When I first moved to Vancouver, I had a three-month sublet, a bedroom filled with meanings not my own. Everything is temporary, knew that already, eating off a stranger’s plates and sleeping in a stranger’s bed. I looked forward to a different living situation to have a space of my own, with my own things, things just as thing-like but reflecting on me, reflections of me, mirror memories I won’t deny as desired. I don’t need this crap.
…I want it. It’s comforting and empowering even if conflicting with the idea I should be conflicted, because I’m not, and “should” is arbitrary, “should” is disbelieved. Is wonder here, in my new basement suite, in a new neighborhood with new roommates and new idiosyncrasies, with a ceiling my head barely clears as I duck away anyway, marked up walls and smashed in tiles, uneven carpet and cinderhouse hot in my bedroom with a buddha I never meant to buy in(to) the windowsill looking magical, looking marvelous, looking at me miraculous I kiss it like a doll and expect it to move.
“Should” and “should not” are make believe.
I put my room together on the last day of 2006 and cried as the narrative unfolded. Death to Death Is Dead to undead to transformation, decay and solitude that isn’t alienation, suspended safe and messy science and the messier sacred. And then reborn again. I write about the power of personal space, of my ever-changing bedrooms in the s u s p e n s i o n piece, but even I forgot how much I missed it, how aching awful is my undefined if not absent idea of home.
Though I miss Minneapolis tremendously, I swear the city doesn’t fuckin get it, but what can I say or do when I don’t know what I mean. After three weeks of travel from Seattle to Minneapolis to Fargo to farms and family and friends and arms embracing and wor(l)ds colliding and time and space collapsing, stolen, I returned.
And I was thankful, and more than merely happy to settle to routine. Seeing Vancouver, my guts were in my throat missing this city, not just glad to be back, but relieved it wasn’t a dream.
I live here. I moved. I’m not done here yet, not even close.
I don’t belong and may never belong anywhere, and oh well. I have so much to do.
For similar verbiage of lifespeak floaty, take a look at the updated identity.
Here are some lovely mounties!
My dad and I visited Victoria, BC, and I got a picture with every mountie I could find. We also went to a Royal London Wax Museum filled with excellent (and errrrrr-inducing gratuitous) creeptitude.
While not the most awesome shot, this is included for juxtaposition. Here you see fancypants British royalty, preening on display. But wait till you see what goes on in the basement.
Enter the Chamber of Horrors. This is what happens in English cellars. Apparently.
Notice how I cut off the head of the executioner? Bweh heh heh.
There were a number of small children at the museum. You could bypass the Chamber of Horrors and head straight to Fairytale Land, but most didn’t… and I think many parents regretted it.
It just doesn’t stop!
Okay, so this one is out of the Chamber of Horrors but… it shouldn’t be.
This woolly mammoth was in the Royal BC Museum, not the wax shop, but… woolly mammoth! Way cute.
Here’s this year’s holleday card.
My presence was the present, and was apparently gimplike ghoulish. Whoops.
It’s a windy day today. Riding bike headlong into the gale down a steep hill still felt like going backward. At a street bench a young man set down a notebook filled with loose sheets, several of which went flying. I hopped off my bike to help him retrieve them, and so did another passer-by, and so did two people who got out of their car.
We all giggled and scrambled and looked at one another with expressions slightly baffled we are awesome nice this is movie absurd. This is the city in which I live.