Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Hermit Gone Gypsy
As an intermission from Toronto's Hermit, you can see what is happening on the road HERE!
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
No phone.
Papa Watson:
Lauren, I think we should get you an Iphone.
Me:
No, dad, I don't need one of those.
Papa Watson:
But what if you are in the middle of nowhere?!
Me:
Thats the idea...I will still be in the middle of nowhere.
Lauren, I think we should get you an Iphone.
Me:
No, dad, I don't need one of those.
Papa Watson:
But what if you are in the middle of nowhere?!
Me:
Thats the idea...I will still be in the middle of nowhere.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Why we need to Occupy.
On august 22nd 2011, I stood on the tiles of
Nathan Philips square, and I watched a city mourn a man who stood for change.
Jack Layton’s death was a loss for our country and for our government.
Thousands joined in solidarity, writing chalky messages about continuing on
Jack’s mission and being the change they so wish to see in the world. On
November 12th, I stood again on the tiles. “ Come Join us!” the
group leader shouted. She was surrounded by a seated circle of individuals who
strongly believed in the occupation of St James park. There were about (and I’m
being generous) 40 of them. “JOIN US!” She called again. But the surrounding
journalists, police and passersby stood fast, leaving the small group to their
own devices of chanting for change, and cheering for their right to occupy a
park in their city and debate on what needs to happen to make this world work
better.
The woman holding the loudspeaker educated the mass on the
history of the bank of Canada and the route of our need for change. I spent
most of that time looking, with difficulty, for angles of the group that would
emphasize ‘mass’. But I did not join.
Earlier in the day, in St. James Park, Eviction notes had
gone up. The park was alive with people of all colours and consorts whispering
about the happenings of the occupation and what could happen to save it. I
wandered the park, amazed at the sheer number of tents that were occupying the
park. A aged and warn down woman stood in the street with a sign asking passing
traffic for support, as cars and trucks swerved to avoid her. Getting further inside I passed the gazebo of what looked
like homeless and ‘hippie’ youth who were playing bongos. The majority of those
I passed held cameras though, sheepishly smiling and circulating the site. I
went to the law tent where individuals where men in suits and jackets
discussing arrests and possible outcomes of a stand off. I creeped into the
library where I eavesdropped a conversation between the dusty monitor and a
well-kept student on what is currently the largest cause of human death
globally. I snooped around the aboriginal tents and the gathering
circles of park inhabitants. My observations amounted to an admiration for the
power of putting people in one place.
It reminded me of my university experience in some ways… but instead of
just seeing a group of similarly aged, privileged Anglo Saxons, the worldly
discussions were weaved between classes and races and ideals.
I spoke with three individuals in the park. A school
teacher, a Ryerson student and a woman who had just come from supporting the
Vancouver occupation. Each had a unique idea about what could happen next.
“ This is the planters wart of the city” the teacher said. “
We have deep roots here now. This is the only way we can change”. I begged on,
asking him what will happen if the eviction goes though, but he could not
answer me. “ It is the rainbow. Unless we are all together, living eating and
breathing, we cannot see the world together.” Could there be a more civil
location allocated for weekly discussions and meetings? But he shook his head,
no.
The Ryerson student agreed, having friends living in the
space but only visiting, herself. She felt that the positive energy and access
to information and discussion in the park would be crucial to progressive
changes in governing bodies. But her wide eyes and innocent smile left me
feeling like her idealism might not save the world.
I started up discussion with the third woman after taking
her picture and being embarrassed that she saw. She was smiling and watching
the space. She explained that in Vancouver, the media unfairly represented the
march because of 5 people in black facemasks, but for anyone who was there,
there was such a positive energy. We discussed the finer points of media
disparagement of the movement. “ But its working” she smiled and she was right.
People like us might never be discussing this issue if it hadn’t been for the
obscurity of the movement. It is creating interest.
Many have argued that the occupy movement has no place in
Toronto, we are lucky, because of Canada’s privatized banking system we were
not left in the same position as the USA at the end of the recession. We have
socialized healthcare. Many of the occupiers must just be lazy bums or students
with too much time on their hands. Columnists have philosophized about a lack
of financial education, poor choices, idealistic and entitled hippies and lazy
youth. And yet I feel as though there is a bigger message here, one that is
seldom addressed properly.
Solidarity. It is not that we have it bad. It is that we
know, as a whole, things could be better. It is the acknowledgment that human
civilization must work as a whole to make a fair and sustainable future. The
occupy movement is about people stepping down and acknowledging that life is
going to have to change for everyone. Even if that means most of us wont be as
comfortable for a while, we are looking to the powers that be to help us take
those steps. To lead us.
It is a big job, as Jeremy Rifkin states in his RSA talk on
the empathetic civilization. With evidence that humans are soft wired with
mirror neurons, we understand that empathy is a cultural phenomenon, perhaps
our next evolution is to extend our empathy to the entire human race. An
empathetic civilization is the ground work of successful globalization and a
productive and sustainable global community. Perhaps the an occupation is our
next prerogative as a species; to balance the imperatives of globalization, the
ideal of universalism and the empathic capacities of communities affected by
change merely by re engaging with our democratic rights.
I cringed as the mob marched to city hall, slandering Ford
and arguing over loud speakers. I watched the masses of homeward bound city
workers and white collars crowd in doorways sneering or cheer for the rowdy
troublemakers passing by. And then I stood, observing a small group of
concerned citizens begged the public to join in, to be concerned with them, and
we alienated them. They were the 1% of Toronto who was representing the whole
of concerned citizens, and it was a misrepresentation.
My question is, what if we joined in the conversation? What
if for just one day we went down and talked to our fellow voters, about change,
about ideals about the future possibilities for our country? What if that
discussion was actually available to the public, the familiarization with every
viewpoint? Perhaps it would no longer just be the commited hippies, perhaps it
would become the global conscience.
As the rains and cold weather washed away our chalk promises
to Jack Layton’s ideals, the city continued on with daily life. Why would those
same people not support a movement that called for an inclusive discussion of
our country’s future?
We are comfortable, that is for sure and if you live in Canada,
even if you are living on the street, you are part of the 1%, and with that
power we have the responsibility to participate.
“ Until the great mass of the people shall be filled with
the sense of responsibility for each other’s welfare, social justice can never
be attained.” – Helen Keller
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Precision of Passion
" Writing is, for most, laborious and slow. The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make the occasional wing shot, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by. A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in the blind for something to come in, sometimes roaming the countryside hoping to scare something up. Like other gunners, the writer must cultivate patience, working many covers to bring down one partridge. "
Through examples of Hemingway and Faulkner, The Elements of Style illuminates the English language. A book which, 5 years ago, I would have considered so dry and fruitless that I would never have picked up on my own, and would have scoffed at under academic rule. Writing has always been easy for me, but grammar has not. The same way i can live in watercolour but suffer under the duress of a technical pen.
Throughout my education I have been taught to hold a paintbrush, to see negative space, and to emphasize through colour or tone. Never have I ever been privileged to an interest in language. So here is the new chapter of my personal growth I guess, this might even be a sign of artistic maturity.
Yahoo!
- The Elements of Style by William Strunk jr. and E.B. White ( p. 69)
Through examples of Hemingway and Faulkner, The Elements of Style illuminates the English language. A book which, 5 years ago, I would have considered so dry and fruitless that I would never have picked up on my own, and would have scoffed at under academic rule. Writing has always been easy for me, but grammar has not. The same way i can live in watercolour but suffer under the duress of a technical pen.
Throughout my education I have been taught to hold a paintbrush, to see negative space, and to emphasize through colour or tone. Never have I ever been privileged to an interest in language. So here is the new chapter of my personal growth I guess, this might even be a sign of artistic maturity.
Yahoo!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Hamor Blee Das.
So, a Rabi brings 9 Jews to go ziplining one day.
No, this is not the beginning of a joke, it is the beginning of a life- changing story.
Myself and my co-worker began our day as usual, setting up and welcoming the group of 10 to our 'zip extreme' site. They were all smiles and excitement, getting harnessed up and ready. The men ranged in age, mid 20s to mid 50s, with the oldest of them being their Rabi.
We taught the group how to set up to rappel, we coached them over the edge and one by one the men giggled and panted their way down the cliff. Most of them were quite nervous but extremely enthusiastic. Once the crew were comfortable on the ropes we went to set up the zip.
The structure of the course is to attach clients to the zip line in the same way that they would have been attached to the rappel. They hold their own ropes and run off the edge of the cliff. With a microsecond delay, their rope catches their weight and they zip out across the river, lowering themselves down into the water at their own speed.
Usually this event is what the industry refers to as " challenge by choice" meaning individuals feel no outside pressure to participate in all the activities. Consequently, many people end up roping up only to walk to the end, gasp and spend 10- 15 minutes deciding whether or not they can force themselves off. Sometimes they ask us to push them, sometimes they bum slide off the rocky edge and occasionally they decline the experience.
On this particular day, the first gentleman was set up and before we could instruct the him on how to run, the Rabi leaned over from the sidelines " Okay so you are ready?" the gentleman nodded. " Are you nervous?" the gentleman says " yes, Rabi, I don't think I can do this". The Rabi then talked the man backwards, asked him about the systems in place, did he trust the ropes? yes. Did he trust his set up? the gentleman squeezed his carabiners and looked at me for approval and then said yes.
" okay, so logistically you are safe. Is your fear logical?" the gentleman shook his head, no.
" what you have done in this situation, my friend, is you have acknowledged that you are safe. What you are about to do is safe, your fear is irrational. Now what you have to do, is let go of your mind. your mind's role is done, it checked the system, it chose the action, now its time for your heart to take over."
"Now what have you chosen?" The rabi asked the man.Leaving me confused and wondering what kind of choice he really had at the moment.
"Hamor Blee das" exclaimed the man. The Rabi smiled " great, great choice. Now think about your wife, think about your kids, think about anything but the edge... and go".
With that the man charged the edge of the cliff firing himself airborne over the gorge. The rope pulled tight and he was off, chanting a psalm which I might never know.
I turned to the others beside me as we were pulling the ropes back in and asked what ' hamor blee das' represented. " it is a piece of scripture" one explained. " it means ' to be a donkey with blinders on'".
I was shocked as each of the men had similar pep talks and for the first time in my experience with zip lines, not one person hesitated at the edge. Some men even asked for more slack in the rope, prolonging their initial freefall, therefore challenging their fears even more. These men were exercising their trust, their fear and their will power through their faith. They were learning to let go of thier mind, learning when they do not need their rationalizing hemispheres.
Do the task at hand. Become a donkey with blinders on.
This is the very same exercise I have been studying and trying so hard to harness over the past few years, through kayaking and climbing. It is the art of meditation, of quieting the mind during activity. How can you possibly clip a bolt or climb above pro without over gripping. How can you let yourself exist in the moment you are in, perform under pressure or circumstances that you cannot control.
Perhaps it is a form of meditation, something which each person experiences differently. Alex Honnold experiences it by free- soloing half dome. Even then there was a moment when all of his talismans against fear disapated and he was stuck for some time on a ledge, trying to reconstruct his " Hamor Blee Das".
As the day went on, each of the men soared across the gorge chanting and mediating and finding ways to allow themselves to charge the unknown. It was ridiculous to the untrained eye and inspiring for anyone who has ever searched themselves for the strength to overcome irrational fears. I had never given religion the credit of experiential learning like this.
Mazel tof, boys.
No, this is not the beginning of a joke, it is the beginning of a life- changing story.
Myself and my co-worker began our day as usual, setting up and welcoming the group of 10 to our 'zip extreme' site. They were all smiles and excitement, getting harnessed up and ready. The men ranged in age, mid 20s to mid 50s, with the oldest of them being their Rabi.
We taught the group how to set up to rappel, we coached them over the edge and one by one the men giggled and panted their way down the cliff. Most of them were quite nervous but extremely enthusiastic. Once the crew were comfortable on the ropes we went to set up the zip.
The structure of the course is to attach clients to the zip line in the same way that they would have been attached to the rappel. They hold their own ropes and run off the edge of the cliff. With a microsecond delay, their rope catches their weight and they zip out across the river, lowering themselves down into the water at their own speed.
Usually this event is what the industry refers to as " challenge by choice" meaning individuals feel no outside pressure to participate in all the activities. Consequently, many people end up roping up only to walk to the end, gasp and spend 10- 15 minutes deciding whether or not they can force themselves off. Sometimes they ask us to push them, sometimes they bum slide off the rocky edge and occasionally they decline the experience.
On this particular day, the first gentleman was set up and before we could instruct the him on how to run, the Rabi leaned over from the sidelines " Okay so you are ready?" the gentleman nodded. " Are you nervous?" the gentleman says " yes, Rabi, I don't think I can do this". The Rabi then talked the man backwards, asked him about the systems in place, did he trust the ropes? yes. Did he trust his set up? the gentleman squeezed his carabiners and looked at me for approval and then said yes.
" okay, so logistically you are safe. Is your fear logical?" the gentleman shook his head, no.
" what you have done in this situation, my friend, is you have acknowledged that you are safe. What you are about to do is safe, your fear is irrational. Now what you have to do, is let go of your mind. your mind's role is done, it checked the system, it chose the action, now its time for your heart to take over."
"Now what have you chosen?" The rabi asked the man.Leaving me confused and wondering what kind of choice he really had at the moment.
"Hamor Blee das" exclaimed the man. The Rabi smiled " great, great choice. Now think about your wife, think about your kids, think about anything but the edge... and go".
With that the man charged the edge of the cliff firing himself airborne over the gorge. The rope pulled tight and he was off, chanting a psalm which I might never know.
I turned to the others beside me as we were pulling the ropes back in and asked what ' hamor blee das' represented. " it is a piece of scripture" one explained. " it means ' to be a donkey with blinders on'".
I was shocked as each of the men had similar pep talks and for the first time in my experience with zip lines, not one person hesitated at the edge. Some men even asked for more slack in the rope, prolonging their initial freefall, therefore challenging their fears even more. These men were exercising their trust, their fear and their will power through their faith. They were learning to let go of thier mind, learning when they do not need their rationalizing hemispheres.
Do the task at hand. Become a donkey with blinders on.
This is the very same exercise I have been studying and trying so hard to harness over the past few years, through kayaking and climbing. It is the art of meditation, of quieting the mind during activity. How can you possibly clip a bolt or climb above pro without over gripping. How can you let yourself exist in the moment you are in, perform under pressure or circumstances that you cannot control.
Perhaps it is a form of meditation, something which each person experiences differently. Alex Honnold experiences it by free- soloing half dome. Even then there was a moment when all of his talismans against fear disapated and he was stuck for some time on a ledge, trying to reconstruct his " Hamor Blee Das".
As the day went on, each of the men soared across the gorge chanting and mediating and finding ways to allow themselves to charge the unknown. It was ridiculous to the untrained eye and inspiring for anyone who has ever searched themselves for the strength to overcome irrational fears. I had never given religion the credit of experiential learning like this.
Mazel tof, boys.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Talk is cheap.
Monsters of Folk- baby boomers.
If I was ever premiere…
Ontario, I do not want to give you what you want. I want to give you what you need.
Like with all good things in life, change its not going to be pretty, easy or all together enjoyable, but if I can have your faith and your support we can do this together, and I will make a government that will support your efforts.
I am not here to sell myself. This is a debate. Last time I checked, debates were discussions about what should happen next. My platform will change, just as each and every other candidates here… but you should already know that by now. Just take a look at the history of politics.
So please let me bend your ear. Yes, this might burn.
In the same way your children’s body fat will burn away. We will promote healthy eating, healthy snacks in schools, tax cuts for after school programs that are outside or active, and most importantly education for expecting parents and emphasis on healthy diets. Maybe we will make some harder hits, now that smoking education has been around for a long time maybe smoking related cancer will not be covered, maybe adulthood obesity will not be covered ( if not clinical). Maybe there will be some hard hits slowly phased in to remind people that they must work on themselves, we must be hard on ourselves. We are in challenging times.
Maybe those on welfare will have to volunteer their time in order to maintain it. Maybe EI will be more demanding on its recipients. No more free hand outs, I have never seen that be a success.
Entitlement is a black hole.
Entitlement is a black hole.
Seniors who are concerned about their pensions? You will be taken care of, as long as you are still contributing as much as you are able. If you are not able we will not let you fall though. Our generation knows now that those promises of yesterday are no longer realistic for tomorrow, so lets be pragmatic together.
Energy.
I will not cut your bill, but I will educate you on how to cut it yourself: use less water, turn your lights off. I will give you credits for retrofitting.Tax cuts for bikers. Education and resources will be made available.
I will do the ndp thing of cutting corporate tax to companies who show devotion to Ontario workers. None other.
We all have to work on this, its not in my hands as much as it is in yours.
Dear Candidates,
Ontario does not need a salesman, nor a popularity contest. Ontario needs a leader.
Someone to stand up and turn a mirror on the people- Be the change you want to see.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Entitlement
Now.
That is an interesting term. So very relevant in today's society. I was walking down bloor street after a lovely dinner with a thought provoking boy. The boy was nice enough to buy me dinner so when I was waiting to meet him ( him on subway, I on bike) at Bathurst station for the next part of our adventure, I was inclined to talk to a woman on the side of the sidewalk. She was asking for change. She was asking for a quarter. I offered her a meal of her choice. I had been planning to pay for a salad and 2 beers and I figured I owed a karma payment plan at least that much.
Its funny though. She asked for the most expensive thing on the menu, and a coca cola to boot. I was shocked. Why? well mostly because usually when someone offers me something I decline, or take as little as possible, ideally. When I offered this woman some food she requested a 12 dollar meal. I obliged and the night went on as planned. I told the woman how much her platter cost and she answered " well, I was really hungry dear. " when I asked her if she wanted to go inside and eat the meal with me, she replied" Im actually on a monetary schedule right now, I cannot leave the street. Oh! and can you get it in a bag? I am going to eat it at home".
On further inspection I found that this woman lives on the lake shore, she only comes up to bath and bloor when she "needs more money".
So why was I turned off? because after I offered she asked for more. What gives her the right eh? to ask for more than I offer.
I considered for a second I don't buy meat for myself, why should I buy meat for someone else. She should be eating vegetarian, she should be eating on a plate! but then I remembered that I am one of those lucky few who have the privileged to worry about the environment. She is probably not. But i did not get the full story...
Entitlement is something I desperately want to explore more.
How can a kid who has just graduated university consider themselves entitled to go on EI and ski for 5 years?
How is that different from an un-enthused person on welfare who asks for more and more when the government offers?
Is a pan handler deserving of welfare?
What happens when more than 50% of the system are takers and less are givers?
Unions!?
Entitlement. I want to burn the word. I think we would all be better off without that sentiment. But we all feel it at some point, I suppose. Survival instinct, eat as much as you can while the eating is good. I know I felt it when I was trying to make a living in Canmore. However it takes a removed ego to go through with accepting charity.
So what are we all deserving of?
Another chance, an ear to speak into, a chance to return the favor.
Maybe we just are not giving each other that chance to fend for themselves, or maybe there are those who feel entitled not to take it.
The sky will spin again.
More adventures to come.
No pictures for this one, sorry. Her name was Pat.
That is an interesting term. So very relevant in today's society. I was walking down bloor street after a lovely dinner with a thought provoking boy. The boy was nice enough to buy me dinner so when I was waiting to meet him ( him on subway, I on bike) at Bathurst station for the next part of our adventure, I was inclined to talk to a woman on the side of the sidewalk. She was asking for change. She was asking for a quarter. I offered her a meal of her choice. I had been planning to pay for a salad and 2 beers and I figured I owed a karma payment plan at least that much.
Its funny though. She asked for the most expensive thing on the menu, and a coca cola to boot. I was shocked. Why? well mostly because usually when someone offers me something I decline, or take as little as possible, ideally. When I offered this woman some food she requested a 12 dollar meal. I obliged and the night went on as planned. I told the woman how much her platter cost and she answered " well, I was really hungry dear. " when I asked her if she wanted to go inside and eat the meal with me, she replied" Im actually on a monetary schedule right now, I cannot leave the street. Oh! and can you get it in a bag? I am going to eat it at home".
On further inspection I found that this woman lives on the lake shore, she only comes up to bath and bloor when she "needs more money".
So why was I turned off? because after I offered she asked for more. What gives her the right eh? to ask for more than I offer.
I considered for a second I don't buy meat for myself, why should I buy meat for someone else. She should be eating vegetarian, she should be eating on a plate! but then I remembered that I am one of those lucky few who have the privileged to worry about the environment. She is probably not. But i did not get the full story...
Entitlement is something I desperately want to explore more.
How can a kid who has just graduated university consider themselves entitled to go on EI and ski for 5 years?
How is that different from an un-enthused person on welfare who asks for more and more when the government offers?
Is a pan handler deserving of welfare?
What happens when more than 50% of the system are takers and less are givers?
Unions!?
Entitlement. I want to burn the word. I think we would all be better off without that sentiment. But we all feel it at some point, I suppose. Survival instinct, eat as much as you can while the eating is good. I know I felt it when I was trying to make a living in Canmore. However it takes a removed ego to go through with accepting charity.
So what are we all deserving of?
Another chance, an ear to speak into, a chance to return the favor.
Maybe we just are not giving each other that chance to fend for themselves, or maybe there are those who feel entitled not to take it.
The sky will spin again.
More adventures to come.
No pictures for this one, sorry. Her name was Pat.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Today I took a big step.
I approached a man I did not know and I talked with him, interviewed him, took photos of him.
This was not a big step because of our conversation but, instead, because I approached him, not the other way around. It took me nearly an hour, sitting on the lawn of the metropolitan united church in the heart of downtown Toronto; Here I was, little white girl with a big black camera crouched beneath a tree trying to suss out a good subject. There was one gentleman pacing around the space, circling near his shopping cart full of bags and suitcases. I thought for a while that he was the one, but when he finally sat down he began scratching himself under the shirt, back of the pants, on the belly... I started to have second thoughts about getting too close.
It is surprising how intimidating people in a park can be. You are either looking at the under privileged of the city, the hospital workers on lunch, or the rebellion. I wanted so badly to walk up to the chess players and ask them questions, but once again, there were many and I was few. Eventually I noticed a man sitting on the other side of the park. He was nearly a shadow; long black hair streaked with grey from age and a thin figure leaned against large roller suitcase. He seemed to be watching nothing in particular, just calmly observing life in the park. Stories were seeping from his aura. When I smiled at him I had no response, which in my opinion was better than a negative one, so I approached.
The exhilaration was almost too much for me as I sat down in front of him and introduced myself, asking his name. " Where are you going?" I prompted, pointing at his suitcase. "nowhere" he smiled, "I will be here for a while". Meanwhile, a large number of wasps surrounding me changing the tone of my excitement. " Geez, popular place for wasps eh?" I laughed. He calmly pointed " you are sitting on food" I jumped up, revealing a pile of chicken bones under my camera bag. " ha, oh boy" I covered my embarrassment. The man must have been covering too, because there wasn't even a hint of entertainment in his eyes, only sympathy.
We got on, talking about his life, his work, the places that he has lived. He was a photographer once, he traveled all over the world photographing artists, musicians, politicians, he was very well known. Javid spent the past 2 decades, almost, in southern Ontario though. " I love the big city, the opportunity, the geography" He said, smiling. The first thing he wanted to do when he arrived in a city was establish himself, establish which direction the streets went and how he can get around.
We talked about cameras, him reminding me that even with technology, a good photographer captures the life of the subject, not everyone can do that. You must capture the essence of a scene in order to really be a photography, the essence of a subject matter in one shot. Our conversation made me nervous as I was still hoping to shoot a couple of him.
We discussed weather. How in his home country, Iran, There are no shadows at noon. But here in Canada we always have shadows. From a photographer to a computer programmer, Javid walks around and is always programming in his mind. Even without a computer, as he currently is, he is still programming.
It makes you wonder about the hard wiring in people, how similar we are to computers. here you have this man, sitting in a park, completely open to the experiences which approach him, and you have this girl, completely oblivious to the experiences that are occurring to her.
At the end of our conversation I asked Javid if I could take his picture. he looked hesitant so I told him it would only be for my personal development, taking photos of strangers. He agreed. I gave him my camera too so he could try it out, he did and I think I can post that photo for this story if nothing else.
Anyways, this was written quickly. But consider it just the beginning. there will be much more to come.
I approached a man I did not know and I talked with him, interviewed him, took photos of him.
This was not a big step because of our conversation but, instead, because I approached him, not the other way around. It took me nearly an hour, sitting on the lawn of the metropolitan united church in the heart of downtown Toronto; Here I was, little white girl with a big black camera crouched beneath a tree trying to suss out a good subject. There was one gentleman pacing around the space, circling near his shopping cart full of bags and suitcases. I thought for a while that he was the one, but when he finally sat down he began scratching himself under the shirt, back of the pants, on the belly... I started to have second thoughts about getting too close.
It is surprising how intimidating people in a park can be. You are either looking at the under privileged of the city, the hospital workers on lunch, or the rebellion. I wanted so badly to walk up to the chess players and ask them questions, but once again, there were many and I was few. Eventually I noticed a man sitting on the other side of the park. He was nearly a shadow; long black hair streaked with grey from age and a thin figure leaned against large roller suitcase. He seemed to be watching nothing in particular, just calmly observing life in the park. Stories were seeping from his aura. When I smiled at him I had no response, which in my opinion was better than a negative one, so I approached.
The exhilaration was almost too much for me as I sat down in front of him and introduced myself, asking his name. " Where are you going?" I prompted, pointing at his suitcase. "nowhere" he smiled, "I will be here for a while". Meanwhile, a large number of wasps surrounding me changing the tone of my excitement. " Geez, popular place for wasps eh?" I laughed. He calmly pointed " you are sitting on food" I jumped up, revealing a pile of chicken bones under my camera bag. " ha, oh boy" I covered my embarrassment. The man must have been covering too, because there wasn't even a hint of entertainment in his eyes, only sympathy.
 |
| Wasps and bones |
We got on, talking about his life, his work, the places that he has lived. He was a photographer once, he traveled all over the world photographing artists, musicians, politicians, he was very well known. Javid spent the past 2 decades, almost, in southern Ontario though. " I love the big city, the opportunity, the geography" He said, smiling. The first thing he wanted to do when he arrived in a city was establish himself, establish which direction the streets went and how he can get around.
We talked about cameras, him reminding me that even with technology, a good photographer captures the life of the subject, not everyone can do that. You must capture the essence of a scene in order to really be a photography, the essence of a subject matter in one shot. Our conversation made me nervous as I was still hoping to shoot a couple of him.
We discussed weather. How in his home country, Iran, There are no shadows at noon. But here in Canada we always have shadows. From a photographer to a computer programmer, Javid walks around and is always programming in his mind. Even without a computer, as he currently is, he is still programming.
It makes you wonder about the hard wiring in people, how similar we are to computers. here you have this man, sitting in a park, completely open to the experiences which approach him, and you have this girl, completely oblivious to the experiences that are occurring to her.
At the end of our conversation I asked Javid if I could take his picture. he looked hesitant so I told him it would only be for my personal development, taking photos of strangers. He agreed. I gave him my camera too so he could try it out, he did and I think I can post that photo for this story if nothing else.
Anyways, this was written quickly. But consider it just the beginning. there will be much more to come.
 |
| A long way to go, little journalist, a long way to go. |
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Stranger.
So perhaps I have not been keeping my promise. Bagging one good identity a week is proving difficult , when I myself am in a new place every 4 days or less. I tend to be the stranger, the one looking to tell stories and share times.
Today I was lucky though.
I walked into the Cornerstone Cafe shortly before your average dinner time. Collapsing at the bar, my dear friend and server brought me a water. I could feel the stickiness long days work being cooled from inside out with each sip of the icey beverage. It wasn't long before I was lost in space.
The man next to me spoke very quietly, if it weren't for the lack of other ears, I would never have thought he was tugging on mine.
"where have I seen you before?" To look straight in his eyes was to look into another world. He had dark skin, short, well trimmed curly black hair and a striped shirt pinned him as a professional. I would have tagged him as at least mid thirties." um, I don't know, perhaps at the elora gorge? I am a zip line instructor there..." I roll off, but he doesn't even notice. " was it planet bean?"
I shot that out of the air, never having been to the bean.
" Not many people are so polite, I am tempted to ask you to go get a behr with me" he whispers again.
Usually this could be played off as a creepy old man comment, but there was something genuine about this one. He was looking for a friend. " I ignored his request and went on to say that I was here just to visit my friend Ali, we used to be roommates." On cue Ali walked over with two empty pint glasses, filling them for a table outside. " Ali" called the man.
She looked up startled.
"Hello, I only know your name because she just mentioned it" Between the thick accent and the muffler through which this man spoke it was surprising either of us could hear anything at all. She smiled and continued with her work. He turned back to me.
"in my country, we do not wave. we do not even just shake hands. we share. Like this. "
With that, the man extended his hand to me, clutching the wrist with his other. I followed suit, standing up and bowing my head as we shook. " do you miss your home country?" I asked.
Yes, yes he did. He missed the community and the culture. But he was ever grateful for Canada, and how blessed his family is here. The opportunities really are endless.
Nagey is from ethiopia. In his country, no one would ever order a meal alone, nor even drink a coffee. Everything must be shared. I could see in his eyes that he was straining to make amends with this new, individualistic culture. Six years may have changed his wadrobe, his language and even his diet, but it had not changed his drive for human contact, human connection. For a moment I questioned my own drive to be alone in some of my actions. I questioned what it might look like to someone who is new to such a young country to see people who are so separated from their families, and by choice no less.
He asked me again to join him for a beer, and as ashamed as I am, I declined. Perhaps I was just not open to the idea of leaving with a stranger. Perhaps it was intelligent, or perhaps it was just the mistrust that is bred into our society. Where do community and society meet. When did I become the stranger?
The man stood to leave and as he did I met him on my feet, We extended hands, shook and bowed. I thanked him for his company and he left.
Once again I was alone at the bar.
Today I was lucky though.
I walked into the Cornerstone Cafe shortly before your average dinner time. Collapsing at the bar, my dear friend and server brought me a water. I could feel the stickiness long days work being cooled from inside out with each sip of the icey beverage. It wasn't long before I was lost in space.
The man next to me spoke very quietly, if it weren't for the lack of other ears, I would never have thought he was tugging on mine.
"where have I seen you before?" To look straight in his eyes was to look into another world. He had dark skin, short, well trimmed curly black hair and a striped shirt pinned him as a professional. I would have tagged him as at least mid thirties." um, I don't know, perhaps at the elora gorge? I am a zip line instructor there..." I roll off, but he doesn't even notice. " was it planet bean?"
I shot that out of the air, never having been to the bean.
" Not many people are so polite, I am tempted to ask you to go get a behr with me" he whispers again.
Usually this could be played off as a creepy old man comment, but there was something genuine about this one. He was looking for a friend. " I ignored his request and went on to say that I was here just to visit my friend Ali, we used to be roommates." On cue Ali walked over with two empty pint glasses, filling them for a table outside. " Ali" called the man.
She looked up startled.
"Hello, I only know your name because she just mentioned it" Between the thick accent and the muffler through which this man spoke it was surprising either of us could hear anything at all. She smiled and continued with her work. He turned back to me.
"in my country, we do not wave. we do not even just shake hands. we share. Like this. "
With that, the man extended his hand to me, clutching the wrist with his other. I followed suit, standing up and bowing my head as we shook. " do you miss your home country?" I asked.
Yes, yes he did. He missed the community and the culture. But he was ever grateful for Canada, and how blessed his family is here. The opportunities really are endless.
Nagey is from ethiopia. In his country, no one would ever order a meal alone, nor even drink a coffee. Everything must be shared. I could see in his eyes that he was straining to make amends with this new, individualistic culture. Six years may have changed his wadrobe, his language and even his diet, but it had not changed his drive for human contact, human connection. For a moment I questioned my own drive to be alone in some of my actions. I questioned what it might look like to someone who is new to such a young country to see people who are so separated from their families, and by choice no less.
He asked me again to join him for a beer, and as ashamed as I am, I declined. Perhaps I was just not open to the idea of leaving with a stranger. Perhaps it was intelligent, or perhaps it was just the mistrust that is bred into our society. Where do community and society meet. When did I become the stranger?
The man stood to leave and as he did I met him on my feet, We extended hands, shook and bowed. I thanked him for his company and he left.
Once again I was alone at the bar.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
WHEN I GROW UP.
I want to be a righter.
I want to write about things and make the world right by doing so.
What a ridiculous statement.
... When I grow up.
I want to write about things and make the world right by doing so.
What a ridiculous statement.
... When I grow up.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
More than a good Belay.
I never really thought I would understand marriage, I have never even really admitted to being a 'relationship' person but I think I get it now. When I say that, I am not referring to having someone to come home to, or make dinner with or even shag. I don't regret the fact that I am single. At all. I miss having a climbing partner though.
Its funny, and perhaps underrated, but the one thing that holds me back in climbing seems to be my brain. In the last year I have spent a significant amount of time climbing with a select few individuals, and it has made all the difference.To have someone who knows your breathing, your bad habit of stepping behind your rope and most importantly, your mental cruxes is invaluable. To have enough trust in another human being that you can step beyond your intuitive fears and really push yourself is tres exhilarating. It is not just a belay, it is someone who can stoke you for your send, and when you belay them, you really feel like you are there with them.
I remember the first time I belayed a good friend on one of his projects, we had been climbing together for a few weeks and I had always been on belay when he was working his project. He was seconds away from the send, when a visiting friend didn't feel him his necessary arm full of slack for a crux dynamic move and he nearly fell, yelling down to his fumbly partner. He cut a few moves later, pumped out in a mental and physical disconnection.
From then on, he discretely asked me to be available for the catch.
It was on that same trip that I took my first real whippers on a project. With my friend belaying, I still very tentatively took many times at the crux. It was only after I really fell, and almost landed at the first bolt that I turned around to see him smiling "what? I get to have some fun with this too..." I realized I finally had someone who knew exactly what I needed behind me. My next try I sent it without even a pump. Full focus on the moves, and that's because I had full trust in my catcher.
What would Johnny Copp have been without Micah Dash? where would Dean have been without Steph? Don't even get me started on Sharma. A climbing partner is someone who you can share your wildest dreams with. You have no fear when you are with them and you trust that they, undoubtedly, will catch you when you fall.
Now here I am, In Toronto, surrounded by keen climbers and I can't seem to find a project outside. Maybe its just that I need to find that special someone to stand behind me.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The devil at play.
Whenever my mother needs to re align herself, she plays piano.
Nothing complicated, but she keeps in time without a metronome, plays slowly and eloquently, following along to notes on paper.
We all do it. For some people it is running, for others it is driving and for many it is an expression of art.
Usually, my mother plays piano after our conversations.
I feel bad sometimes, as I think she envisioned something different. She was carrying me in her belly for nearly 9 months and dreamt up all the wonderful ways her daughter would bring her joy. I think she saw her best friend, my confidante, and our feminine unbreakable bond forming like she has with her own mother. As it goes, I have filled none of these roles to her imagination. Instead i have taken on one, by nature more so than by choice, which challenges her on all fronts possible, testing her unto tears in some less proud moments. Clashing our opinions and platforms until forcing the other to stare through a different looking glass. I never mean to hurt my mother with our debates, but I strongly believe that it is through these discussions that we can open eachother's eyes.
I came home from the weekend bursting through the door, eating hummus and bread on arrival and dropping bags around me. I was deshevled and tired, ready to unwind from a weekend of travel, climbing and adventuring into another world; the world of a family fighting cancer.
I ran it down to my mum who had hovered into the kitchen to greet me. I knewthat the subject matter is something she is always interested in, always empathetizing with. For a few minutes we discussed how hard it must be, to be waiting on someone you love which knowledge they could be taken from you at any moment and have been compensated for so long.
My mom brought up a similar story, one of her brothers wife, my aunt. My aunt recently found out that she will be embarking on her own fight with cancer. She mentioned a phone conversation they had shared that morning, she mentioned she didn't understand how my aunt could talk about theoretically refusing chemo if it seemed right. I jumped on this opportunity. I feel it is an opinion which has formed very strongly on my side, so I shared it.
I can understand my aunt.
I just came back from a weekend of witnessing an entire family who has been on hold for a year. one grateful year. Around the end of summer last year, my friends mom was given one month to live. Her daughters took time from work and school, they went home, the cancelled trips, they waited, gracious for thier time.
Chemo granted them more time, and has continued to do so, although she still needs daily treatment and must sleep on a hospital bed in the living room for monitoring. I have never met such a strong family.
Of course, they would never want it any other way. But I can see that it wears on them, makes them guilty of working, planning and living... It is an extreme situation of balance, and also a sad one of almost " waiting" for the inevitable, which once again, summons guilt.
My aunt is a reasonable woman. She thinks things through and I think that overall she has seen many people undergo chemo and the pain of treatment. She doesnt want to drag on her passing, she wants it to be quicker, so her husband and family can move forward. She is selfless.
I proceeded to explain that if i felt the end was imenement then I would not accept treatment for myself. I would want to let my family see me off without the thought of hospital beds and long term helplessness.
I think I broke her heart. The woman who spends her life waiting on others, listens to her daughter deny her the theoretical long slow goodbye. She told me it would be different if I was really sick. I told her i hope it wouldn't.
As she quietly stared at the floor i could sense a sadness and helplessness fill the room. I excused myself for a much needed shower, aware that i had once again hit a fence of understanding. As I showered i reviewed our points. I empathized with my friend's situation and with my aunt. and I wondered how in the world a daughter like me could be born with such a challenging disposition from her mother.
As I was drying off I heard the sound floating up the stairs. Long slow notes played and disappeared in time with thoughts, my mothers, her imagination so obviously caught in their expirations. The song was beautiful and mournful, of a fairy tale she had, once, 24 years ago.
Nothing complicated, but she keeps in time without a metronome, plays slowly and eloquently, following along to notes on paper.
We all do it. For some people it is running, for others it is driving and for many it is an expression of art.
Usually, my mother plays piano after our conversations.
I feel bad sometimes, as I think she envisioned something different. She was carrying me in her belly for nearly 9 months and dreamt up all the wonderful ways her daughter would bring her joy. I think she saw her best friend, my confidante, and our feminine unbreakable bond forming like she has with her own mother. As it goes, I have filled none of these roles to her imagination. Instead i have taken on one, by nature more so than by choice, which challenges her on all fronts possible, testing her unto tears in some less proud moments. Clashing our opinions and platforms until forcing the other to stare through a different looking glass. I never mean to hurt my mother with our debates, but I strongly believe that it is through these discussions that we can open eachother's eyes.
I came home from the weekend bursting through the door, eating hummus and bread on arrival and dropping bags around me. I was deshevled and tired, ready to unwind from a weekend of travel, climbing and adventuring into another world; the world of a family fighting cancer.
I ran it down to my mum who had hovered into the kitchen to greet me. I knewthat the subject matter is something she is always interested in, always empathetizing with. For a few minutes we discussed how hard it must be, to be waiting on someone you love which knowledge they could be taken from you at any moment and have been compensated for so long.
My mom brought up a similar story, one of her brothers wife, my aunt. My aunt recently found out that she will be embarking on her own fight with cancer. She mentioned a phone conversation they had shared that morning, she mentioned she didn't understand how my aunt could talk about theoretically refusing chemo if it seemed right. I jumped on this opportunity. I feel it is an opinion which has formed very strongly on my side, so I shared it.
I can understand my aunt.
I just came back from a weekend of witnessing an entire family who has been on hold for a year. one grateful year. Around the end of summer last year, my friends mom was given one month to live. Her daughters took time from work and school, they went home, the cancelled trips, they waited, gracious for thier time.
Chemo granted them more time, and has continued to do so, although she still needs daily treatment and must sleep on a hospital bed in the living room for monitoring. I have never met such a strong family.
Of course, they would never want it any other way. But I can see that it wears on them, makes them guilty of working, planning and living... It is an extreme situation of balance, and also a sad one of almost " waiting" for the inevitable, which once again, summons guilt.
My aunt is a reasonable woman. She thinks things through and I think that overall she has seen many people undergo chemo and the pain of treatment. She doesnt want to drag on her passing, she wants it to be quicker, so her husband and family can move forward. She is selfless.
I proceeded to explain that if i felt the end was imenement then I would not accept treatment for myself. I would want to let my family see me off without the thought of hospital beds and long term helplessness.
I think I broke her heart. The woman who spends her life waiting on others, listens to her daughter deny her the theoretical long slow goodbye. She told me it would be different if I was really sick. I told her i hope it wouldn't.
As she quietly stared at the floor i could sense a sadness and helplessness fill the room. I excused myself for a much needed shower, aware that i had once again hit a fence of understanding. As I showered i reviewed our points. I empathized with my friend's situation and with my aunt. and I wondered how in the world a daughter like me could be born with such a challenging disposition from her mother.
As I was drying off I heard the sound floating up the stairs. Long slow notes played and disappeared in time with thoughts, my mothers, her imagination so obviously caught in their expirations. The song was beautiful and mournful, of a fairy tale she had, once, 24 years ago.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
The only light was coming from a farmhouse down the way.
It took me almost a month. But I am finally alone.
Its funny. Mostly because it took me so long, but also its ridiculous to crave such a place. I stopped the car. Crawled into the back and pulled the keys out of the ignition. It took 1 minute for the interior lights to turn off. It took another minute for me to exhale.
I am outside an abandon farm house, off Grey road 10 in Grey County Ontario. All I can see is the dim lights off neighboring farm houses. All I can hear is, well I cannot hear anything. The drive here slowly tore down my barriers, leaving me with only a loneliness at the end. The anger, the excitement and the frustration of my recent experiences totally evaporated and now here I am. Outside a farmhouse, alone.
I look around, and do my best not to stir up any images of zombie attacks or axe murderers.
I look around, and do my best not to stir up any images of zombie attacks or axe murderers.
In all my time sleeping in cars, I never imagined how frightening sleeping alone could be. New paper clippings about the "city Girl" who just bought her freedom only to have her life taken away, or something heartbreaking like that.... And I manage. I swallow them. And I sit there.
This is necessary. I had been safe for too long. Too safe to really feel the repercussions of my emotions. Too active to really notice I was in Ontario. Too prideful to really notice I didn’t have a partner.
With each breath, reality sinks in a little more. I become aware of how many things have changed in the last year. I become more aware of what I have been doing, how I have been behaving.
Lying down on my truck mattress I can see the stars peaking in from both sides. I can feel the car rock as I adjust, squeaking in protest.
For the first time in a while my mind is blank. I am comfortable. But not tired. Just breathing. Becoming aware of the uncoiling my mind is about to endure.
With each breath, reality sinks in a little more. I become aware of how many things have changed in the last year. I become more aware of what I have been doing, how I have been behaving.
Lying down on my truck mattress I can see the stars peaking in from both sides. I can feel the car rock as I adjust, squeaking in protest.
For the first time in a while my mind is blank. I am comfortable. But not tired. Just breathing. Becoming aware of the uncoiling my mind is about to endure.
So here I am.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
SIR
For the sake of this conversation, we will call the subject " Sir".
This is what our waitress called him first and foremost, before her language and his temperment degraded.
***
I still cannot get over the weather in Toronto. Here I am, sitting on a patio, enjoying a summer breeze. I, in no way, feel cold. I am staring at my drink and contemplating the words that myself and my friend are exchanging. We have been discussing relationships, perceptions and the internal warfare which comes with love. My friend brings up a good point. She asks why gays have to announce their sexuality, when heteros never do. We discuss society and the rules and the bisexual properties of love that everyone should really just accept.
The bubbles continue to dance to the surface of my beer, mimicking our discussion in their energy and more so in their ephemeral qualities of our ideas. I love these talks, I love that i can have them and that I have friends who like to think.
It is Sir who breaks our conversation. His bike hits the patio fence behind my friend. He nearly does the same, but manages to swing around land in the unoccupied wheel of our table.His eyes are darting and he announces " is this seat taken ladies?". His bald head is glistening in the evening light, he is breathing heavily forcing his T-shirt to fight for coverage of his gut.
Before we can answer his non- question he adjusts himself in the seat and continues " good, because I have some things to tell you about life.... I am still trying to figure it out. I am 51 and I am still trying to figure this shit out. You should get that in your heads". His voice quivers, and his lecture is over toned by the anxiety of a ticking clock. I try to keep his eyes, I try to sympathize, but it just makes him more frantic. I feel strange, because that is how i feel too.
I start to imagine if this could be me. What if I don't figure out my next move... what happens to the people who are not successful... how does that happen in the first place?
He gets frustrated and tells me I cannot understand. He coils back into his alien shell and raises his voice.
Our server, previously uninterested in our section, comes over and confronts the man, telling him that us girls were having a good talk together, and if he could kindly evaporate then he should ( paraphrased).
He explodes, stopping all conversations in a 10 person radius. Claiming he was telling us things we needed to hear, telling her that life will pass her by. "Bitch!" he yells at her.... " aw.. .so pretty with your dreads and your eyes.... BITCH!". The man has now made, what modern society would call a "scene".
Chivalrous men from tables around start to make fun of the man, calling him stupid and an asshole. Telling him to get a life, telling him he should leave. Now hes the victim. All of a sudden the man seems so much smaller. He seems like the unlucky one in a game of monkey in the middle. His words mean nothing and he cannot hold on to us.
He stumbles to the street, yelling at the laughing crowd, yelling at lack of respect. He turns back to myself and my friend, who have been silent since the beginning. " Weren't we having a nice conversation ladies??" his eyebrows rise high enough to put some coverage on his scalp.
We cannot answer now. I smile sympathetically and nod.
Part of me wishes he could have stayed, that I could have been the one to listen to him. IT would have taken a while, but maybe if someone has the right kind of unexpected patience, he might be able to sort it all out.
No photos, not even a story. but this is the man of the week.
This is what our waitress called him first and foremost, before her language and his temperment degraded.
***
I still cannot get over the weather in Toronto. Here I am, sitting on a patio, enjoying a summer breeze. I, in no way, feel cold. I am staring at my drink and contemplating the words that myself and my friend are exchanging. We have been discussing relationships, perceptions and the internal warfare which comes with love. My friend brings up a good point. She asks why gays have to announce their sexuality, when heteros never do. We discuss society and the rules and the bisexual properties of love that everyone should really just accept.
The bubbles continue to dance to the surface of my beer, mimicking our discussion in their energy and more so in their ephemeral qualities of our ideas. I love these talks, I love that i can have them and that I have friends who like to think.
It is Sir who breaks our conversation. His bike hits the patio fence behind my friend. He nearly does the same, but manages to swing around land in the unoccupied wheel of our table.His eyes are darting and he announces " is this seat taken ladies?". His bald head is glistening in the evening light, he is breathing heavily forcing his T-shirt to fight for coverage of his gut.
Before we can answer his non- question he adjusts himself in the seat and continues " good, because I have some things to tell you about life.... I am still trying to figure it out. I am 51 and I am still trying to figure this shit out. You should get that in your heads". His voice quivers, and his lecture is over toned by the anxiety of a ticking clock. I try to keep his eyes, I try to sympathize, but it just makes him more frantic. I feel strange, because that is how i feel too.
I start to imagine if this could be me. What if I don't figure out my next move... what happens to the people who are not successful... how does that happen in the first place?
He gets frustrated and tells me I cannot understand. He coils back into his alien shell and raises his voice.
Our server, previously uninterested in our section, comes over and confronts the man, telling him that us girls were having a good talk together, and if he could kindly evaporate then he should ( paraphrased).
He explodes, stopping all conversations in a 10 person radius. Claiming he was telling us things we needed to hear, telling her that life will pass her by. "Bitch!" he yells at her.... " aw.. .so pretty with your dreads and your eyes.... BITCH!". The man has now made, what modern society would call a "scene".
Chivalrous men from tables around start to make fun of the man, calling him stupid and an asshole. Telling him to get a life, telling him he should leave. Now hes the victim. All of a sudden the man seems so much smaller. He seems like the unlucky one in a game of monkey in the middle. His words mean nothing and he cannot hold on to us.
He stumbles to the street, yelling at the laughing crowd, yelling at lack of respect. He turns back to myself and my friend, who have been silent since the beginning. " Weren't we having a nice conversation ladies??" his eyebrows rise high enough to put some coverage on his scalp.
We cannot answer now. I smile sympathetically and nod.
Part of me wishes he could have stayed, that I could have been the one to listen to him. IT would have taken a while, but maybe if someone has the right kind of unexpected patience, he might be able to sort it all out.
No photos, not even a story. but this is the man of the week.
Scribble,
Its all in my head, ive been writing everyday though.
Its been a running monologue that never makes it to paper, but I swear its gold.
Gimme time.
Ill make sense of it all :)
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Personal Challenge
Personal challenges are important. They help you to grow, and if set right, they can change your perspective on the world around you. I intend to change my perspective, or at least enhance it.
When I was younger and more scholarly, I would ride the subway home from high school everyday. The 3 stops between Sheppard and Eglinton station would span about 15 minutes during rush hour traffic. They were often my favorite part of the day. Besides the obvious thrill of being a visible minority in language and skin color, I was always awe struck by the faces and mannerisms of the people around me. Old, Young, smelly or dressed to the nines, these people were diverse and lived lives I could not even begin to conceive.
There is something about the unknown that is thrilling, especially when analyzing people. I can never help myself from trying to imagine the lives of the people we spend so little of our time with, yet see so often.
So here it goes,
I have a plan.
This summer I am hoping to publish a biography once a week.
I will aim to publish someone I do not know very well or someone I have met within the month.
I will take photos, I will spend time with them finding out about what they do, where they live, what they want out of life. And I will publish it here, in my little corner of the interweb.
I challenge you to do the same.
When I was younger and more scholarly, I would ride the subway home from high school everyday. The 3 stops between Sheppard and Eglinton station would span about 15 minutes during rush hour traffic. They were often my favorite part of the day. Besides the obvious thrill of being a visible minority in language and skin color, I was always awe struck by the faces and mannerisms of the people around me. Old, Young, smelly or dressed to the nines, these people were diverse and lived lives I could not even begin to conceive.
There is something about the unknown that is thrilling, especially when analyzing people. I can never help myself from trying to imagine the lives of the people we spend so little of our time with, yet see so often.
 |
| http://www.flickr.com/photos/eyesee/4070429341/lightbox/ |
So here it goes,
I have a plan.
This summer I am hoping to publish a biography once a week.
I will aim to publish someone I do not know very well or someone I have met within the month.
I will take photos, I will spend time with them finding out about what they do, where they live, what they want out of life. And I will publish it here, in my little corner of the interweb.
I challenge you to do the same.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
moderna
As I watched Vancouver erupt, i couldn't help but feel grateful that my birthday landed on Game one, not game seven.
I had been wandering the streets with friends after that first win, trying to find a bar which wasn't empty ( TV-less) and wasn't jammed. I remember being surprised by the number and energy of the crowd, and although it was a positive, spunky group of people ... I remember being extremely uneasy.
It doesn't take much to turn a crowd. It doesn't take but one person to have the power of many. Mob mentality is something that can be studied in schools, it can be a specialty, you can spend your whole life trying to understand why, when everyone knows that something is wrong, it takes so much strength to stand against it. Why did the Nazis exist? how could there be more than just a few evil people?
How did the G20 end up so god damn messed up, with cops detaining innocent people.
How can you possibly explain how a hockey game, or a soccer game or a baseball game could warrant the destruction of the town in which it is being played?
I mean common, not only did Vancouver now have to deal with loosing a pathetic series, but they also had to replace cars, clean up shops and answer to a world of disappointment.
Lets bust their asses on Facebook.
yea.This man saw the sounds.
I had been wandering the streets with friends after that first win, trying to find a bar which wasn't empty ( TV-less) and wasn't jammed. I remember being surprised by the number and energy of the crowd, and although it was a positive, spunky group of people ... I remember being extremely uneasy.
It doesn't take much to turn a crowd. It doesn't take but one person to have the power of many. Mob mentality is something that can be studied in schools, it can be a specialty, you can spend your whole life trying to understand why, when everyone knows that something is wrong, it takes so much strength to stand against it. Why did the Nazis exist? how could there be more than just a few evil people?
How did the G20 end up so god damn messed up, with cops detaining innocent people.
How can you possibly explain how a hockey game, or a soccer game or a baseball game could warrant the destruction of the town in which it is being played?
I mean common, not only did Vancouver now have to deal with loosing a pathetic series, but they also had to replace cars, clean up shops and answer to a world of disappointment.
Lets bust their asses on Facebook.
yea.This man saw the sounds.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
down to earth.
Dreams have been weave-y lately.
I don't know the last time I has such vivid adventures in my own head but lately it has been getting out of control. It began a few days ago, I was jolted awake almost hourly by unconscious tripping and falling from heights. Being a climber, this concerns me as to how my unconscious mind is absorbing my conscious pursuits.
It will be sudden, and I often wont remember the dream that proceeds the fall, but without warning I will be sitting up in my bed with a bad case of vertigo.
Zooming out, I am in my parents house, in Toronto, fields of concrete and flat land surrounding me.
I suppose that is why I climb, to control that fear of falling. There has often been the debate of whether climbers and other extreme sports addicts are fearless, or just as fearful as anyone else. The difference in my mind is that we are trying to control our fears. Harness them and develop techniques for keeping our minds cool under pressure.
I remember reading an article in the globe last year, it was about a woman who was born without fear. She was 44 years old and never had that instinctual sense not to get in a fight and not to jump off a cliff. When first reading, I could only assume this woman would be a classically fantastic climber.
But wait? Why would she even want to climb?
Such an integral battle for every athlete is their dialogue with fear. Without that, she would not last long, nor would she get the blood rushing feeling of success when topping out, hitting the anchors or standing in the wind above a mammoth cliff edge.
Maybe fear is a good thing.
Only when it allows for a full night's sleep though.
I don't know the last time I has such vivid adventures in my own head but lately it has been getting out of control. It began a few days ago, I was jolted awake almost hourly by unconscious tripping and falling from heights. Being a climber, this concerns me as to how my unconscious mind is absorbing my conscious pursuits.
It will be sudden, and I often wont remember the dream that proceeds the fall, but without warning I will be sitting up in my bed with a bad case of vertigo.
Zooming out, I am in my parents house, in Toronto, fields of concrete and flat land surrounding me.
I suppose that is why I climb, to control that fear of falling. There has often been the debate of whether climbers and other extreme sports addicts are fearless, or just as fearful as anyone else. The difference in my mind is that we are trying to control our fears. Harness them and develop techniques for keeping our minds cool under pressure.
I remember reading an article in the globe last year, it was about a woman who was born without fear. She was 44 years old and never had that instinctual sense not to get in a fight and not to jump off a cliff. When first reading, I could only assume this woman would be a classically fantastic climber.
But wait? Why would she even want to climb?
Such an integral battle for every athlete is their dialogue with fear. Without that, she would not last long, nor would she get the blood rushing feeling of success when topping out, hitting the anchors or standing in the wind above a mammoth cliff edge.
Maybe fear is a good thing.
Only when it allows for a full night's sleep though.
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