Travelling Solo

I know of few things in this troubled world that are more wonderful than taking the bus alone, with no real destination in mind and with no one to meet at the other end. I know of few things that are more enjoyable than the serenity the mind experiences at having no obligations in terms of where to go or what to do. It is an explorer's joy. It is, once again, freedom.

On the eleventh day of May, I took a day off school. I have since resolved to, whenever possible during my life, take the eleventh day of every month off. I walked onto the 105 at 10 in the morning with the half-formed notion of going downtown to look at books or music (ah, but what else?). The bus was as empty as I have ever known it to be, as were the streets of Montreal-West (although Ste-Catherine, of course, was an entirely different scene). I have never known such quiet excitement as I felt stepping onto that bus, with nearly everyone I knew either sweltering in a classroom or running around the hospital (and it is interesting how so many of my acquaintances place in one of those two categories). The list of beautiful things is from that day, as is my copy of Forever Changes (really really good. no, really. check it out).

All this only serves as a constant reminder of my nomadic tendencies. There is so much to see, and I have no doubt that I will see much of it.

Love, reign over me.

I've found it. After so long and so much seeking.

Freedom. Freedom is a state of mind. You are free when you know you are free.

Home. Home is wherever you want it to be. The world has never been larger.

Monumental. I've found me, and I'll always have me wherever and whenever I am. I'll not worry about the future or the past or the present.

I've ripped out the last few pages of my diary. Yes, I had a diary. It's the first diary I've ever finished -- not finished all the pages of the book, but finished the book. I came to the end, so I stopped.

I know, I know I've made this impossible to understand. I couldn't have done it any other way.

Reorganizing.

I don't really like pizza all that much, but whenever my parents tell me they've ordered it for dinner, I invariably and inexplicably find myself filled with joy.

I know why, too. I remember. I remember when I used to come home from skiing, utterly exhausted, and I'd strip off my sweats and curl up on the couch in the livingroom that only I seem to find comfortable enough to sleep on (because I spent so many years of my life stretched out on it reading) with the radio on, waiting.

I have realised that I really don't need to worry about the future at all. As long as I am a free spirit, nothing will touch me.

Travel light.

Sinemaya gidemeyeceğim çünkü meşgulüm

"Hey, I'm playing all the wrong notes! Sounds great!"

-Neil

Excerpt from my book

Sinemaya gidemem: I can't go to the cinema.

Sinemaya gitmeyebilirim: I might not go to the cinema.

Sinemaya gidemeyeceğim: I won't be able to go to the cinema.

Sinemaya gidemeyebilirim: I might not be able to go to the cinema.

You were always a shadow to me. I want to be I want to be I want to be free.

Anyone want to suggest a Beethoven sonata?

"...and I thought, well, if I've got a big nose, it's a groove and it's the greatest thing that can happen because, I don't know, it's like a lighthouse or something."

-Pete Townshend in a Rolling Stone interview

My internet has been misbehaving.

I want to be a PIRATE.

Notes From a School Year, Part Two

Doodles from notebooks and the like. 54 000 minutes is plenty of time to waste. Observe the unbelievable difference between my own pencil scribbles (the stick figures) and Jocelyne/Alicia's (the artwork).

Such sad balloons.

So why am I posting this? Well, I actually find it very interesting to look over this kind of thing when the year is over. It doesn't really let anyone perceive my state of mind or anything, but it's interesting anyway.

Lots of eyes, I know.

Alicia, obviously. I just added the wings. Unfortunately, she tears most of her things up before I can get my hands on them.

With my scribbles, I like to think that it's the thought that counts. Something's got to.

Jocelyne did the next. My agenda is full of drawings, thanks to her.

Apologies for the poor quality of many of the scanned images.

Useless.

Three paths diverged in a wood, and I
I sat down and wondered for fifteen years.

And it wasn't even that simple; you see,
each one of those three paths was subdivided
over and over and over
again, so even after you'd made your initial choice
you'd have to do it again
over and over and over
till you came to a little cave, a little hole or something
where you'd stay forever and ever.

Hooray for society.

I still don't know what I'm looking for.

Yes, I have just come very close to titling my blog post after a U2 song.

It's a memory. It's a feeling. It is a place and a time and an event and none of these at all. It is the greatest moment, something I must at all costs regain, and it is something that may never have happened. It is the mystery within my mind, a mystery that only I can solve.

And yet...if what I seek is so important (because it is, is is...it is more important than I can fully express in words), why have I never come close to achieving it? Wvery time something reminds me of it, the sensation fades before I can recall anything more than the following:

-it may have something to do with a bar
-it may have something to do with a school trip
-it may have something to do with a film
-it may be connected to a certain album which Ariel let me listen to and which I subsequently bought for under eight dollars (it certainly revolves around music)

In fact, I should perhaps have called this post something entirely different.

Yeah, but look at my face, ain't this a smile?
I'm happy when life's good
And when it's bad I cry
I've got values but I don't know how or why

Leading in a dark place.

Each paragraph: to be read in the context of the other.

Of late, I have been plagued by an ever-increasing cynicism. Once, when the world was young, I was quite content to enjoy any story that came my way -- any novel, any film, any dinner-table banter. Yet I now demand an added sophistication to stories, a sophistication of a level so elevated that I find myself rarely entertained. In short, I have become a snob, and oh how I suffer.

I saw Ratatouille with my family today. It was alright.

Mmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmm mmm mmmm mmmmmm mmm. Mmmm mmm mmm? Mmmm mmm! Mmmm mmm mmmm mm! Mmmmm mmm mmm, mmm mmm...mm...mm...uh. Right. Right. Uh....

Turunju, meet....

Standard Fender Stratocaster HSS (two single-coil pickups & one humbucking, solid alder body and maple neck, tremolo), rosewood fretboard, "Midnight Wine".

Yesss.

Waves.

I like summer.

Did I really think it was a good idea to walk all the way across downtown with twenty picture books in my backpack...just because I didn't want to pay an extra dollar?

Yes, I did. I did indeed.

Hey, now I've been through the jazz festival three times.

I'm not pessimistic either, actually.

Happy Canada Day!

Excerpt from notebook

Flying (landing) through the rain was an exhilarating experience. The Ottawa airport, however, is the source of some of the most dismal sights I have yet encountered. A tiny restaurant called Toast! -- one counter, two tables, and a small refrigerated soft-drink display. An ancient playplace for children -- an upright prism of three corners and an open side intended to simulate a cockpit and decorated with a minimal number of white switches and bulky, plastic microphones. Ten chairs alone and unoccupied in a large, wheelchair-accessible carpeted space a few feet off the ground, close toe three antiquated vending machines -- Coca-cola, Montclair and a dispenser of packaged snacks. Unidentified gates, unopened windows, unused phone booths. I love it. I wish I had a camera to complement my words.

The old terminal (a single corridor) is deserted at night (8:00 p.m.), but for gate 22, where the Montreal-bound are concentrated (less than 30 of us, sitting as if in hushed reverence of our surroundings). On the wall hangs this message, handwritten in black Sharpie and accompanied by an arrow pointing the way:

GATES

1-18

GO THRU

WALKWAY

TO

NEW BLDG

The plane has arrived. I wonder if they'll pre-board.


k, time to talk about shopping

I finally bought sandals. I also found this awesome store by the White Rock beach.


Shopping talk over. Book review.

Johnathan Livingston Seagull, Richard Bach

I read this book awhile ago. I suggest you do too, if you haven't already. It's...well, it's really good. Suitably strange and in every way memorable. Really, though, it's just one of those books that affects certain people more than it probably should, and I'm one of those people.

Here I am!