“Why don’t you want to find a job here Ivor?” Gary asks chopsticks in hand, watching me pick up the bugolgi. They all eye me expectantly, 11 of us jammed in a long row of tables pushed together, the Korean food taking up all the open table space. At the edge of the table, Matt looks over at me too waiting for an answer, Kang pours himself another beer. Dinner with old friends: Kang whom I haven’t seen in five years and his girlfriend, Callum in two, even soft spoken Mike Kim whom I’d gone to school with in fifth grade demanded I share a beer with him for old time’s sake.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you never going to come back?”
“To visit, not to live though.”
“Why not?”
“Because it feels like I’d be moving backwards. I just can’t come back here.”
Within the hour they ask me the same questions again. Why am I so determined to not come back to ANY part of Canada. Guys, its not that I don’t want to move back to Canada, or that I’m a traitor or anything, it’s just that it feels like I’m moving backwards if I move back to Vancouver.
But really, how can I tell them that I just feel like I shouldn’t be home? That God doesn’t want me to be back in Vancouver, that that phase of my life is over and there’s something waiting right on the edge of the horizon? When Gary groans and Kang shakes his head swearing, “What the hell man?” what do I do but shake my own head sadly and smile back at them, holding in the thousand reasons why I can’t come back?
Don’t get me wrong, there’s a part of me that will always, ALWAYS be in love with Vancouver. It’s as part of my soul as my writing. I am a child of Vancouver: months of grey clouds and drizzle mists, red cedars and ocean, the scent of wet wood in the air everywhere. Every time I come back here, I have a hard time leaving—I always get “leaving” anxiety when I realize that I only have days left in a certain place and I wonder if I’ve seen enough, lived enough there to make the trip meaningful. It’s worse in Vancouver. I always feel a sense of fear walking out into the “unknown” again, away from the safety of home, of Vancouver.
Add to that the bittersweet joy of seeing old friends and the sense of nostalgia that comes along with it. I want to go back to those days, freshly graduated from high school, making bubble tea runs with Matt, Gary, and Dave in Matt’s Mazdaspeed Protégé. Warm summer nights, on Cypress mountain watching the lights of the city between the trees—four dudes with no females in sight.
I want to walk back into the memory, but I can’t because staying here is peeking open those memories that I’ve boxed away, knowing full well that those days are gone. To them that have lived here for so long without ever leaving home (really leaving home because moving in with your girlfriend doesn’t really count as leaving home) they don’t understand how much it hurts to come back and find the whole world changed, that it’s moved on without you in it.
They don't know what it's like to go to college and then leave on a mission knowing that everyone you knew would be gone by the time you got back. They don't know what it's like to go back to the mission a year after you're done to find everything different, that you too are a figment of memory and some memories are better as memories and not relived. They don't know what it's like to find a Writing Center family--people of similar souls, a bond far deeper than the friendships we formed growing up in Vancouver, and being unable to truly leave for tearing a hole in the heart that can never be filled.
They don't know that to cope, I shut myself off from those places. Stay away for as long as I can, to shut out memories and the pain of memories. I guess that’s why I don’t contact people from my mission as often as others. That’s why I rarely go back to the Writing Center Blog, or drive past the Abode House.
Sorry guys, but how could I move back when I’ve lived a whole life in America after I’ve said goodbye to Canada? How could I move back when I've had to say goodbye so many times?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Saturday, November 7, 2009
NaNoWriMo
November is National Novel Writing Month.
A couple months back, I wrote about how I was looking for a "lost" cause to get involved in, and I think this is it. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel by the end of the month. That's doable. It means we also average about 1700 words a day. If you think about it, that's about four pages of Calibri size 11 font, single spaced. It's a lot of writing, but it's wicked fun.
Anyway, that's what I'm doing. So if I don't write here much, thats why.
A couple months back, I wrote about how I was looking for a "lost" cause to get involved in, and I think this is it. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel by the end of the month. That's doable. It means we also average about 1700 words a day. If you think about it, that's about four pages of Calibri size 11 font, single spaced. It's a lot of writing, but it's wicked fun.
Anyway, that's what I'm doing. So if I don't write here much, thats why.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Opening
I reached New York Burrito a little early; Elyssa hadn't arrived yet. I walk over and sit on the metal bench outside of the 24 Hour Health Center next door, not noticing the puddles on the seat until it was too late.
I watch as two college students dressed in hoodies walk into the health center before walking out three minutes later. I wonder if they're their for a flu shot. Everyone is in a different stage of sick. They walk back to their car, the brown of one of their hoodies works well with the grey of the sky, the grey of the pavement and gravel thrown up on the curb, the white of my shoes now turned grey.
I feel overdressed, my motorcycle jacket too warm for the day. It feels confused, like it can't decide between committing to being autumn, or reverting to an indian summer--the prayers of everyone in the city. As I sit, I realise how long it had been since I had really taken time to sit and watch things. A girl with a red backpack with black stains on one side waits for the traffic light. She looks at her iPod, the Pontiac Grand Am parked nearby, the dead flowers, me on the bench.
Details.
I haven't noticed details for a while. Being caught up in the strangely fast moving non-schedule of my life, I haven't taken time to see things, to feel things, to be alive. I touch a puddle next to me on the bench, I make a promise to open my eyes.
I watch as two college students dressed in hoodies walk into the health center before walking out three minutes later. I wonder if they're their for a flu shot. Everyone is in a different stage of sick. They walk back to their car, the brown of one of their hoodies works well with the grey of the sky, the grey of the pavement and gravel thrown up on the curb, the white of my shoes now turned grey.
I feel overdressed, my motorcycle jacket too warm for the day. It feels confused, like it can't decide between committing to being autumn, or reverting to an indian summer--the prayers of everyone in the city. As I sit, I realise how long it had been since I had really taken time to sit and watch things. A girl with a red backpack with black stains on one side waits for the traffic light. She looks at her iPod, the Pontiac Grand Am parked nearby, the dead flowers, me on the bench.
Details.
I haven't noticed details for a while. Being caught up in the strangely fast moving non-schedule of my life, I haven't taken time to see things, to feel things, to be alive. I touch a puddle next to me on the bench, I make a promise to open my eyes.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
All Smiles
All Smiles
I knew I wanted to B-boy when I first felt the music
beat my heart away from its rhythms
and the tick tock of my life flying half steps
into spinning lights and the revelation of new music
new life, a new sense of sublime in closed eyes and
hands smiling to notes on a whirlwind of sound.
I knew I wanted to B-boy when my legs broke free,
body ignoring, gravity calling,
a suspension of adrenaline and motion,
hand on the floor conducting the stillness
of rhythm and form, the weight of a soul,
balanced carefully on the palm and five fingers of one hand,
and fingerless gloves,
a breath of smiles and freedom,
paused in the storm of beat.
I knew I had to B-Boy when I couldn’t breathe anymore,
4 rounds of battling, and my lungs would collapse
under the weight of an atom, but I dove out anyway,
Broncos and footwork, feet wrapped in hooks and slings,
twisting, twisting, twisting to the dictation of music,
a leaf in a gust has more control than the limits of my heart beating
160 beats per minute, crouched hard, panting,
waiting for a response
his own movements and our medley,
right there swirling in the smug smile of a B-boy.
I knew I wanted to B-boy when I first felt the music
beat my heart away from its rhythms
and the tick tock of my life flying half steps
into spinning lights and the revelation of new music
new life, a new sense of sublime in closed eyes and
hands smiling to notes on a whirlwind of sound.
I knew I wanted to B-boy when my legs broke free,
body ignoring, gravity calling,
a suspension of adrenaline and motion,
hand on the floor conducting the stillness
of rhythm and form, the weight of a soul,
balanced carefully on the palm and five fingers of one hand,
and fingerless gloves,
a breath of smiles and freedom,
paused in the storm of beat.
I knew I had to B-Boy when I couldn’t breathe anymore,
4 rounds of battling, and my lungs would collapse
under the weight of an atom, but I dove out anyway,
Broncos and footwork, feet wrapped in hooks and slings,
twisting, twisting, twisting to the dictation of music,
a leaf in a gust has more control than the limits of my heart beating
160 beats per minute, crouched hard, panting,
waiting for a response
his own movements and our medley,
right there swirling in the smug smile of a B-boy.
Monday, September 28, 2009
A Great Conversation
On Friday I drove Aly to Porters, Walmart and the DI to get materials for her class project. It must have been the week, or the strain of looking for houses that were smaller than Lego men, or something that burned us out.
As we pulled out of the Walmart parking lot, Aly said something to which I replied “Wah, wah…” the characteristic sound of something bad happening to the main character in a cartoon. About twenty seconds later we pulled into the DI parking lot.
“Sorry Al, I guess that wasn’t a good response to your comment.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember either.”
As we pulled out of the Walmart parking lot, Aly said something to which I replied “Wah, wah…” the characteristic sound of something bad happening to the main character in a cartoon. About twenty seconds later we pulled into the DI parking lot.
“Sorry Al, I guess that wasn’t a good response to your comment.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember either.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Silence
I noticed something today.
When I break up with a girl, it sucks away my words, and leaves silence behind. I don’t know if anyone has really noticed, but my writing has gotten more and more choppy. I haven’t been able to string good thoughts together, and I definitely haven’t been as artistic as I used to be a few months ago. I guess it takes some time for me to recover.
I wonder why that is. I wonder why it is, that after I've given my heart to someone and have had to recover that heart, the only words that come to mind are non-words and silence.
When I break up with a girl, it sucks away my words, and leaves silence behind. I don’t know if anyone has really noticed, but my writing has gotten more and more choppy. I haven’t been able to string good thoughts together, and I definitely haven’t been as artistic as I used to be a few months ago. I guess it takes some time for me to recover.
I wonder why that is. I wonder why it is, that after I've given my heart to someone and have had to recover that heart, the only words that come to mind are non-words and silence.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Childhood Idols
The other day I sat in my apartment and watched Teknoman for the 4th time through. Growing up, Teknoman was my favorite show. In fifth grade, it aired Sunday mornings on UPN at 930. Church started at 10. I never got to see the last 10 minutes of each episode. I would sit in our basement, on the edge of couch, watching both the show and the clock and hoping against hope that I wouldn’t hear my parent’s footsteps coming down the stairs and their calls to church.
The real tragedy about the show, wasn't that I didn't get to see the end of every episode and had to tape it or rely on the word of my friends on Monday at school, but the fact that they never finished airing the show. They aired 23 episodes, enough to build the tension: Slade recovers from his amnesia, his long lost sister comes to warn him of the impending attack, his evil twin beats her badly in an effort to draw him out. She suicides to save Slade. But UPN decided that they weren't going to broadcast how the story ended. I had to wait 8 years until I discovered P2P downloading at that some blessed soul had these episodes online to find out what happened.
Slade is the hero of Teknoman—a taciturn, highly individualistic, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulder’s type. I worshiped him. I thought he was so cool. Everything about the lone wolf and his pseudo mullet I just thought was amazing. His evil twin, Saber, was really hardcore too, and I loved the cold way he would taunt Slade, but Slade was my hero.
I wanted to be him.
And in a sense I have become him. I stay out of large social situations. I wander off on my own. I stare at the moon or the sunset by myself. I’m guilty of all the “Byronic” attributes.
Another example:
Vegeta from Dragonball Z. To tell you the truth, all of the comics and the videos we watched when we were kids were in Japanese or in Chinese, and I couldn’t read it back then. So my worship of him as a child was based purely on pictures. One of my favorite images of Vegeta is when his son Trunks leaves for the future, and Vegeta won’t even come say bye, instead leans up against a tree in the distance, one leg bent with its foot pressed into the trunk. He turns his head slightly to his son, and raising two fingers from his crossed arms, says salutes him goodbye.
Classic.
Funny enough, I’ve picked up that lean too. In my idle, waiting time, I lean against the wall, balanced on one leg with my other foot pressed against the wall. I even place my hand on my hip sometimes when I stand around.
Don’t we pick up the attributes of people we emulate? Isn’t emulating someone trying to be like them in every way possible? I remember being Vegeta on the schoolyard—a badass tough guy, too cool for everyone. I wonder now, did I change my personality to be like Vegeta and Slade?
How much do we change to be like our idols? What are the influences we had when we were children to shape us into what we are now?
The real tragedy about the show, wasn't that I didn't get to see the end of every episode and had to tape it or rely on the word of my friends on Monday at school, but the fact that they never finished airing the show. They aired 23 episodes, enough to build the tension: Slade recovers from his amnesia, his long lost sister comes to warn him of the impending attack, his evil twin beats her badly in an effort to draw him out. She suicides to save Slade. But UPN decided that they weren't going to broadcast how the story ended. I had to wait 8 years until I discovered P2P downloading at that some blessed soul had these episodes online to find out what happened.
Slade is the hero of Teknoman—a taciturn, highly individualistic, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulder’s type. I worshiped him. I thought he was so cool. Everything about the lone wolf and his pseudo mullet I just thought was amazing. His evil twin, Saber, was really hardcore too, and I loved the cold way he would taunt Slade, but Slade was my hero.
I wanted to be him.
And in a sense I have become him. I stay out of large social situations. I wander off on my own. I stare at the moon or the sunset by myself. I’m guilty of all the “Byronic” attributes.
Another example:
Vegeta from Dragonball Z. To tell you the truth, all of the comics and the videos we watched when we were kids were in Japanese or in Chinese, and I couldn’t read it back then. So my worship of him as a child was based purely on pictures. One of my favorite images of Vegeta is when his son Trunks leaves for the future, and Vegeta won’t even come say bye, instead leans up against a tree in the distance, one leg bent with its foot pressed into the trunk. He turns his head slightly to his son, and raising two fingers from his crossed arms, says salutes him goodbye.
Classic.
Funny enough, I’ve picked up that lean too. In my idle, waiting time, I lean against the wall, balanced on one leg with my other foot pressed against the wall. I even place my hand on my hip sometimes when I stand around.
Don’t we pick up the attributes of people we emulate? Isn’t emulating someone trying to be like them in every way possible? I remember being Vegeta on the schoolyard—a badass tough guy, too cool for everyone. I wonder now, did I change my personality to be like Vegeta and Slade?
How much do we change to be like our idols? What are the influences we had when we were children to shape us into what we are now?
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