Grass

This is a view you don't see in Beijing. I see this every day.

A year ago I landed in Beijing, China. Before then I had stepped foot on the soil of two countries: Canada (my home and native land) and the United States. Since then I have stumbled through China, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Spain (a bit of a detour).

I chose not to renew my contract at the school despite being welcome to do so. I wanted to review my options and pursue other avenues. I arrived back in New Brunswick at the end of June with relief and joy. The pollution was not oppressive and I could see stars in the sky. It was great.

I went camping and bounced around from city to town for a couple weeks re-uniting with folks I hadn't seen in a long time. I hosted a great storytelling event at the Dooryard Arts Festival (the recording of this event will be available...hopefully soon). I have began writing and work on several projects from a novel to a screenplay to a new website(s) to a non-fiction memoir/how-to and more.

Quite productive.

Then I saw the status updates. Everyone I worked with last year were announcing their impending returns to the urban sprawl of Beijing. They were prepping their classrooms and getting ready for the year and the slew of new students. I wondered if I made a mistake.

This was unavoidable. We tend to build up the alternative options or the choices we didn't make in our minds and calculate the what-ifs. I found myself thinking that maybe the grass was greener on the other side.

Now, in a literal sense this is not true. The grass is definitely more lush in New Brunswick than in Beijing. They both have their pros and cons.

Ability to collaborate with my writing partner (Canada)
Travel opportunities (China)
Career opportunities...aka steady paycheck (China)
Air quality! (Canada)
Independence (China)
Food (China)
Family (Canada)
Car availability (Canada)
Live sports (Canada...well, I can watch the games live in the mornings in China but no beer)

I've been reading more, too.

There are more. I have friends in both places so no matter what I miss people. What I need to be sure to do is not speak or act in definite terms. I may have expressed a notion that I would never return to China or never teach again. This is not accurate, and if I had expressed that it was a mistake. Who knows what the future holds? All I know for certain is that I need to constantly be changing. I cannot settle for the same routine.

I have my projects on the go...I feel good...but there's still a nagging thought that I need to run out the door and back into the wild smoggy yonder. I imagine this may become magnified after the first snowfall and I'm out shoveling for two hours. I love mowing lawns...shoveling snow is the worst thing.

Also, this will likely be the last post on this blog other than to direct you to my new location in conjunction with a bit larger project.

Thanks for reading. Go outside. Put your phone away. Read something interesting.

Disconnect

Pensive atop Parc Guell in Barcelona.

I’m trying to decide which cliché contains more truth: distance makes the heart grow fonder or out of sight, out of mind.

It’s probably both depending on the situation. Context is everything, after all. I moved to Beijing at the beginning of September 2012. It’s only been eight months away from, I guess, home. It has and hasn’t been a struggle.

Over these months, it has been interesting to watch and consider the relationships with people both in Canada and here in China. In Beijing, I’ve become friends with people who may never have crossed my path elsewhere. I’d like to think that some of these people are now lifelong friends as we have been permanently entwined in our journeys. Maybe they will be, or maybe it’s fleeting. I wonder how much of friendship is determined by personal proximity.

I am a ghost. I have been absent for many significant, and possibly minor events that have befallen my friends and family. Babies have been born. Relationships have formed and fallen. Careers have changed. I know about things tangentially and without much detail. This is no one’s fault, and I hold no bitterness. Some have reached out, and some haven’t. I have been better with some more than others. 

In class, we watched the documentary “Spellbound” about eight teenagers competing for the championship at the 1999 National Spelling Bee in Washington, DC. It’s a pretty effective, if slight, look into the lives of these youths. I did some basic digging to see what happened after the movie was released. One of the competitors died in 2007. One of them got pregnant and became a mother at age 18 only to be the beneficiary of a group of concerned citizens wanting to help her achieve her dream of going to university. She graduated university in 2008, apparently, and had the dream of pursuing her master’s and PhD in social work. No new information is available.

Another is a teacher, and even maintains a blog that shecontinues to update. They’re regular people facing regular trials that life throws at them. They likely have had people drift in and out of their experiences over time. This is one of the things I’ve been trying to communicate to my students, as they are the same age as the people in “Spellbound” were when the movie was filmed.

It’s easy to fall into the blame trap or to develop paranoia. There’s no point in wondering if you did something to upset someone, even though it’s a sensible emotional response when feeling separate from what only a few months ago was your reality. It’s also logical that as we age, we don’t remain friends with every person we’ve encountered along the way. This separation happens; it’s unavoidable.

I’m not bitter, though I will excuse anyone who interprets my mood as such. I’m nervous. I’ve been warned about reverse culture shock upon returning to Canadian soil. Will I slide back into the roles that had been established for me prior to my big move, or will things be fundamentally different? Have things really changed as much as they appear or is it all still pretty much the same?

This year has helped me strengthen my independence. Through traveling Spain alone and figuring out my new job on my own, I have grown.

I have also identified a nearly crippling fear of commitment that shouldn’t surprise me. I can’t stay still. Unfortunately, the tenuous nature of relationships when one moves around comes with the territory. Writing this reminded me of an interview with comedian Aziz Ansari as he commented on the oddities of romantic relationships. As the days press on, I am becoming more resigned to the notion that the fading glow is going to happen. I want to be there for people, but the fact is I’m not. I’m here.

Just know that I am neither writing this with tears welling in my eyes nor a scowl furrowing my brow. A wise man said it’s just a ride. The best thing we can do is find a balance between letting go and holding on.

The Band has been on a regular cycle recently. I feel nostalgic and the summer will sate some of my desires for the familiar.

“Oh to be home again

Down in old Virginny

With my very best friend

They call him Ragtime Willy

Woulda been nice to see folks

Listen once again to the stale jokes

The big rockin’ chair won’t go nowhere.

I can hear something calling on me

And you know where I want to be

Oh Willy don’t youhear that sound?”

The song Rockin' Chair is a plea for an old friend to come home. It's a beautiful song about undying friendship and the losses that accompany aging. It's been a cathartic song helping me adjust with, I don't want to say dying but, changing friendships. It gives me that needed boost to know that some of the best is yet to come even though the song is perhaps less optimistic in places.

It's ironic, too, since the Band toured nonstop for many years. The song Danko-Manuel, by the Drive-By Truckers laments the toll the road took on members Rick Danko and the angel-voiced Richard Manuel (who sang the aforementioned Rockin' Chair). 

There will be laughs and tunes and stories to share. Regardless of how distant I've become, for whatever reason, I look forward to the reconnect. 

Cheers.

Words

I came to the other side of the world with the intention of documenting my every move as I navigated the concrete jungle of Beijing and beyond. What followed was a blog post twice monthly until recently when it has almost entirely evaporated.

I told a friend with whom I work that I hate forcing it. While I may be having a great time, and building stories to share, I don't have the drive and I don't see the interest in my daily routine. For the most part, my weeks are fairly commonplace. From Monday to Friday I tend to wake up a little after 7am and get ready for work. Some mornings I have cereal, other times I don't. Some mornings I shower, others I did so the night before; this is usually so I can negotiate a few extra minutes of sleep.

Work goes from 7:50am until 4:00pm (occasionally extended due to meetings). I teach classes to four grade 8 groups and one from grade 6. We talk, we learn, and it's both good and bad; it's like any job in that way. I come home, get supper and may go to the gym...the order is sometimes switched around. Some days I watch a movie or an episode of a television show and other times I go out and see a part of the city, though that doesn't happen as often as maybe it should.

My eyes are drooping.

The truth of the matter is that other than the obvious differences like the language barrier and mega-pollution, life in Beijing is not much different than life at home. It's an adventure and I've had better opportunities for travel -- both to Spain and Vietnam -- but the everyday existence is enjoyable, mundane, sometimes boring, sometimes insane; just like life in Canada. One welcome difference, though, is the weather is getting warmer much sooner.

The problem is that I feel like my writing chops are dulling. It's like any skill, and it requires repetition and practice. It's not quite writer's block. It's more like writer's apathy.

I think I'm trapped looking toward the future. A few weeks ago during a sleepless night (30 consecutive waking hours!) I wrote a monologue about fear. This summer, in Woodstock, New Brunswick, I will be hosting a storytelling event at the fifth annual Dooryard Arts Festival.

This is largely inspired by my love of people's stories and the words chosen to share them. Programs like The Moth, This American Life and WTF With Marc Maron have helped give me a template. The Moth, especially, has given me an example to follow. I have come up with a list of themes for people to share their stories; lost, discovery, and fear.

The monologue I wrote a couple weeks back will be my contribution to the fear theme, and so I don't exactly want to share it here. I'd rather save it for that day. My hope is people will feel comfortable, or at least willing, to open their lives up to the public -- friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers. Sharing your own personal experiences with others can be cathartic. I realize that every day or every week is not going to be possible for me on a blog because I'm more interested in turning it into a conversation; true sharing. I want my stories to be complemented by those of others in a community of storytellers. The truth is we all have stories worth telling and sometimes we just need a little nudge.

I'm hoping it will be a success, perhaps one I will be able to take around to other establishments and events. Is it a pipe dream? Maybe, but anything worth doing usually is predicated by being unsure of whether or not it will fly.


*If you are interested in participating in my storytelling event, or you would like more information, please give me an email at ratedargh@gmail.com. Thank you.

Purgatory

I should have stayed for tea.

Saturdays are for adventuring in Beijing. The rest of the week is predominantly filled with work and the occasional jaunt around the neighbourhood but rarely results in any kind of journey straying too far from familiarity. A knock on the door woke me earlier than my usual Saturday and thus the wheels were put in motion for a day full of surprises, frustration and maniacal laughter.

Amanda, Katie and I made our way to the bus stop at around 11:00 AM. We had to go several stops on Bus 300 toward the south-east of Beijing to meet Jeffrey, a former colleague and current friend also living in the city. The plan was to meet, jump on another bus, and check out a pet/jewelry/plant market (yes...you could buy a rabbit and a necklace in the same place).

Nursing my wounds from the night before was made more difficult by the heavy traffic and stuttering movement of our bus. At our stop I tossed away a half pack of smokes. I made a mental decision that I didn't need them and I'd been cutting back anyway. I later regretted this. We finally met Jeffrey at a Costa Coffee where I downed an Americano and a cereal muffin. We shot the breeze for a while and went on our way.

Another lengthy bus ride brought us to the pet labyrinth. This place is corridor after corridor of various shops with fish, tarantulas, flying squirrels, and more. We browsed and found some depressing spots where the animals live in tiny cages wallowing in their own feces.

It was still an interesting place, and not all animals were being abused (at least not openly). It's another one of those things that certainly wouldn't fly in Canada, in the open, but no one really bats an eye here.

We grabbed a cab to a tea market even further away. The clock read 3:45. I had plans to meet up with a friend back at the apartment at 6:00. I still wanted to shower and relax, so I figured if I cut the tea market out of my schedule, I'd be back at the apartment around 5:00. The traffic was rotten so an hour in transit seemed believable.

Jeffrey said it was not a problem and that a subway station would be nearby. What he meant, though it wasn't clear to me, was that a subway station was several bus stops away from the tea market.

I cursed upon this realization.

Jeffrey asked if I wanted to join them for a couple cups of tea before heading off. I said I'd rather just get on my way. I'm a punctual person, take great pride in being on time when I say I am going to be somewhere. I was admittedly getting a little stressed as we tried, with futility, to flag a cab because I saw my chances at getting a shower were slipping away. I acquiesced and jumped on the bus, waved goodbye and was gone.

Traffic was hell. There were so many stops and very few starts. Finally, I made it after what felt like an eternity. Off the bus I looked for a subway. By now I had become aware that I needed to first take line 1 and transfer to line 10 so I can get back to my neck of the woods: Liangmaqiao Rd. Problem was I couldn't find the subway.

I walked down the street where I assumed it must be. The bus schedule said this stop had a subway station with line 1 on it. I came to a sign that said the station was 200 metres away...in the direction I came from. Confused, I went back that way for several minutes but again couldn't find it.

Past the sign, which I returned to, I walked up a set of steps to an overpass to get a bird's eye view. I looked back in the direction the sign had suggested. In the distance, I made out a subway stop. It was like a level of Doom, though. I could see exactly where I wanted to be but had no real idea how to get there.

For the third time I walked to where the sign was telling me. This time, I crossed the street to a narrow sidewalk. One subway station was obscured by blue walls. It was definitely closed for construction. I was bewildered. A steady flow of people was coming from around the corner ahead of me. Others were walking in that direction. It seemed likely that the subway station was there because it made little sense for these people to be walking through the desolate underpass near a slew of construction. Sure enough, the subway was there.

A subway ticket in Beijing is 2RMB. That is the equivalent to just over 30 cents Canadian. The problem, another of many this day, was I only had one 1RMB bill and two 100RMB bills. Ugh. I tried to buy a subway card with one of the 100s. This way I can just use the card whenever I use the subway. That's when I notice my bank card is gone. The worst case scenario is I left it in the machine when I used it the day before and the next person in cleaned me out. My own stupid haste. As I'm dealing with this, the vendor shakes his head indicating he either can't or won't sell me a card or accept my 100RMB bill.

Back above ground I went to the other subway station just across from the exit of the first one. Fortunately, there was a vendor here who sold me a card and I was on my way again. On the subway, just as the doors closed and it started moving, I noticed the station I was at was a transfer station for line 10; the line I needed to be on. It would have been smart to get off at the next stop and walk across to the other train to go back one stop to make the transfer. I did not think of this and instead went 11 stops to the next transfer line.

"You've got to be kidding me," I yelled.

The entrance to line 10 was gated, closed. If I had read my email more closely this week I would have remembered one specific notice that informed us all that line 10 was going to be closed for work to be done.

The sun had set between the 11 stops.

On the street I recognized nothing. I ended up in a brand new section of town. It didn't matter to me if I was going to drop an extra amount of money for a cab. It was 5:30. The shower was out of the question but if I got a cab quickly enough I would still be able to meet my friend.

Nope.

There were at least ten people, or groups of people, trying to flag down their own cabs.  I walked in some random direction hoping I'd get away from the crowd and have the taxis all to myself. None stopped. Most had passengers in them, but there were a few who simply waved me off or shut off their lights as they approached me. Without any coherent plan, I walked.

Normally, I'd hoof it home no matter how far I had to go. There was one hitch in this idea, though. I did not know what direction to go in. Considering I didn't know anyone, the signs were in Mandarin, and no one spoke English I may have been going completely in the wrong direction. I lost my phone a month ago and haven't replaced it so I couldn't call on anyone for help either.

I saw a bus stop and it dawned on me that I might be able to find the 300 bus and make it home. I sighed in relief when I saw the 300 bus listed at this stop. After waiting a bit, it arrived and I settled in. After a few stops being announced, it seemed like the bus was going away from my road. Another setback.

I got off at the next stop, crossed the overpass, and got on the next 300 bus going in the opposite direction. Somewhere I made a mistake. Two stops after I got on we reached the end of the line and everyone had to get off. I felt like I was in the movie After Hours only without a dead woman or a mob chasing me.

Again I set to walking. And after a few minutes I, again, came across a bus stop with 300 on it. I waited, and for the third time I got on the bus. This time I asked the ticket-seller "Liangmaqiao?" She gave me the universal signal for the number 5 by holding up her hand and digits. I assumed this meant five stops.

"YES!" I yelled repeatedly as I exited the bus on familiar ground. I bounced down the street toward home, finally walking in the door at 8:15. I missed tea, and I missed my friend at the apartment but wow...what a day. My frustration grew for so long until I could do nothing but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Every time it seemed like I was on the right track, something went wrong.

My freezing body was cured by the warmth of the shower, a bowl of cereal and a bottle of water as I curled up on my tiny couch. Any prospects of leaving again had been shot by my ridiculous mishaps.

A day in purgatory had finally been solved and I needed a rest.

Nostalgia

As I teach a unit on media and the messages presented by media to a grade 8 class in Beijing, I can't help but be reminded of my first real gig as a journalist.

I was partway through my third year at St. Thomas University when I got my first crack at an assignment at an actual newspaper. It led to my first full time job the following summer and to what I thought, at the time, would be a long and fruitful career.

This was incorrect.

About a year after the paper opened, it shut its doors.

I'm thinking about it a lot because I've been using stories from my portfolio as exemplars for my students. They are writing interviews and I am giving them my professional writing as examples of format and style.

I have come a long way. My writing and editing has improved ten-fold and I am picking out errors in stories from 2008 that make me groan in 2012.

I am certainly still proud with this work, especially stories like this one where I spoke with Curt Wetmore about his three-week trip to Thailand among others (links will be at the end...in case you would like to peruse my old words -- I have touched them up a tad).

It's interesting to look back and be reminded of something I once felt very strongly about -- and discovering that it may mean just as much now.

Re-reading my long form final piece from journalism school The Death of the Carleton FreePress I recognize some things that I could have done better with it. I should have spoken to Rob Perkins (the former editor from before I arrived) and I should have fought to speak with someone from Brunswick News, and especially Ken Langdon.

Langdon was too busy at the time I was trying to put the story together. He never answered his phone. Perkins probably could have been reached and maybe if I pressed harder I could have gotten someone at BNI to give me his or her perspective on the happenings.

I made a judgment call to write a profile on the staff and how our relationships formed and how it appeared to us as the paper reached its nadir. I am incredibly proud with how it turned out but it could have been more; it could have been something special.

The Carleton FreePress is mostly forgotten now; a distant memory. It's a casual conversation piece that starts with "remember when." I'm not entirely bitter, I swear I'm not...I'm just disappointed in myself that I didn't fight harder for that career.

I've dabbled in it since, and even had a full time gig at the Bugle-Observer in Woodstock and a freelance one at the Daily Gleaner in Fredericton. Something didn't click. It wasn't the staff, they were incredible. Jim Dumville is the best boss I've ever had in my life. Bryan Tait, Jeffrey Bento-Carrier, Peter MacIntosh, Devon Judge, and fellow FreePress alumnus Allison Adair were joys to work with in the editorial side of things. In fact, everyone at the paper with whom I had regular contact helped make it a great working environment.

Before being offered the full time job, and while I was freelancing for the Gleaner, I applied to education school at St. Thomas University...my alma mater. Ultimately, a few months into my job at the Bugle, I got accepted to school and worked my way through the summer looking ahead to change. It was difficult to keep my head in the journalism game as I thought about the impending finish. I still worked hard but had grown to dislike court reporting (which I did every week) and I'll admit my attitude suffered down the stretch.

I hope it doesn't seem like sour grapes, it's just that I am recognizing my own shortcomings at a job where I still have so much to give. Before moving to Beijing, I had started freelancing again at the Bugle-Observer and I wrote one of my favourite articles yet (hopefully I can grab a copy and post it).

Then I was whisked away to a new, mysterious place half a world away. How could I pass up this opportunity? Easy answer: I couldn't...so I didn't.

As I teach this course, my heart swells with nostalgia. I think of the Carleton FreePress and the incredible feeling it gave me at the time. I think of journalism school, which nearly broke my love of the job but prepared me for it in ways I was possibly unaware of until now. I think of my colleagues who have moved on to God knows where (I can't track down Bob Rupert, my FreePress editor). I think of how I was the first (other than Gleaner reporter Adam Bowie) to get a full time job while in j-school and how many never continued in the business.

I'll return to journalism, I know this. The best part is that pursuing my bachelor of education and teaching english and journalism has helped make me a better writer and editor.

For now I'll bask in the glow of nostalgic feelings as I read old work and shudder at rookie mistakes. It was the time of my life.

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Great Wall or Greatest Wall?

The Great Wall of China is one of those places where you can’t help but have exorbitant expectations prior to experiencing it. What those expectations entail is likely a litany of vague, second-hand information or photographs. You can subdue those expectations by trying to convince yourself that it’s “just another place.”

You would be right if you stopped at the main gates of the Mutianyu section after walking through the preliminary crowds and past the aggressive street vendors as they shill their wares at inflated prices – I got a pair of sunglasses for 20 Yuen when I was first asked to pay was 85. Once you’re past these early distractions and begin the climb, to whatever area you have entered, it takes on a life of its own.

The feeling of impending awe will loom as you walk up the steep walkways and stairwells. Before reaching the actual wall, people were already resting on the side. It is an arduous climb but any pain or stress will immediately disappear when you come to the stairs leading to the wall. Reaching the top I looked out across the landscape at mountains in the hazy distance and saw the wall stretch for what seemed like infinity in every direction. To be standing on one of the only man-made structures that can be seen from space carries a feeling of insignificance and wonder that I don’t think I have ever reached before.

We walked, we joked, we haggled for beer, and we saw a small fraction of a magnificent place. Down in the valleys sat villages of tin roofed houses, shacks and invisible locals. Talking with another Westerner after returning from the trip I was told that many people who live in areas near the wall have likely never even been to Beijing and yet here we were venturing to their necks of the woods. It makes sense. The lives of these people are still a secret to us. The people who worked the area weren’t likely locals from the Wall. They spoke decent English and had items for sale that certainly weren’t hand woven or carved. My real or knock-off Ray Bans were not assembled down in the valley.

The come down was inevitable. For such a large portion of the day I flew high, astounded at every sight my eyes fell upon. Leaving after a quick meal and belt of coffee trying my best to lose myself in my headphones a heavy sense of emptiness descended. I was returning to routine, to a sense of normalcy. I had experienced the extraordinary and had returned to the ordinary -- this is only in the context of living in China, which upon extra thought is not all that ordinary in my case.

I sat on a cannon on the Great Wall. That is not something that happens every day or, in most cases, ever.

Going to such a breathtaking and incredible place will be a personal journey for all those who enter. You may share it with friends as you hike together but everyone will feel their own individual and emotional rush. To predict how one might react to the place inwardly is impossible.

                                                     

 It is a place to be seen, a place to behold. It is certainly a place but it is one unlike any other. Obvious sentiments, sure, but words cannot do it justice.

Grey skies and blue water

From my trip to the art district two weeks ago.

The sky was a haze of grey this morning. For the first time in a week or more the sky lacked any hue of the pure blue we had grown, perhaps foolishly, accustomed to. It felt clean and today felt musty.

Beijing is a city of excessive crowds. It's surprising, though, that I have yet to feel helpless (came close once or twice when trying to communicate with a late night cabbie, but we managed to see eye to eye). It's easy when you're surrounded with people who know the ropes and are willing to show them to you. After a time, though, there must be a point where it becomes a hassle. Possibly not, but I know that I don't want to constantly be in need of piggy backing in order to get where I want to go. In a city this large, where I can be anonymous, I will savour the occasional hour or two of solitude I can muster outside the confines of campus life.

For that's what it is; a campus. It's first year all over again in many respects, only I have an entire apartment to myself; a step up. The communal life is a great social experience. Being in such close confines we are forced to get to know one another quickly. I could slam and lock my door and be a hermit but that would be alienating and no fun.

Solitary time is rare, and that makes it all the more necessary to nab when you can. Saving sleep for the only time you are alone with your thoughts is a dangerous enterprise, you may lose yourself and find a day where up and down are interchangeable. Some may function well in that chaotic landscape of constant stimulation, not I.

I went swimming. We have a pool in our school. I have been planning to abuse its presence since I arrived nearly three weeks ago but have been lazy and/or otherwise preoccupied. In other words: I have not made time for it and instead have sat on my ass on the couch watching Supernatural and telling myself I would swim eventually.

The poolside and the pool itself were empty. I looked around for a lifeguard. I found him in the side office talking on his cell phone and lying down on a cot. He waved me to the pool assuring me it was fine. He got up, walked around the sidelines a bit as I started my laps. I am not a professional swimmer; I barely qualify as amateur it turns out. I was gassed after ten minutes. Four laps in, with several pauses to catch my breath, I looked up expecting to see the clock had gone half an hour. I had, indeed, been in the water ten minutes. Despite being the only one there, I knew I'd feel severe shame and embarrassment if I quit that soon. I pushed, got a second wind, and improved my times by the end.

I don't think the chlorine was especially good for my skinned foot. During the protest, when our school was closed, some teachers had a pick up game of soccer baseball. Something about that game brings out the competitive bull in me. I tried, and succeeded, in stretching a single into a double. I dove head first and the top of my foot skidded on the turf. Returning to the field after the inning I looked down to inspect a sharp pain and the skin on the top of my foot was gone in two places. It's healing thanks to the generous gift of polysporin and band aids from my colleagues.

It was much worse.

Shanghai in a week.

Time to channel our inner vagabonds!

This may be the final entry in February. The only writing I plan on doing over the next couple days is my long form piece on the Carleton FreePress. It's my final assignment before my university career at long last is over.

So why does this spell the end of the month so soon?

I'm glad you asked!

Horatio and I, who have been planning a trip of some sort for a while now, are going to be heading down the dusty trail to the United States. With a stop in Pittsburgh to see Ben Folds we will then continue to Nashville, Tennessee for a couple days before returning north. It should be a week-long odyssey.

Upon my return I will need to finish the final copy of my long form and then I will be whisked away to Montreal to see the Canadiens host the Sharks.

It's a whirlwind of activity that is needed because isolation and staying in one place adhering to a strict schedule of repetition is extremely inane and unfulfilling. So read a book. Watch some movies. Write a song. Fill the time in whatever productive way you can.

Cheers,

JCW

Let's hit the road!

Okay, it's November. The days are shorter and the darkness is engulfing everything. It's no shock that by 9:00 pm it's pitch black out, but you can't see a thing at 5:30 anymore! Soon the snow will hit and we'll all be going stir crazy. There is only one surefire solution to the growing anxiety and stress of the season.

Escape!

My good buddy and pal Horatio Faust and I are planning a road trip in my trusty automobile, a Cabrio nobly named Rocinante. Where we will travel, we do not know, but it is not the destination that makes the voyage. You see the destination is only a section of the greater whole. It is a neccessity, but it should represent equal value with the rest of the trip.

When planning a road trip I am of the opinion that it should have a very loose itinerary. Set nothing in stone and leave pretty much everything up for debate and make it easy to change at the drop of a hat. If you plan on going to Toronto and you meet someone suggesting a side trip to New York instead, why say no to an impromptu adventure?

It's time that I put my desires to rest and act upon them. Reading On the Road, The Catcher in the Rye, Death in the Afternoon, Tropic of Cancer among other books has driven me nearly mad with curiosity and an inherent need to see more of the world than I have. The solution is to simply do it.

So Horatio and I will embark on a journey, hopefully to last a week. We do not know exactly where the road will take us but it will whisper the direction into our ears and our minds as the days go by. The road is life dear travelers, let us discover it together.