start, a trip, or intense experience that re-awakens me, after which I generally drift back to every-day habits, being unable to hold onto that more present and aware state of mind which I covet more than anything else. I catch occasional flashes of brilliance that remind me what I’m really capable of, but these rarely last, and lack any kind of unifying force to keep them front and centre.

I’ve hoped for some time now that perhaps some of these issues, which are trivial in comparison to what many people I know face, can be at least partially resolved by a women who sees me and all my shortcomings but also sees how much I care and simply loves me for who I am, no questions asked. It’s what I would do, unconditionally, but as a friend of mine recently reminded me, it’s true that you can’t really love someone if you don’t love yourself. And all things considered, I’m not sure I can truthfully say I love who I am- more often than not, I’m disappointed in my capabilities, in my seeming lack of poise, tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, inability to really see something through to its completion, and at times paralyzing self-consciousness. Whether I admit it or not, the fact remains that often I’m very much influenced by what others will think of what I do or do not do. Can I transcend that or will I continue to allow myself to be held back by the potential for failure and what others will think? But just as much, I need to re-discover the capacity to dream and think big and be ambitious and excited about the future, because it’s been some time since that was the primary determinant of the direction of my life. I’m in charge here, and while I sure as hell could use a women in my life, or even simply a “best friend” as most of the ones I’ve had through grade school have more or less fallen away, that’s in no way an elixir for all that troubles me, and to expect it to be is irrational at best. I feel I have a lot to offer in the way of care and dedication and commitment and loyalty and earnest desire to experience life to the fullest, but not so much in the way of material wealth or discipline and motivation, and the first of those I’m not even sure I care about one iota.

The word “enough” comes to mind. I’d almost say I have enough now. A loving family, enough income to live on even were I on my own, a lap-top, a bike and a car, hiking gear, a tent, books, access to libraries, music, garden space – this is a lot more than many people have, and I’m not unhappy with my material wealth. Where I’m unsatisfied is social wealth – I’ve long recognized my need for greater intellectual stimulation, but everyone’s so fucking busy making ends meet it’s hard to ever get a group together and when you do it takes time to gel. I’ve been hearing rumblings about a cooperative of some sort for some time now, from HH and DM and GG and it’s high time somebody acted on this, took a bold first step, and made something happen. A big step, I know, but I see it as a necessity in the positive sense of the word in today’s world.

Economically, things will not be as easy for us as it was for our parents, and we had better be prepared. Independent living in big suburban houses sustained by corporate jobs is a thing of the past. I’ve a feeling that strong social networks, cooperation, and community support will be essential in tomorrow’s world.

It could be, like, the new fad, man.

I’d like to honour the artwork of some creative, bold, artistic, youth obviously very much in the grip of adolescence.  The gallery was the sidewalk and streetside of Tims Avenue in Abbotsford, where I delivered some pizza, and the audience, God, the sky, and the world.  Admission was gratis and pour votre plaisir, monsieur!  (apologies if I butchered that). 

Chalked on the sidewalk were the following phrases, which I publish here in the aim of airing some healthy adolescent spirit and in the remote chance that one of the authors might stumble across this post through Google and be pleasantly surprised.

“Amanda was here!”

“Jeremiah rocks my world!”

{Flower} Day (with “flower” in illustrated form).

“Amber & Monika 4ever!”

“Steevi Star the Porn Star!”

“Pussypoppin’!”

“God Bless all of us!”

“Be happy, don’t worry about a thing!”

Some would say such phrases are evidence of teens displaying an unhealthy obsession with sexuality at too young an age.  Others might disapprove of what they would call a vulgar expression of it, and they might rather these kids be writing limericks, haikus, or learning ballet.  What I can say unequivocally is that I’ve never been in favor of bottling anything up, and that sexual curiosity is going to be there whether it’s clandestinally kept under wraps or not.  Same argument with swearing – there’s nothing wrong with the swear word itself, it’s merely the expression of a genuine emotion.  If anything, the trick is in not allowing the angry, potentially destructive emotion which is the root of the swear to dominate. 

Would we rather our kids be lounging on couches with one hand on the game controller and the other in a bag of pretzels?  I thought not.

In Beachcombing at Miramar Richard Bode writes of searching for shells with a blemish, because as he sees it, it’s the imperfection that makes perfection. I was blown away at work today to hear this exact idea touched on. One of my co-workers casually mentioned that he liked crooked teeth on a woman, whereupon someone promptly repeated the imperfection making perfection line. Just goes to show how a successful writer doesn’t necessarily have to re-invent the wheel, merely to write down in an interesting and concise way what many people realize anyway.

On a completely different note, here’s some food for thought:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh…”
from On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Suffered through a staff meeting today. My manager’s been hinting lately that to date I’ve conducted myself much as my brother did when he started with this company, and that in a couple of years I could well be managing one of the stores. (had a typo earlier – “managing the stars” – perhaps a more suitable vocation). My tacit and tentative response to that? Fiddlesticks and balderdash – I’d sooner go milk cows or something than spend fifty hours in one of those stores. Besides, I can’t even slap a decent pizza yet, and with my hands so dry already I don’t fancy dusting them with cornflower every shift – and it is the manager’s responsibility to do a good deal of the slapping.  After the meeting, I toodled on over to the City Blends next door and browsed through the Alive magazine I picked up at Herbs & Health Foods in WestOaks yesterday, and then on an impulse went up the Cedar Valley Connector to see if I could access the creek which I know tumbles under it. I forget the name of the creek just now, but do recall that there were issues with streamside protection when the Connector was put in a few years back now. After cruising around for a bit, with the volume on my car stereo cranked up so I can’t hear my constant-velocity, or CV, shaft creaking ominously around every left turn, I do find a little cul-de-sac backing onto a greenbelt which I figure leads down to the creek, and it does, so before long I find myself perched as I so often have been over the past years, on the bank of a free-flowing little urban creek. Thoreau once asked himself what business he had in the woods if his thoughts were not of them, and I’d echo this, as my thoughts centered more around the time I’m taking off work to get my car fixed after March 10. Clutch a-slipping, CV shaft a-creaking, clutch pedal a-squeaking, unknown belt a-squealing, radio not a-radioing, light and time clock not displaying, and water a-wetting where it ain’t supposed to.

Descending the ravine, I noticed that Pacific Bleeding Heart forbs are emerging from the wintry, leaf-strewn ground, and recalled past years where one of my primary pre-occupations after school would be to canvas the surrounding woods to observe the progression of the season. My Gr. 11 and 12 years, when most of my peers were pre-occupied with who knows what – first jobs, first driver’s licenses, for some their first cars, first relationships, sexual experimentation, doing the party circuit, maybe trying out hallucinogens for the first time – I’d be content to simply head for the hills when the bell rang. I taught myself the Latin names of all the native plants, took the neighbour’s dog for long walks, dabbled in some amateur nature photography, brought along a journal to record my thoughts and observations, and generally basked in social obscurity, only making half-hearted attempts at best to associate with most of the people in my grad class. Good people, most of them, with their personal ambitions, hopes for the future – to embark on their careers, begin their own families, or simply travel and see the world. But they didn’t interest me, not beyond the occasional, hidden and stifled, infatuation with a pretty girl, at least not half so much as did the open woods and my garden. Today I was quite pleased to find I still recalled the Latin name for Pacific Bleeding Heart – Dicentra formosa – without having to look it up.

Subsequently I nearly skewered myself on a Devil’s Club – Oploplanax horridus if memory serves me correctly – a plant treasured by First Nations people for its many medicinal uses. I’ve heard that some people have horrible allergic reactions to Devil’s Club when pricked by it, and I’ve always half wanted to try it. So far however, I’ve always managed to avoid it, and never had the nerve to deliberately puncture myself too see the results. If you’ve seen the plant and it’s spikes, you’d know why.

Was it perhaps Windebank – the name of the creek? Looked like decent salmon habitat. Not long now until the hummingbirds return – usually around mid-March. Perhaps also, this year, I’ll find the time to be gathering wild stinging nettle as a potherb as I used to do (to strange looks from parkgoers, admittedly).

Strange looks from others are one of the rewards of life. Evidence that you’re on the right track.

My final delivery of the night – probably # 11 or 12. The order is taken late, about 5 minutes before closing time. A ham, beef, pineapple medium pizza with a couple of cheesy breads, a 2L of Coke, and a few ranch dips. My manager, who took the order, says something about loving those guys, and that they’re in a basement suite with a glass sliding door. I see what she means when I arrive at the address. I’m still fishtailing wildly on these little sidestreets – the rain hasn’t overcome the snow just yet and I enjoy the sensation so I don’t bother slowing down. The kid is waiting for me on the front lawn. I’m a little late, as I have the wrong address on my ticket and missed a turn because my mind was elsewhere. The name on the ticket is Parker, and the kid definitely resembles a Parker. Baseball cap pulled sideways, and a bit of a defiant, yet downcast look in his eyes.

I follow him to the back of the house, where I step through the open glass door. I wonder, do these kids live on their own here? But no; in the back corner of the room some pillows are arranged into the form of a bed, and a middle-age man is huddled there. I assume he’s the father. He observes me, but doesn’t say anything. In the other corner, in front of a small television screen is a woman with curly black hair. The mother. Or perhaps one of them is a step-parent.  Whatever the case, neither of them respond to my polite question about how their evening is going.

I give the boys their total – roughly $30.00. The woman mutters something about $30.00 for a pizza. Parker replies that there’s 2 cheesy breads too, and besides, what does it matter since he’s paying for it. He gives me $40.00, and I give them their change, which the boys quickly split. Money is precious to them.

The man hasn’t spoken, but continues to observe me as I make ready to leave. The woman nods goodbye to me – it’s a furtive, hesitant glance. She’s uncomfortable; embarrassed; disapproving. Says (the boys) must have a bigger bank account than she does. I grab my heatwave bag, and leave the family to their food, wishing with all my heart that they enjoy it to the fullest. The boys tipped $3.00 – an extravagance they can ill afford. On the drive back, I’m ashamed to have taken it. I’m angry, too. I make record time back to the store, going close to if not over 100km/h on Maclure as I reflect on the scene. I’m angry at how the boys are growing up, having to confront the hard economic realities at such a young age. Angry that the parents must live in poverty, still, with little hope to improve their lot in life. Angry at myself for taking the tip. Angry at my culture for accepting this. Where were the neighbours when the family moved in? Did anybody say, “hi, so we’re neighbours now, eh? My name’s so and so – want to come over for dinner one night?”

I’m glad I’m a delivery driver. I’ve lived a privileged life; a comfortable middle-class existence. Always food on the table and dependable family. I don’t want to live in ignorance of the poverty, the homelessness, the addictions, the struggles so many are going through. As I drive, I vow to do what I can to help. I may be only one person, but a community is composed of many individuals all doing their part. I have an elderly friend from the local naturalist’s club who brings big pots of soup to the youth shelter. I don’t have any youthful friends who do the same, unfortunately. All this reminds me of a poignant saying I saw on the fridge at a friend’s grandparent’s place a few years back.

Paraphrased, it goes: “Observing all the street people in poverty, I asked God, ‘How can you accept this? Why don’t you do something about it?’ God replied, ‘I did do something: I made you.’”

I’m not religious; I have some vague and undefined spiritual notions, but I do reject the argument that some of my friends offer that they’re not Christian because Christians are so hypocritical. One pointed out that if Jesus were here today, he’d be downtown at Five Corners helping the hookers. Fair enough – seems to be a pretty damn good reason to be a Christian to me. Don’t judge Christianity by Christians; judge it by Christ.

One lonely, contemplative, reserved, broke, confused pizza delivering environmentalist student cyclist signing out and hitting the sack.