The end of clocks

I stumble upon this place
As if the privileged first, chosen
To receive a glimpse of the eternal
Where clarity of thoughts,
that impossible demon,
Is so close, unlike
the tease of daily life

But to find that the mechanics
of all that is temporal
Have documented nary an hour
Since I fell into dreams;
One hour which laughs
At its long-lost mother
Eternity?

This must be another world
safe from the one of clocks
Where even music is too definite
Where a solitary airplane in the sky
appears naked in its nullitude
Yet still inspires awe
In its insistence

The excitement of the brevity of existence
Captured in this much desired cup of water
Soothing not just a night's thirst
But the thirst of light-years
To get closer and closer
To seeing the world
In its entirety

Yet I slip
further and further away
Back into my sated stomach and weary bones
Delivered back to sheets and pillows
As quickly as I'd arrived.

Trying to do something

The clock has struck 3, and my celebratory bag of chips-- the culmination of my late-night studying reward system-- has already lost its flavour. At this time of night, the day's thoughts come flooding back, in a predictably haphazard way. I'm recalling an ad I saw in the bus this morning. Above passengers' bobbing heads, I could make out two choices with corresponding empty boxes beside them:

• Do something
  
• Do nothing
  

The rest of the space portrayed a homeless man sleeping on a sidewalk. And then, at the bottom, a smirky enticement to visit dosomething.ca. Or at least that's what I remember. Searching for it now leads me to nothing.

My instinctual reaction at seeing the ad was rage. It seemed as though the homeless man was being portrayed as "doing nothing," himself to blame for his condition. But now that I think about it, the ad could have been encouraging us, the 43 University bus-riding folk, to do something to help this man, and his fellows, out.

Why do ads today have to be so vague? I give no style points for an unclear product, audience, and marketer. Not to mention a dazed kid looking up the URL, and finding out it doesn't exist! That's too much energy spent on a glossy, rectangular piece of cardboard.

Boys will be Girls?

No coffee necessary--my morning Sociology of Gender class definitely kept me awake this morning. We watched a documentary on the oft-studied island of Samoa, located east of Australia. Paradise Bent: Boys will be Girls in Samoa followed numerous Samoan individuals who called themselves Fa’afafines: literally meaning “in the manner of a women,” they are males who are socially female. Many act and dress with feminine characteristics, but the common denominator lies in their performing traditional women’s roles, like cooking, sewing and cleaning the house.
Consider assets in a family, Fa’afafines are accepted in the community and are viewed as women, whether or not they fully look like women. In fact, none of those in the video bothered with a sex change, feeling no need to biologically ‘prove’ themselves as females. Cindy, a Fa’afafine dancer, was happily dating an Australian guy working in Samoa for the Australian High Commission. When the Commission became nervous about his relationship with Cindy, he was transferred back to Australia. The video concluded with a triumphant caption that the man had quit his job and gone back to Samoa to live with Cindy.
Many Fa’afafines maintain they do not fit under “gay,” “transsexual,” or “bisexual” labels that Western society uses. In fact, one Fa’afafine perceived the difference, commenting that Western analysis of exactly “what you are” was a threat to her, and for that reason she would not leave Samoa. In her country, she was a female, and that was that.
The Fa’afafine example is only one among many confirming the limits of our Western conception of two genders, or “opposite sexes.” Arguably, Samoa still only has two genders: male and female. And they don’t have a gay community. But the bottom line remains: compare our society and Samoa’s, and it already becomes clear that there is a wider range of gender conception than our two easy biological categories can account for. Yet the male-female dichotomy continues to be the reality in our society: you are either male or female. You can’t be both; you can’t be in-between; you can’t be neither one nor the other. Of course, challenges to gender categories continue to surface, whether from the LGBT community or from heterosexuals themselves. Not only are these communities redefining gender, but so is the growing Asexual Movement in North America. Self-proclaimed asexuals are people who want meaningful emotional relationships, but they just don’t want sex. In a highly sexualized culture, this is a challenge to our strict biological categorizations: they make biology less relevant. Not surprisingly, psychologists and sexperts consistently dismiss these people as unnatural, and/or as having a disorder.
Artist Andrea Zittel once said that no matter how many options, humans have a tendency to reduce things to two categories. Despite the sweeping redefinitions of gender that have occurred in the last 30 years, our society is still resistant to many cases that don’t fall neatly under the labels ‘male’ or ‘female.’ Today’s reality sees thousands of people feeling uncomfortable with these easy labels, sensing there is something missing in these socially-defining markers. But today’s reality may be tomorrow’s outdated paradigm. If our ideas continue to evolve as quickly as they have in the past few decades, who knows what is to come?

How materialist

Having never owned a blog until a few weeks ago, the task of blogging has yet to become habit. The recommended “blog once a week” suggestion is perfectly reasonable, and a nagging voice to do so has successfully established itself on my backburner. And yet, I find myself leaving this assignment until the last minute. I could cite the easy excuse of procrastination, which is indeed a factor, especially in the midst of a growing pile of homework. But there’s more to it than that. Throughout this week, I’ve had many ideas for a blog entry:

Friday afternoon. A fantastic nap on a moderately rigid couch in the Telus Building was my first real sleep in the university setting. I awoke refreshed and alert, and was rewarded with a great reading by Derek Walcott. A particular poem about buses sent me on a memory trip that made listening to Walcott speak a surreal experience.

Saturday night. Stage-managing a concert by world-renowned Takacs Quartet. I listened to the concert from backstage; not being able to see the performers allows your mind to wander off in unexpected ways. Alternately, seeing the performers backstage is also fascinating. They eat crackers and make bad jokes. During the concert I also had to fight temptations to hit the tympanis that surrounded me (hastily left backstage from the previous night’s concert) and create utter chaos. I followed the concert up with an out-of-body meal experience at the one and only Sam Wok’s.

Sunday night. A going-away party for a friend going to South Africa for two years…

…and on and on. The more I break down my week into small pieces, the more infinite it becomes. So many things have transpired in one week for me, as I’m sure it has for all of you, too. There are thousands of things I could choose from to write about. And yet, tonight, I could not choose any one thing, nor could I write about all of them. Other than the fact that it’s impossible to ‘write about everything,’ it would feel too materialist to try and squeeze something out of each noteworthy thing that happened to me in the last week. I already feel like I’ve given away too much.

Which is why Mark’s link to the eternally streaming pictures from Blog World is slightly alarming. It encourages cheap post-modern thinking that “anything goes” and that all those pictures can and should be presented in any sequence, without relevance to each other. “Anyone can be an artist” is the message, implying that all these shots are equally beautiful, or relevant to today’s world, or interesting, or… whatever. What follows is a slippery slope into a dark abyss, where being selective is relegated to a vestigial skill, one that we humans should have abandoned long ago.

But having to be selective never goes away. It seeps into everything you do, from critically evaluating an issue to deciding what you’re going to eat for dinner. I’ve been avoiding it this whole week because it’s hard to be choosy: picking a topic for a blog entry means sacrificing many others that could have been just as appealing. Creative non-fiction is all about being selective. What are you going to include? What are you going to leave out? Do you dare cut out your favourite sentence for the good of the essay?

I’d much rather pick one or two things from my week and give you something worth reading, than simply vomiting everything I can remember that happened to me onto these hapless keys, and arrogantly assume that you’ll sift through it all and find the essentials. With blogs – and any other form of communication – spewing as much as possible does not beget the brilliant thesis we’re all trying to discover in our own writing. The crucial editing process is all about paring down, adding and discarding, and rewriting. In short, being selective.

No more of this waiting for that ‘one good topic’ to present itself and magically become a blog entry. Monday night at midnight is no more eventful than Wednesday morning after Tuesday’s 498 class. I’ll put my proverbial pen to the paper when I’ve got something to say.

Subliminal messages

Let no one say, and
Say to your shame
That there was only beauty
Before you came.

On a simple wooden sign, these words greeted my friend Megan and I along the lake path. We didn’t have much time until we had to leave, but we both stopped. More than a “Have a nice hike” sign, this one dared us to consider its message. I looked around at the neatly designed, unassuming cabins to our right. They looked like little settlements pledging allegiance to the greater mountains flanking them. To my left, Oesa Mountain loomed large, with the sparkling glacial blue Lake O’Hara at its foot. Megan and I agreed. Despite the human modifications around the lake, the ancestral beauty before us had lost none of its charm.

***

Brennan had been talking about Lake O’Hara for months. He had worked in this secluded lakeside lodge and campground for the past couple of years. Located 30 km past Lake Louise and just past the B.C. border, Lake O’Hara is “one of the best places in the world,” in his opinion. Convinced by his testimonial, we eagerly drove out to see it for ourselves.
We spent a night in Banff, awaiting a confirmatory phone call from him to instruct us when to come up. O’Hara was booked solid; we could only hope for a cancellation.
Early Saturday morning, we got an excited phone call from our host. Premature September snow had driven away some clients. We were in.
In anticipation of the 3:30 bus that would take us from ground level up to Lake O’Hara, nestled in the mountains, we moseyed around downtown Banff for a few hours. Banff Avenue was under construction, making the town look like a fake stage set out of a Lars von Trier film. Of course, the narrow slivers of sidewalk along the boutiques urged tourists to shop anyway, and shop they did. We glided along with the movie extras, assuaged by our ice creams and the knowledge that we wouldn’t be here long. Eventually, the stage set gave way to the park by the river, where poised marathon runners hurtled themselves at us in droves. We drifted toward a group playing West African drums to keep the runners going. As we neared them, they began packing up, giving bored looks and blase answers to our eager questions about their music.
We were anxious to get out of Dodge. After pouring some protective libations in front of and behind my car, we tore out of town onto Highway 1. An hour and a crossed Alberta-B.C. border later, we spotted the brown and yellow sign to O’Hara, the until-now mystical place. We parked our car, grabbed our backpacks, and headed toward the empty yellow school bus, waiting to take us up the hill. Despite being the only two passengers on the bus, the driver gladly drove us up, talking about the latest weather and the large snowflakes coming down all around us. The bus felt like a moving bubble launching us through a portal. Already, Banff seemed worlds away.
At the top of the hill, we finally met Brennan, whose excitement came through in his use of superlatives. We followed him onto the trail paralleling the lake toward a lone bench. He brought out three steaming thermoses of tea, and we sat and drank amidst whirling snowflakes.
“We’re going to hike up Oesa,” he said conspiratorially, motioning to the mountain on our right. Our teacups seemed so trivial compared to this enormous, pot-bellied mountain.
“I’m so glad you guys are gonna get to see this!” Brennan exclaimed. “It’s gonna be epic.” As he led the way, his long, expectant strides had the air of someone doing this hike for the first time.
The snow gradually built into a white-out as we hiked up Oesa, but the view was still astounding. I had to stop a few times to give my eyes a chance to fully believe what they were seeing. Further up, the path became less evident amidst remnants of a rock slide. I half expected to see Frodo and Samwise scrambling up the rocks ahead of us. Finally, we reached the top of Oesa, sweating and soaked by wet snow.
As we stood in silence, I realized there was an infinite number of vantage points from which to take in these mountains, this unbelievable scenery. I flashed back to an old Sociology of Art class, where frustrated students had clamoured, “What is the sublime?” And here it was, that overwhelming experience of seeing without grasping. These mountains were beyond my understanding.

***

Megan and I left the wooden sign behind us enjoy our last glimpse of Lake O’Hara. But the sign’s message was everywhere. Around us, the mountains sat wisely on the knowledge of their unconquerability. Whereas the people in Banff seemed to view the mountains only as a pleasant, benign backdrop for their vastly more important lives, the view here forbade such dismissive attitudes. Looking up to these dangerous beauties revealed nothing less than the truest expression of the sublime.

Playing the game

“You’re coming with me to test drive a car tonight,” I tell Carmen over the phone, as I set out on long stretch of road to Morinville.
“Is there even a dealership in town?” she exclaims.
“Yep! Frontier Honda – the best in town... or, the only one in town.” I’ve done my research. Out of necessity, I’m hitting two birds with one stone tonight: squeezing a delayed homework assignment into a much-delayed visit to my newly married friend. Lessening my burden of choosing a dealership, Morinville has conveniently made the choice for me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll show you a good time!” I assure her, laughing.
“Okay, sure,” she says. “And call me if you get lost trying to find the condo.”
Carmen and I met in grade three, over a shared orange at recess. Best friends throughout elementary school, we later went to different junior and high schools, but always stayed in touch. Now, however, our paths diverge in more aspects than school; Carmen married her high-school sweetheart Jean-Marc in August, and they moved to Morinville, a small town almost an hour north of Edmonton.
After I park on Laval Avenue, I arrive to find Carmen elbow-high in cooking. I help her finish the carrot cake, cook a stirfry and wash dishes over conversation about what we’ve been up to. Understandably, she talks about married life, all in positive, but to me, alien terms. I’m searching for glimpses of the old Carmen. Making toilet jokes on the yellow schoolbus. Forcing her little brother to wear a rainbow bikini we’ve shoddily sewn. Peeking at a math test a day early. But in vain. The tone of conversation hardly deviates from serious, and only skims the surface.
I’m amazed at the timing of our food preparation, as Jean-Marc walks in twenty minutes after we finish. At a small table for two, we scarf down the delicious stirfry. I can’t help but notice Carmen and Jean-Marc awkwardly trying to fit into their new roles as husband and wife-- self-conscious interaction influenced by my presence. After all, they have only been married a month and a half.
Heading out to Frontier Honda is a welcome change of scenery for all of us. The dealership is only a few blocks away, in Morinville’s small industrial sector. A beautiful red and white wheat pool precedes the modest dealership, and I’m excited to go on a tour of the town. We walk into the building, unsure of our next step. Anything could happen at this point, I think to myself. Should we all adopt false roles? Carmen and Jean-Marc are definitely capable of this. I think back to when they used to dress to the nines and go to tacky diners, or take each other on drives without disclosing the location to the other; as I know them, they thrive on spontaneity.
Before I can consult them on who we want to pose as, salesman Brian moseys over to us. He asks us if we’re from Morinville.
“We are,” declare the couple, and sink into the background. I lose interest in presenting myself as a successful career woman new to the town.
“What kind of model are you looking at?” asks Brian.
Having all but given up on an improvised act, I look around hesitantly and settle on a two-door Honda Civic. The floppy RCMP moose sitting in the show car's passenger seat knows how I feel.
After making a copy of my driver’s license, Brian hands me the keys and lazily informs me he won’t be joining us for the drive.
“We’re understaffed tonight,” he shrugs.
C’mon, guy, I need a story. Where are your desperate selling tactics and fake pearly whites?
Oh well, I don’t need him, I say to myself, stepping into the driver’s seat. With everyone strapped in, I pull out onto the highway. The acutely angled windshield, designed to make me feel “fast,” battles the speedometer’s in-my-face digital numbers, warning me not to push my luck. Meanwhile, Carmen comments on the Civic’s unsuitability for car seats. I push forward.
The tall prairie grasses on the town’s outskirts soon give way to modest residential areas. We drive a few blocks down to where the couple’s new house is being built. Carmen gushes over the house, the site of her future as nurse, wife and mother. Jean-Marc proudly describes the building process he’s involved in. Dust kicks up in front of us as we leave the Tyvek-wrapped house behind, bumping along the new neighbourhood’s gravel road. I try to empathize with their excitement, but end up feeling more like a distant taxi driver.
Back on Main Street, the paved road doesn’t do much for the car’s not-so-smooth tires and shocks. But the tour continues. We pass by alternating chain-owned stores and local pubs, and back past the wheat pool. The prairie scenery and quiet streets are picturesque, especially framed in the setting sun. But the same sun, blinding my vision, haunts me with a sense of finality. Something about this autumn night makes me uncomfortable in an already rigid seat.
I feel relieved as I relinquish my keys to Brian, regaining a sense of freedom. I give him an ambiguous description of the ride, and he doesn’t seem to care either way. Maybe I had seemed too non-committal to begin with.
“No, no, it’s the credit check,” Jean-Marc explains. “When he took your driver’s license, he went to check information about you to see whether or not you were a worthy client. They have all that stuff on files—you know, whether you have a good job that you could afford a car from.”
He may be right, but I don’t want to believe it. All I want is out of this sickening adults’ game. We walk past the last of 2007’s Honda models to my old Ford Contour. Despite its dent in the back and scratch in the front, and a much less aerodynamic physique than the Civic’s, it has never looked so good.
“So, what are you gonna write about?” asks Carmen. “That was a pretty uneventful ride.”
“I’m going to write about you two, of course,” I smile, knowing I inevitably will. They laugh.
I say goodbye to Carmen and Jean-Marc with a mixture of relief and sadness. Where have their old selves gone? Or have I changed, unable to relate to Carmen anymore? Why can’t I simply be happy for her and leave it at that?
We have both changed, I conclude, as I begin the drive home. Our paths have diverged; so what? Determined to avoid a sinking feeling, I force Highway 2 into becoming the site for a redemptory joy ride. The sun has disappeared. I cruise along with my highbeams on. Edmonton approaches fast.
“Have you forsaken your husband dear, to go with the Gypsy Davy?” sings Woody Guthrie, filling my car with his plaintive voice.
I laugh while I weave through cars and reflective lights.
Yes. I’m still following the Gypsy Davy.