I purchased a new camera recently that I haven’t yet had a chance to fool around with. It has a lot of settings and options that I have no idea how to use, but would like to invest the time into learning. I bought it from a company in the States that sold it along with a collection of lenses and filters and tripods and not one but two cameras bags. It’s hands down the highest-end camera equipment I’ve owned.

The intent is to use it for some new projects. I’m no photographer. Picture taker, sure, but it’s been over a decade since that photography course I took in college, and I’ve long forgotten the ins and outs of apertures and f-stops and shutter speeds. That photography course was a favourite of mine. We worked with black and white film in dark rooms. I remember the shuttle-like door we had to step through; the pure blackness of the space where we stood at a counter and removed the strips safely, fumbling with our invisible hands; the smell of the chemicals in the small white trays. Tricks with exposure and the burning of images into contact sheets. I miss it. My sister, who is constantly surprising me with her own photography prowess, is going to give me a few pointers when i visit the family in June.

This past week I suffered a bout of what I’ve deemed “creation rage.” No sooner had I wrapped up “Ghost World/Real World” that I learned about a terrific-looking critical edition of the graphic novel that’s due out in July. What’s more, Pacific Cinematheque announced an event celebrating the release of a book about Vancouver film locations that I dreaded would step all over my next bit of blogging, or at least rob from the joy of obsessively combing through shots for landmarks. This isn’t the first time synchronicity has reared its ugly head when I’ve wanted to create something. My rage was satiated a bit by this great blog that answers the eternal question, “Why bother?” We bother because the work is never done. The thought is never said. No result is going to be as precise as the one we produce on our own. So write the millionth love song. People will hear it if it’s the right song for them.

I received a copy of that film locations book in the mail today. The launch featured a talk from some industry and scholar types, who raised some interesting points about Vancouver’s identity, particularly one about it being a “non-place” lacking a history, an observation I recall Douglas Coupland making a few years back. There’s something key to the Vancouver consciousness in that point. I have a feeling it feeds into how difficult it is to connect with people here. It has something to do with a regionally championed artifice, a not-quite-realness, a schizophrenia of place that’s reflected in the city’s stacked neighbourhoods. I’m going to take a closer look at the book soon. It focuses quite a bit on some obscure Canadian flicks, which should make for a neat read beyond the expected “Wesley Snipes stalking vampires in Gastown” material.

ghostworldrealworld:

The End.

(Sixth Street Viaduct, Los Angeles, California: April 2013)

Where Enid Goes:

I’m wrapping up “Ghost World/Real World” today. All of the location shots are now posted. Thanks a lot for checking it out!

Mapcrunch.com (basically a random Google Street View generator) is one of my favourite websites. I love to fire it up occasionally and let it plop me in the middle of nowhere. One of these days I’d like to base an entire trip around it. It even lets you take advantage of Google’s “inside view,” which takes you into certain buildings. Like this shop in Denmark that appears to be some sort of spa that treats your feet with fish.

thecinematheque:

THE DARK CRYSTAL just showed up at our office on 35mm! 

Screening on Sunday, May 19- 1pm @ The Cinematheque - ALL AGES WELCOME! 
With an introduction from our Education Department, and a puppetry demonstration by Lost & Found Puppet Co., this is one you won’t want to miss.

Special Pricing: $6 kids / $9 adults
http://thecinematheque.ca/cinema-sunday/the-dark-crystal

Part of Family Frights at the Cinematheque, AKA my dream series.

The May 2013 issue of The Steel Chisel is now online, featuring:

In the Wormhole
Roland Prevost

Arriving Mystified
Pamela Mosher

No More Nostalgic Poems
Ryan Pratt

spectacle/spectator
Janna Payne

How to Kiss the Prime Minister
Jeff Blackman

Do it. Whatever it is, whether it takes a second or six months, get it done and put it out there.

Don’t care about what others think. Or care, but realize that what others think shouldn’t dictate how you create, or how often. Snarky articles will always outnumber honest-to-goodness projects 10 to 1. They have their place, but their importance is secondary. Express yourself however you want. Accept criticism, and work to understand which kinds of criticism are valid. Most of all, find the courage to put utter silence and an absolute lack of reaction into context, and let that feed what you create rather than cut it off at the knees.

Don’t let people tell you that what you do is shit. And don’t assume that’s what they believe if they’re not telling you how they feel to your face. Remember that there are a lot of sad, lonely, wretched people in the world. They struggle with themselves every day. A lot of them, at one time or another, will create something beautiful too. And they’ll doubt the hell out of themselves. And it will be no different than what you experience when you’re struggling with your own ideas.

Take a picture of your food and post it on Instagram. Do it NOW. I want to see it and salivate and wish I was eating it. Take a billion pictures of yourself in the mirror and choose the best ones and turn them into profile pictures to show people what you look like, to show yourself how good you can look. Take pictures of your kitchen and your cat and the sun hitting a puddle at your feet and write witty, childlike captions. Knit something. Turn your old television into some weird Joseph Conrad-inspired diorama. Write an ambling blog entry that’s far too long. I promise I’ll read it. I’ll start at the first word and make my way to the last. Tell the truth, as best you can. Integrity is a very simple principle with a lot of crap attached, like marine weeds on a ship’s hull. Don’t let it pull you under. Cut into the surf.

Don’t worry about the unoriginality of your ideas. Not much is unique anymore. It’s okay. Keep trying. You might get lucky. Or don’t worry at all about being unique. Don’t worry about being special, or cool, or cliché, or small. Don’t worry about living up to everything your parents told you before tucking you in at night. No matter who you are, your colour, your class, your address, art is hell. Communicating effectively is next to impossible. You will always be at a loss. Tell people about it. Reach for their ears and eyes and don’t stop until your joints give way. And then make something out of those gorgeous dislocated joints of yours. Okay?

To Rome with Love (Woody Allen, 2012)

It took me three years to make it inside the Vancouver Aquarium. Jellyfish, octopuses, sloths, penguins, dolphins, otters, belugas, bats, tarantulas, and a score of other wildlife were my reward. A “4D” movie presentation told the story of grizzly bears trudging down from snow-capped peaks to hunt for salmon in astounding slow motion as jets of water shot out from the seats, bubbles floated in front of the screen during underwater shots, and odours were injected into the air to mimic the smell of grasslands like some kind of ecologically sound Vincent Price B-picture.

Once in a while a certain unique word comes up in conversation, and for the next few days it won’t leave you alone. Lately it’s been “compartmentalize,” arising on three unique occasions. Wikipedia defines it as “an unconscious psychological defense mechanism used to avoid cognitive dissonance, or the mental discomfort and anxiety caused by a person’s having conflicting values, cognitions, emotions, beliefs, etc. within themselves.”

We create spaces within ourselves when the rooms get too full, or when a neighbouring thought insists on blasting the TV at all hours of the night. Lately I’ve been feeling like a hoarder, looking around at the things collecting dust in the attic, arranging them into piles and slowly realizing that no matter where I put things, the room is only going to be so big, and that I might be better off building an extra wing.

I have a few items on a list. A blueprint. In addition to the dull concrete of paying taxes, there are the skylight installations and closet extensions of yoga and orienteering around the corner. After I finish “Ghost World/Real World” (which you should follow if you don’t already; I’m really proud of how it’s coming along, and I’ll be out of content in a few days), I have a bead on a new blog I’m going to start. There’s a new issue of The Steel Chisel coming out on Monday, and it shouldn’t disappoint. I’ve eaten at new restaurants this week. I’ve listened to “Give Up” by The Postal Service on fresh vinyl. I’ve watched a giant turtle feed from the bottom of a shark tank. And done a few more things to let a bit more light in.

Cause it’s gonna burn you, and it’s gonna blind you
And it’s gonna tear you arm from arm

“A desire path (also known as a desire line, social trail, goat track or bootleg trail) can be a path created as a consequence of foot or bicycle traffic. The path usually represents the shortest or most easily navigated route between an origin and destination. The width of the path and its erosion are indicators of the amount of use the path receives. Desire paths emerge as shortcuts where constructed ways take a circuitous route, or have gaps, or are lacking entirely.”

More at Wikipedia.

I watch “Titanic” once a year, typically in March, because it reminds me of the week I flew out to Kamloops to visit my then girlfriend in 1998. Last year I watched it twice, once in theatres for the 3D release, and then again after deboarding a ferry from Victoria on the day that happened to coincide with the 100-year anniversary of the sinking. With the trip this year, “Titanic” was generally far from mind. I opted to rent “Ghosts of the Abyss” from iTunes tonight, James Cameron’s documentary on the wreckage that I’d never gotten around to seeing.

The film is solid, dripping with Cameron’s typically cheesy bravado, but delivering a haunting portrayal of our fascination with Places Where Stuff Happened. Regardless of your feelings on grave robbery, the very idea that there still exists a veritable tomb on the ocean floor that has gone largely uninvestigated until recently is enough to overinflate the curiosity. But Titanic is extra compelling as an archaeological artifact due to its out-of-reachness. While what’s left of the ship has been picked over mercilessly, its depth allows no diver to touch its rusticle-infested steel as it lays. You can get close, within an oxygen-deprived breath, but the robots have to do the rest.

A poignant observation arrives from one scientist in the film: “In archaeology, we carry these ghosts of the imagination with us.” For all my nostalgic tendencies, studying history has rarely appealed to me. The disconnect between the page and the event disconnects my interest. Moreover, learning about the event - the speech, the victory, the sinking - doesn’t provoke the same kind of sympathy the way a work of art does. It’s the way a work of art can portray a speech, victory, or sinking that moves me.

All the same, I identify with that haunted feeling. The event has to mean something to the archaeologist. I’ve experienced my share of meaningful events, of meaningful works of art, of guiding forces over my emotions and spirit. Lines of poetry. Perfectly composed shots. An awkward goodbye that occurred too soon on a particular street corner. These experiences linger. They pull me back and push me forward. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be found in a ditch, dusting centuries-old dirt away from bones or shattered clay. But I’ll let the ghosts lead me all the same.

ghostworldrealworld:

So what do you do if you’re a Satanist, anyway?

Sacrifice virgins and stuff.

Well, that lets us off the hook.

(Lincoln Boulevard and Zanja Street, Venice, Los Angeles, California: April 2013)

Reblogging my own stuff is tacky, I know, but I’ve started this Tumblr of location shots from “Ghost World.” I’m going to be superimposing characters into them, and providing bits of dialogue for context. Uber nerdy, but fun. Please follow!

Back in my apartment in Vancouver, my mind cross-stitches the rest of 2013. I have two weddings to attend, both in or near Ottawa, at the end of June and middle of August. Do I turn it into one long trip, or make separate trips? Do I take the opportunity to visit the east coast while I’m back? New York? Three other big trips force their way into the pattern. One to Australia and Japan. One to Scandinavia by way of London. The last to the midwestern United States. I’m not sure I’ll be entirely satisfied after these trips are taken, but they would go a long way in convincing me I’ve seen a good part of the world for being in my mid-30s.

They would require a year and a half of planning, all told. Every two months or so, I have to be back in Vancouver to have my teeth looked at. I’m anchored here. It’s time to start embracing that. I want to move, start fresh in a new apartment. Maybe one closer to Kitsilano, where I seem to spend a lot of my time these days. The apartment has to be dog friendly. I want to add a pet into my life. I want that responsibility, that loyalty to be something I confront daily.

I could have a new place for June 1st, get settled before I have to think about being gone again. I’d have to keep two apartments for a month, but the overlap would be nice, give me plenty of time to make the transition. Today I looked up availabilities on Craigslist, made an appointment to see a place, got five minutes from my apartment and stopped. It’s too soon for this. The math doesn’t add up. I don’t know how to make it add up. The figures just dance in the air, and I can’t yank them down into something rational, or at least inexpensive.

There is an order to things. I know it. I will have to visit Ontario before I move into a new place. I will have to move into a new place before I have a dog. But then I loop back - travelling would be harder with an animal. Do I want to feel rooted or rootless? I want home to be everywhere, with all things.

Finally allowing myself to become a Vancouverite will mean that I’ll finally have to accept Ontario’s pull for what it is - the effect of a familial bond. I’ll still have to sweep into Ontario two or three times a year to check up on it, because I love it. But I can’t keep treating Vancouver like the treehouse I retreat to whenever my parents are fighting. Especially when there’s such a fantastic view from up here.

At some point this year, regardless of my travel plans, I’ll have to flip the switch. I need a new place to stay. My neighbour plays the piano. Several times a day, the sound carries through the wall. Always the same songs. Always the same intrusion. I remind myself that I’ve been an obnoxious musician to my neighbours in the past, and summon everything inside not to complain. But I want out of this room that’s haunted by the same old songs. It’s been three years. I want new music.

Starbucks is one of the first places I seek out when I travel somewhere new. It came in handy especially in the States, where I wasn’t able to use my phone to look up directions and surf for information. They have the best coffee. I know the Wi-Fi will work. Everything in the restaurant is geared toward sealing its patrons inside a serene, Damien Rice-soundtracked bubble of atypical workdays.

I’ve been to more Starbucks locations in Vancouver than I can count, including the shops that were once kitty-corner to each other on Robson Street. My personal favourite is located on Burrard Street at West 3rd Avenue. I came upon it a couple of years back after crossing the Burrard Street Bridge on foot, when it appeared on the horizon like a smoking chimney on the Matterhorn. While not all Starbucks are created equal, they’re generally my preferred places to get work done in public. They afford me a nice break from the solitude of the home office, and allow me to be productive and people watch at the same time.

I’ve probably turned into more of a yuppie (yipster?) than my younger Kurt Cobain worshiping self ever intended. Vancouver is overly saturated with coffee shops, and it’s hard not to fall into their ever-loving embrace when you’re dragging a laptop around, in search of a signal. I’ve written and edited millions of words in coffee shops by now, ingested litres of Pike Place Roast and a multitude of loaves and scones. Starbucks provides an underrated and important brand of security, and it deserves the following haiku:

Starbucks, I love you
I always find a seat and
need no room for cream

If Vancouver were to undergo open-heart surgery, Victoria Drive is where the surgeon would make the incision. I’ve walked it between East Georgia and Broadway a hundred, two hundred times by now. Listened to innumerable songs on its sidewalks on my way to pick up groceries or catch a train. It’s more downbeat than Commercial Drive. Elderly Italian lawn bowlers gather in droves at Victoria Park when the rain allows. Further south, dog owners play fetch with their companions at McSpadden, where nearly three years ago I sat and watched an outdoor screening of “The NeverEnding Story” by myself, through the haze of marijuana smoke tumbling down its slight incline by the back fence.

I’ve had so many thoughts while walking that street. So many big and little ideas. So many impressions of the direction my life is headed, and reminders to myself that I have no clue, not really. Thoughts about love and passion and right and wrong on loops. Decisions made and lines crossed silently. The weight of a giant box of cereal to get me through the week, battling with two shopping bags and an umbrella, pausing to check my phone at the 1st Avenue intersection, a crosswalk I can never seem to hit at just the right moment.

Today I walked to the grocery store for the first time in weeks, picked out my items, put them through the self-scanner, and realized I’d forgotten my wallet. This process, so common at one time, has become alien to me somehow. Since moving to Vancouver I’ve routinely forgotten at least one item almost every time I leave my apartment. Unless I lay everything out on the bed, unless I take my time with it, I’ll leave something behind, too distracted by the voice in my chest screaming, “You need to be outdoors.”

It worries me a bit. I wonder what else I’m capable of forgetting, if these things will become bigger and affect my life more drastically, if I’ll begin to forget locations, people, emotions. It’s just a wallet, a set of keys, a pair of earphones. But this forgetting has become a small part of who I am.

There must be a benefit. In some evolutionary way, my body is forcing me to erase the things I should find familiar by now. Victoria Drive may be a brand new strip of sidewalk one day. I may take it to the store, past the parks, forget where I am, why I was going there. I may check my pockets to make sure everything is in place. But the brand newness will find me, one way or the other.