Life Imitates Art

"They would not find me changed from [him] they knew / Only more sure of all I thought was true" 

--Robert Frost--

Last night I was lying in bed, staring at my arm. Not so long ago it was bare. In the space of a couple of months it has been poked and prodded and outlined and colour-stained by ink. And today, I had my final appointment to complete my half-sleeve tattoo.

I was thinking about this shift inside of me in the last few years, from a place of drear and apathy, to a latitude of unlimited zeal and iridescence, and how this tattoo is really quite reflective of not just an obvious physical change, but a psychological metamorphosis also.


Let's wind the clock back. There was a time not so long ago that if you would have asked me if I would ever get a tattoo I would have responded emphatically in the negative. The reasons were wide and varied, from the implications it might have for my career, to how unattractive it would look once everything started to migrate south.


Sometimes I look back at the unyielding way I've thought about many different things in my life and cringe. In hindsight, I'd formed these views because it was the 'right thing to do', or because I was scared of failure; of making mistakes. I frequently decided to err on the side of caution rather than throwing caution to the wind.

The process of growing up is strange. There are very distinct parts of me that I know will never change: the importance of family and friends; entrenched core values like honesty and loyalty; and a constant pursuit for self-betterment. The other parts are more malleable than I'd originally thought - like the part that could not deal with the permanency of a tattoo.


I've been hatching my skin art plan for about a year. I had resolved in myself the fact that I obviously wanted to do it since it had been on my mind for so long. My logical brain kicked in several times to battle against my hipster tendencies, but ultimately it failed in its pursuits. Anyway, when I'm a lawyer I can wear long-sleeved shirts. And when I'm old and wrinkly sitting in my recliner in a nursing home somewhere am I really going to look down at my skin and regret what is staring back at me?


So if it's a mistake, then it's a welcome mistake. It's proof that I was willing to do what I wanted to do without regard for circumstance or popular opinion. It's a reminder that I've lived my life vicariously and fully, wherever the winding road has taken me. And when push comes to shove, who really fucking cares anyway?

Anec-date

Today I took a girl out on a date. She's 27. About five foot seven. Average build. Short blonde hair. Bit of a nerd. Not my usual type at all. But I gave it a crack anyway. We used to spend quite a bit of time together earlier in the year. I got to know her pretty well. Seems like she has a pretty good head on her shoulders, well most of the time. She can be a bit of a dickhead too.


Conversation was sparse. Well, non-existent actually. We sat in silence the entire time. It was marvellous. We had coffee and wrote in our journals. We revelled in the comfort of being surrounded by strangers. 


I think I'll ask her out again next Monday.

Changing Season. Changing Heart.

The weather warms
the sun hits my back and breathes life into me
flowers in their beds begin to wake up
leaves clothe the once naked trees
the new season brings with it a new perspective


I'm grown now
I'm ready to move forward
but the pull of the past is still too strong
it holds me with its steadfast grip
it's not ready to let me move on
and neither am I 

Facing Reality

I haven't written for a while. I've conjured up excuses in my head as to why. I'm working more; full time hours now with Monday and Tuesday off. I've made more friends and I have a social life that I participate in perhaps too veraciously. I don't sleep much, especially not in this sub-tropical weather we're experiencing. The heat of Summer also means that there is so much more to do. Free festivals wherever you care to look. The city is vibrant and bustling and pulsing with life. It is a stark contrast to the sombre Tronts I met all those months ago in January. My city, my friend, has changed. As have I.


The more excuses I invent, the clearer it starts to become that the reason I haven't been writing is that I have a life now. A life here in Tronts. One totally separate and distinct from the one I have back in Brisbane. This isn't just a short-term adventure any more. This is a period of time that is going to have consequences for the rest of my life.


When I leave here in a few short months, I will leave not just a job or a house or a city. I'll be leaving behind people I've come to genuinely care about and feel very privileged to call my friends. In essence, I'll be leaving one life to return to another.


So I guess that's why I haven't been writing. To me this is just my life now. And maybe, just maybe, it would be a little egotistical of me to think anyone would want to read about it.

Al-truism

While I was working on Saturday I overheard two customers talking about altruism. It was the opinion of the man speaking that no human act is ever truly altruistic. And I tend to agree with him.

I'd like to think of myself as being somewhat altruistic, but isn't that in itself just me being egotistic? If we think we're doing a good deed, are we just in reality servicing the needs of ourselves?

My eavesdropping triggered me to think about random acts of kindness and the relinquishment of selfishness for the betterment of others. I thought about people who give up their organs and blood donors, and foster parents, and volunteers. And I thought about the things I do to ensure that I'm leading a magnanimous existence.

The other day I held a door open for a lady at the store. It made me feel good. Today on the streetcar I gave up my seat for an elderly gentleman. It made me feel good. When I left the Green Grind cafe this afternoon I took my empty cup up to the dirty dish container and thanked the girl behind the counter. It made me feel good.

Let me controvert a seemingly innocent commission of altruism to further explain my point. There's a big party at your friend's house and the next day it looks like Kandahar. Although you'd rather be at home in bed, you put up your hand to help clean up the mess. Domestic chores while nursing a hangover surely equates to altruism, right?

Wrong. You're doing it because your friend helped you move house a few weeks ago, or because you feel guilty about sleeping with his girlfriend, or because if you help clean up this one time you won't have to help with anything else for the rest of the year. In fact, your friend might consider your help so altruistic that he might feel the exact same pressure you did, and in turn, offer to help you landscape your garden or some shit like that. Or maybe you're just doing it because your motivation, like mine, is the buzz you get from just simply helping people.

I know it's discouraging to think that despite our best intentions, our ego is always there to steal the limelight. I want to believe altruism exists in its purest form, but it's hard when the world is so cynical.

So anyway, there you go, I've informed you of the dangers of your subconscious mind. I guess that's my good deed for the day.

Operation Liberation

I finally joined the gym yesterday. The West End YMCA to be exact. In addition, I'm 14 days sober. I've also been for two jogs in the last week. And I ate steamed vegetables for dinner. I'm slowly piecing my way back to something that resembles fitness.

The sign-up process was relatively unscathing. Well except for the part where I think I was being chatted up by one of the guys behind the desk, and the part where they took my photo for my membership card on a webcam and I turned out looking like a distorted, douche-bag version of myself.

The more scathing part came when I decided to give myself a self-guided tour of the gym and its facilities. I thought a good place to start would be the women's locker room. I've never seen such an abundance of tits and box in my life. I was trying to orient myself in the room but I came face to face with genitalia at every turn. And then there were those moments that were made even more awkward when I made eye contact with women as they stood there naked. I don't think I've ever felt quite so overdressed in my whole life as I did in those few minutes.  

So why put yourself through all of this uncomfortableness, did I hear you ask? Well there is in fact a very good reason. On Father's Day I plan to participate in the five kilometre 'Prostate Cancer Canada' run, in honour of my dad who is battling the disease as we speak. I'm sure he'll appreciate the horrific nature of the scenes I'm having to endure in order to support him and the cause.

If nothing else, I think my gym experience has given me added incentive to get fit. Hopefully in time I can liberate my muff enough to walk around starkers in the change rooms too.

Revenge is Bittersweet

Justice. It's a word that's slung around like a sack of potatoes. Verbalised with such verocity that anyone might believe it actually exists. Yesterday the mastermind of the September 11 terrorist attacks, Osama bin Laden, was 'brought to justice'; captured and killed by the United States Government.

Undoubtedly, the atrocities realised by bin Laden that autumn day in 2001 are unforgiveable. He took so much from so many innocent people. He played a hand in making the world colder and harder and less trusting. And he is responsible for so much hatred, not just directed at him or the perpetrators of the attacks, but an entire race of people who have suffered deeply as a consequence.

As a kid, both at home and at school, I remember always being taught that violence isn't the answer; that responding to violence with violence is just perpetuating a problem that can best be solved with words rather than fists. But these rules don't seem to apply when pride and ego is on the line.

Bin Laden's death is symbolic at best. And how many innocents have had to die in the meantime to achieve this little victory? Soldiers and civilians alike. I have no doubt that there is someone waiting in the wings to replace or mimic bin Laden. Someone fuelled by revenge just as millions of Americans were nearly a decade ago.

So is this what closure feels like? Because to me it just feels like we've started another war.

Regina

In case you've been in a cave for the last few weeks, I'll let you in on a not-so-little secret, Kate and Wills are now royally hitched. 

The monarchy is alive and well if our tea and scone sales at the cafe yesterday were anything to go by. So, I was born in a Commonwealth country, and I'm currently living in a Commonwealth country. Every day I see Queen Elizabeth II staring back at me on the currency I use. I sat in high school, and later in law school, and listened to my teachers and lecturers respectively, speak about the significance of 'Regina' in our system of government. The Union Jack even has pride of placement on the Australian flag. So how is it that an exchange of vows has made me feel more inherently British than all of these things put together? 

The hype around the event stirred mixed feelings in me. Part of me wanted to embrace the tradition and ceremony of it all, and another part of me wanted to be severed from all autocratic ties completely. I'll admit, I didn't see any of the footage. It aired at 4am here in Tronts, which is a timeslot that I like to give priority to sleeping. I don't think I'd even get up at 4am for my own wedding. The extent of my royal wedding experience was looking at a few photographs online. The dress was lovely and the little frowning flower girl was cute/funny and all that crap. I enjoyed it, if for nothing other than the chance to have a good perve at a very well put-together woman. But when it boils down to it, it's just a wedding. An extremely lavish wedding watched by millions of people worldwide, but just a wedding all the same.

So what's the fascination? I thought about this for a while and I came to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, people want some good news. For one day they don't want to hear about pointless wars or gun violence or children being mauled by dingoes. They want fashion and romance, and they want to believe in fairytale love. And surely there's nothing wrong with that.
 

An Affair to Remember

As a good friend of mine once said, "I can't tell you anything about chemistry, I didn't take it at school". Well, it was something like that anyway. I've been sitting here trying to figure out why I feel like I'm having a love affair with Tronts. Maybe chemistry does hold the answer. But akin to my friend, it's not much help to me because I opted for physics in the realm of science. And I'll be the first to admit, choosing any science subject was not a wise choice given that my strengths were language and social studies.

Do you remember that game that we'd play as kids, where we'd pull the petals off flowers one by one and chant, 'he loves me, he loves me not'? That's how I feel on a daily basis about this city. I feel like I'm constantly questioning the reciprocity of my relationship with Tronts.

A few weeks ago now, at the beginning of April, it was starting to get warmer. I'd shed a layer of clothing. All of the snow had disappeared and the icy residue had melted away. What was left was Spring. Or so we thought. Tronts deceived and disappointed us all that week, just like a selfish lover. She had dangled the promise of warmth in our faces and then taken it away so callously. There was a snow-storm. One as thick as any endured during the winter.

I walked around in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt today. I feel like I'm being lured into a false sense of security again. Do I trust the verdant grass? The tiny leaves sprouting on the once-barren trees branches? The tulips lining the flower beds of people's house fronts? Do I trust her?

I can't help but think the best of her. For all that she doesn't give me, she gives me back tenfold in other ways. I feel safe and secure. Comfortable and familiar. Supported and loved. But at the same time, excited and filled with possibility.

If that isn't the perfect love affair, then I don't know what is.

Zolo

Last week while I was staying overnight in New York I wrote this in my journal:

I've never dined by myself before. Another first. But I craved a good wine and something other than a burger, so here I am.

I'm in Chelsea, I think. Somewhere just off 8th Avenue, south of 14th Street. Restaurant name unknown. I just ordered a $35 bottle of wine for myself. What the fuck hey. Zolo Malbec: product of Argentina.

Awkward moment:
"Two glasses?"
"Oh no, just one"

Maybe I've got an imaginary friend that I can't see. Or maybe he just didn't realise I was Australian.

The wood-fired pizza I ordered is orgasmic, and that's not an understatement. Well maybe if my mouth was my junk it wouldn't be. Shredded beef, red pepper, caramelised onion and a bold cheese, something from the parmesan family. It might have been called mangelco or something like that. It reminded me of mangoes when I read it on the menu.

It's kind of hard sitting here all alone with my thoughts. But the wine is certainly helping. It makes for quite the opportunity to eavesdrop and people-watch. There are two girls a few tables down. Either they're breaking up or someone has just died. Not a happy vibe coming from over there.

I'm on to my third, albeit generous, glass of wine and have eaten seven of the eight slices of pizza. I can really put it away. Having a big brother that steals potatoes off your plate spurs you on to be a quick eater. Consequently, I've usually eaten everything in front of me before I realise I'm over-full and resemble the gluttonous Augustus Gloop from Willy Wonka.

The melancholy lesbians are scratching their heads as if to find a solution to their problem but it appears to be unsolveable. They look at each other despondently.

All of a sudden I miss my family and friends. I miss familiarity, but at the same time I crave this aloneness. Just like I craved this wine that has made me drunk-ish.

Ice Pick

All of us have basic instincts. Instincts not quite as carnal or homicidal as Sharon Stone, but basic all the same. As I walk out of Chicago's Union Station on to Adams Street, I have no map, no wi-fi, no clue where I am, or how to get where I need to be. It is a weird feeling to be so unfamiliar with my surroundings, again.

I walk across a bridge and head in the direction that a sign suggests is 'downtown'. Perchance, I look across the bed of water that I'm crossing and see that the street parallel is the street that my hotel is meant to be on. I'm there within ten minutes.

Winning!

Holy Toledo!

Bryan was founded in 1840. A sign imparts this knowledge to me, as the Amtrak continues to ebb and weave through the United States on its journey towards the 'Windy City'. I'm in Ohio now. Toledo. Wauseon. And Bryan.

It kind of feels familiar even though I've never been here before. It must be all of those years of American television absorption. I could be on the set of Smallville riding in a red pickup truck with Lana Lang, or battling a bald-headed villain in the seemingly endless maze of maize. Or I could be strapped to a water pipe in a barn with Helen Hunt (I wish) waiting for a twister to pass on through. Unfortunately, Bill Paxton had this honour. Now he is a Mormon bigamist. He has all the luck with the ladies.

So this is how it looks, for as far as my eyes can see.

Barns. Heavy vehicles. Silos. Toiled earth. Tractors and other farm machinery. Trees. Farm houses. And 'Titan' sheds so big that they would make any Australian bloke jealous.
  

Where in the World?

I'm on an Amtrak train travelling somewhere across the State of New York. By morning I'll be in Chicago. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how far away I am from home and it scares me. So I mentally change the topic.

When I was a kid I used to play a computer game called Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Carmen was an international thief. The loot differed based on the country where the crime took place. Your job as the detective in charge was to track Carmen's villain accomplices around the world and collect clues in an attempt to eventually capture Carmen herself. I loved that with the click of a button I could be in Buenos Aires or Moscow or Paris. I think this is where my fascination with faraway lands first began.

I've been thinking about the kind of people who travel; the kind of person I am, and the kind of people I've met along the way. I think there's a common thread.

A love of adventure. The satisfaction of rising to a challenge. An insatiable thirst for knowledge and experience. Logic and rationality clouded by optimism. A dreamer. One with a restless soul. 

Oh the Humanity

We as human beings, constantly underestimate our fragility.

We take a lot for granted. We don't mean to. It's just the way it seems to play out. Our lives revolve around instant gratification, dispensability, and an overexaggerated sense of self-worth, which rarely allows us the opportunity to look more broadly at the world.

Relationships come and go with the blink of an eyelid, toppled over by a magnitude of hardship about as violent as a zephyr. Grudges are forged from the most trivial of matters and alienate friendships or familial ties between people who really genuinely care about each other. Good fortune is recklessly squandered by greed and excess. And our health is something we don't know the importance of until it is challenged, usually in a grossly indecent attack on our mortality, through sudden near-fatality, or the loss of someone close to us.

We need to take more time to evaluate ourselves against the bigger picture. The good things in our lives are rarely cherished as much as the bad things are censured. And as the instigators of this illogical imbalance, only we have the ability to alter it.

So change it, before it's too late.

Rouge

The tantivy hit like a freight train
it moved through my body 'til it came
up through my core
and out of my pores
and flushed my face redder than rouge

Acrimony

A girl last night told me she liked that I had attitude. Since when did I have attitude? Maybe it's something that comes with being downtrodden one too many times. Maybe it's my age, or new-found independence, or a build up of years of repressed indignation finally rising to the surface.

Lately I've started to uncover some parts of myself that have been buried deep. Anger. Selfishness. Impatience. Solitude. They sound like bad words. Bad feelings. Bad feelings with bad connotations. Looking at them you would think that I would consider it a positive thing that they've been ensconced. But I have mixed emotions about their concealment.

I feel like there's been something brewing inside of me. It started as dull as a pilot light. Now it's a roaring campfire that's been juiced up by a jerry can of petroleum. I think we all deny ourselves these feelings too often. Write them off as if they're not as worthy of our time as their emotionally-positive counterparts.

But I am sick and tired of tip-toeing around them. I've decided I'm going to embrace them.

Respect me. Listen to what I have to say. Don't fuck with me. And we'll be just fine.

Shadow Puppets

Today I've done nothing much but sleep and bum around on the computer replying to emails and such. I've picked up a cold so I'm not feeling that energetic. In any case I forced myself to venture out this afternoon because I hate the feeling that I've wasted a day. I knew that some fresh air in my lungs would do me good.

I went to a little cafe on Ossington Avenue that roasts their own beans. The girl behind the counter was welcoming and polite and made a nice latte. I sat down on one of the comfortable orange velvet chairs, sipped my beverage, and wrote in my journal. I wrote a lot. It just spilled out of me, probably as a consequence of feeling overly emotional.

After an hour or so I packed up my belongings and wandered back out into the streets. I decided to walk an alternate way home; a way I'd never been before. I was looking down at my feet as they passed the cracks and crevasses of the sidewalk. And then I looked up and I saw the sun slowly setting between the bare branches of a tree up ahead.

It struck me that life itself mimics these trivial little moments of our existence. For so long my head was facing down as I went through the paces of the everyday. But now I'm looking forward and what my eyes can see is hopeful and boundless; a future just as bright and beautiful as a sunset through the branches of a tree.  

I'm a Single Cell on a Serpent's Tongue

I never thought loneliness could make me happier. But here I am, feeling the pangs of loneliness, verging on tears every two minutes, and happy. It's this week. This week I am longing to be around those people I can sit in a room with and not say a word, but know we're having a conversation. My heart aches thinking about it.

So why the fuck am I happy?

I've always understood the value and importance of the people in my life, but never to this depth. To feel so loved and missed from a place so far away from home is truly beautiful. It means my life means something; that I've touched people. 

In the words of Bright Eyes: "I'm happy just because, I found out I am really noone". And that's just it - I am noone in the big scheme of things - noone is. We're all only someone to those who love us.

I'm no celebrity. I haven't found the cure for a disease. I haven't discovered a new land. And I probably won't ever be ridiculously wealthy. But I'm okay with that. Even though I'm noone, I feel like the most adored, intelligent, adventurous and rich person to walk the ground beneath me.

Attachment Theory

I think Bowlby was on to something with his attachment theory. Consider me an infant and Tronts my 'primary caregiver'. Let's leave this thought to marinate for a little while and come back to it later.

So I went to Montréal last week. It's a beautiful city. I haven't been to Europe so I can't comment on how the architecture or the culture or the cobblestone paths compare. All I can say is how it made me feel and it did feel like how I would imagine Europe would feel. That's vague and whimsical I know, but walking the streets and being swept up in the Parisian-like atmosphere and the bilingualism, made me think I'd left Canadian shores. Well, right up until the point where I started to converse with people in English and suddenly they weren't speaking French any more - they were speaking English with a Canadian accent. It's hard to explain the unique interwinding of old and new that the city seems to balance so well. There's something terribly romantic about it all.

Some of the highlights of Monts included:

• the view from the top of the mountain which gave the city its name, Mount Royal (or Le Mont Royal to the Frenchies);
• the light and sound show at the Notre-Dame Basilica and its thoroughly entertaining (albeit saccharine) depiction of the history of Montréal and the church - let's just say that watching people mouth French words on a screen and listening to an English version through headphones makes for some hilariously funny viewing and;
• the most frightening bathroom trip I think I will ever endure at the 'Le Club Sandwich' restaurant (picture walking into a very dimly lit, creepily silent, enormous, yet empty bathroom).

On our last night, Alex and I went to a lezzie bar in the Gay Village called 'Le Drugstore'. Lame name, but it was a pretty cool little hang out. There were at least two other girls there wearing flannel. It is reassuring to know that girl lovers all around the world share a similar fashion sense, even the French-Canadians. There were two big television screens in front of us broadcasting a live NHL game. It just so happens that that night, the Montréal Canadiens were playing the Toronto Maple Leafs. The Leafs won by one goal in the end. I couldn't help but feel a little twinge of pride.

As I was boarding the bus to travel back to Tronts I felt a sense of relief and calmness come over me; the same feeling you get if you've been travelling for a while and you're returning home. I was only away for three days but I missed Tronts.

In attachment theory it is my understanding that infants become attached to primary caregiver adults who interact with them for any extended period during their early years. When a child starts to experience and interact with the world around them, they look to these caregivers for support, and they act as a secure base to explore from and come back to. Once removed from a caregiver, separation anxiety may occur.

I'm no psychologist, so maybe I'm just bending theories to suit. Or perhaps my ramblings have some backbone and I've got a mummy named Brisbane and a daddy called Tronts.

Shawarma

It's 10:30pm Sunday night and I'm chilling the fuck out watching Grey's Anatomy online and imbibing some quality Australian shiraz. A few minutes ago I started to feel an all-over 'warmth' and momentarily I was confused as to why because I had only had two glasses. The befuddlement dissipated once I glanced over at my Tyrannosaurus Rex wine vessel.

A shawarma sandwich is basically a more civilised version of the kebab. Zahir and Nadya (collectively I shall henceforth refer to them as 'Zan'), my employers, bought me one today, just because they are delicious and they thought I should try one. I just realised that sentence made it sound like I think Zan is delicious. I also received a text message tonight: "thanks for all your help, see you next week". Amazing.

I just worked three days straight for the first time in two months and I'm exhausted. I was sitting on the train on the way home feeling a whole range of things - proud, tired, sore, calm, agog, thankful. Proud because I know I'm doing a good job. Tired and sore because I'm getting on and I have a dodgy ankle and I'm used to doing my work from a comfortable office chair. Calm because I feel like I'm finally blending in here - I even got asked for directions yesterday. I did not know how to help the girl get to Millicent Avenue, but I must have looked like I did. Agog because I'm going to Montreal on Tuesday. Thankful because I found a job where I'm treated like a person, not just an employee. And I like the fact that I can somehow, albeit minute, make a positive impact on someone else's day just by smiling and being polite

Tyrannosaurus Rex is empty. Two final thoughts enter my mind: I need to go to bed and; I hope to fucking God I haven't spelt anything incorrectly in this post.

Simple Maths

Age. With age comes wisdom. This saying has exactitude...right? The last few weeks I've found myself trying to figure out if there is an intelligence pinnacle; a point in life where you are the smartest you're ever going to be. Or does the adage hold true? Is the wisest wise we'll ever be the day we take our last breath? 

A lot of people I know seem to be born in February. I had a notification in my email inbox alerting me that seven of my facebook friends were having birthdays this week. Maybe it's just a coincidence among my friends, who knows. I just want to know why May is 'the month' to bump uglies. Mother's day? Surely not.

Yesterday it was my roommate Sahira's birthday. In case it isn't common knowledge, my roommates are Mexican, and are therefore native Spanish speakers. The past week I've been trying to learn Spanish in an effort to better communicate with them and their friends, and to better my intelligence. Estoy confundida - to say the least. Sahira had a small gathering last night to celebrate. I was the only person in the room who couldn't speak Spanish. I didn't understand 95% of the conversation going on around me. I listened hard. I watched their facial expressions and hand gestures and body language for clues as to the content of the stories being told. But still, I was at a loss. An unnerving feeling invaded me. For the first time in a long time, I felt really stupid.

When that feeling kicked in I started to think about all of the unknown 'stuff' out there; all of the information that I don't know, and that I might never know. I don't know how to fix a car, or sail a yacht, or karate-chop a piece of wood in half. I don't know how to play an oboe, or make a martini, or fold a fitted sheet correctly. I especially don't know how to speak Spanish.   

I've arrived at the conclusion that wisdom does come with age. It's inevitable really. It's all tied up with experience. Think of it like a simple mathematics equation: age + experience = wisdom. Maybe, inadvertently, I'm just here in Tronts to learn Spanish. Or maybe the experience / wisdom I'm gaining is immeasurable; limited only by my own limitations.

If we live the fullest life we possibly can, we will get unwittingly wise. Even still, we can never know everything there is to know. Frustrating, yet sobering. But I guess it's just something we all have to accept.

Buenas noches.

Café Au Lait

I heart my new job. I love it. The owners are amazing to work for / with. I feel totally supported, and maybe even a little bit special. The café's name, Cake Town, is a play on words of their South African mother city, Cape Town. It's unique in its easterly Tronts location; surrounded by a pell-mell luncheonette, a bakery that can't bake, a dodgy restaurant that gives off a cringe-worthy 80's wedding reception vibe, and the city's attempt at pizza that should win some kind of award for its breathtakingly creative name, Pizza Pizza.

Nadya bakes everything fresh daily. Brownies, tarts, cookies, sausage rolls, and the pièce de résistance - the scones. Don't get me started on the scones. Today we had caramel apple, blueberry and lemon, cranberry clementine, and cheddar cheese. Just give me a minute to wipe the drool from my chin. Of course, it is a well-known fact that my mum's pumpkin scones are still the best scones in the world, ever. Thattagirl Nelly!

I wouldn't say I made it through the day unscathed. I'm as rusty as an old gate on the espresso machine. The group handles were difficult to lock in to the machine and the buttons and knobs were unfamiliar. A long black is an Americano. Cappuccinos have no chocolate powder on them. There is no such thing as a flat white. And most people want filtered coffee. Seriously?

My finest moment would have to be when I made a skinny latte on half-and-half milk; a delectable dairy blend of cream and milk (because yes, that does exist here in Canada). Better yet, I didn't realise the error of my ways until the customer had left the shop. Just to give you an idea of the enormity of that stuff up - half-and-half milk has a butterfat content of roughly 16%, whereas skim milk has a butterfat content of about 1%. I'm sure it was the best skinny latte that customer will ever drink. He may however be a little confused as to why he's grown a second arse overnight.

Labour Pains

Enter week two of job hunting. Yay! Today I had an interview for a food and beverage position at an elite health club. Yes, ironic I know, considering my movements for the last eight weeks have somewhat resembled those of a South American sloth. On a side note, I recently read on Wikipedia (the world's most reliable resource) that some species of sloth have been documented eating human faeces from open latrines. Isn't that interesting and disturbing all at once?

And now returning to the story at hand. I say elite because the health club is quite fancy. I think purely based on the fact that it's called a 'health club' and not a gym, gives it added sophistication. I felt a little out of place rocking up in my black skinny jeans, strolling amongst the best and brightest of the Toronto Financial District, dressed in their professional athletic apparel. There were some ladies limbering up in their all whites over by the squash courts that looked like they were about to face off against Commonwealth Games gold medalist and world number six, Kasey Brown. Just sayin'.

If nothing else, today's meeting with Denis, the French-Canadian food and beverage manager / chef, has given me an iota of hope that my resume must not be too shabby. He said there were over 60 applicants and I was one of nine that were being interviewed. I will hopefully know by the end of the week if I have secured a second interview. It all seems a little O.T.T for a hospitality position, but I guess they've got to find someone that fits the bill. I feel a little bit guilty now, knowing the great lengths that Denis is going to to find a suitable counter attendant / barista, that I lied and said I would be here permanently. I have no idea how long I'm going to be here for. But hey, sometimes you've just got to do what you've got to do. After all, I need to be able to support myself and my drinking habits. Oh, and the free gym membership and health cover would be saaaawwweeeet!

Anyway, I'll keep you posted. Literally.

Shake 'n' Bake

According to http://dictionary.com/

 rec·i·pe

[res-uh-pee]

–noun  

1. a set of instructions for making or preparing something, esp. a food dish: a recipe for a cake.

2. a Medical prescription.

3. a method to attain a desired end: a recipe for success.

Let's roll with number three. In which case, I might just have the recipe for short-term happiness. I say short-term only because I'm old enough now to know that all happiness is transient. Without the sour, the sweet is never as sweet.

The Recipe for Short-term Happiness

Ingredients:

• 1 x beautifully sunny Torontian day
• 1 x job interview
• 3 x subway trips (with at least one Spadina North/South to East/West tunnel interchange)
• 1 x amazingly delightful fresh food market (preferably a Whole Foods Market)
• 1 x iPod with wicked tunes
• 1 x pair of black Rayban wayfarers
• 1 x pair of black Dr. Marten's boots
• 1 x black woollen coat

Method:

1. Wake up on the right side of the bed. A positive attitude is always the best way to start your day!
2. Peel back the curtains and let the morning rays of sunshine filter through the window
3. Administer yourself a nutritious, filling breakfast and wash it down with a cuppa
4. Shower, dress and groom meticulously; wear a suitable amount of black - now's the time to whip out the sunnies, boots and coat
5. Take one of your three subway trips
6. Attend job interview; perform well so that even if you don't get the job, you'll know you've done the best you can
7. Take your second subway trip
8. Walk several blocks through Yorkville, taking in the aesthetically-pleasing surrounds
9. Stumble upon Whole Foods Market
10. Walk around Whole Foods trying to contain your gastronomic orgasm
11. Emerge from Whole Foods $35 poorer (having only purchased five items) but feeling like you've had an orgasm nonetheless
12. Take your last subway trip, making sure you use the Spadina tunnel interchange
13. Emanate from the train at Spadina with your headphones on, listening to Moby at full volume on your iPod
14. Make the journey through the Spadina tunnel interchange, swathed in black, with the bravado of a charlatan
15. Smile to yourself knowing that at that very moment you feel like a character in a movie and the music blaring in your ears is the soundtrack   

  

Simple as that folks

Servitude

If patience is a virtue, then I'm friggin' Mother Theresa. I hope none of you were actually hoping to converse with me while I'm overseas, because it seems that the Canadian phone companies have a vendetta out against me. I think my dreams of an iPhone might need to be put on hold until I get home; it's just way too difficult and confusing. I'm not going to go into it, it will only alienate you and make me more frustrated. So facebook and skype it is my dear friends.

This week for me signals the start of 'job search week', which basically involves me making a concerted effort to find employment. Up until now I have been half-heartedly emailing a few resumes without any real success. And I don't blame them. If I was a cafe owner I probably wouldn't be inclined to hire some vagabond Australian who's sat on her arse in an office for the last 2.5 years over some local whiz-kid waitress who can carry drinks and not spill them on people. That's the pinnacle of multi-tasking if you ask me.

So today I did some shortlisting of jobs advertised online, and I applied for a 'burger blogger' position. Eating and writing about it - sounded like my dream job so I was right onto that one. I have been feverishly checking my inbox but no reply so far. Ho well. Considering applying for a position at an Irish pub. Also a quality assurance position for a bottling company...that made me think it might have something to do with beer so I was interested. Other than that there's not much around. I might have to just walk down College Street and hand in my resume at a few places. You never know, someone might feel sorry for me.

Basically I'm looking for anything paying minimum wage and affording me the very lowest degree of responsibility. Experience schmerience. I think employers would find if they gave me half a chance that I can do just as lousy a job as anyone else can. Maybe I should add that last paragraph to my resume. Compelling stuff.

The Grass is Lonely

I know I put 'TBC' at the end of my last blog, so some of you might be expecting that this blog is going to be full of gossipy goodness. That is not the case. All I'm going to say is this: I've met a few really great people now and I'm starting to live a more socially enriched existence.

I experienced my first Tronts gig the other night - Lissie. She was just great. Everything I'd imagined and perhaps even a little bit more. I had two favourite moments. The first was the crescendo in 'Record Collector' and the second was when she finished the set with 'Pursuit of Happiness'.

The support act was quite entertaining too. Bahamas. Their name makes them particularly hard to find on youtube. The displayed hits were all Caribbean-related. On the upside, I now know the Bahamas national anthem. During their set, the singer was talking about how they had been on the road for a while now and how they had been to a strip club earlier in the evening. So ok I know this is a generalisation, and maybe just me making fanciful assumptions, but it made me think what lonely lives they must lead. They might just like titties, but that's not where my thinking took me. Obviously I'm going to get to the point of this long-winded discussion shortly. I need a new paragraph for aesthetic purposes.

So I was standing there listening to the band banter and I thought about how so many of us crave to have the life of a musician; travelling around and being lusted over by pretty girls just because you can play a guitar or sing a few songs in tune. We crave the adventure of it all. The excitement of being able to reinvent yourself so frequently. We want to be enveloped by the mystery. It was interesting then that for the first time I thought how hard it must be to never really be 'home'. The feeling that the 'grass is always greener' is very hard to shake when you're living your normal existence, but when you're living the mystery it isn't as mysterious. It's lonely.

Contentment is something that is sometimes frowned upon, but it needs to be embraced. We're always going to crave what we can't have; what seems exhilirating and provacative, it's just human nature. The settled will always be looking for serendipity, and the restless will long to be grounded.

    

Frozen

Outside at the moment it's -20 degrees; -30 degrees if you count the wind chill. I had a moment when I was out walking this morning where I actually thought my ears were going to fall off. Luckily for me, they decided to stick around.

Perhaps the only thing more paralysing than the cold, is the fear of starting over. The fear that comes with taking that first step out into your new life. Exposing yourself to rejection and criticism. It crippled me on Friday night. I stayed at home. I told myself I'd go out on Saturday night instead, which I did. It may have taken me three 500mL Canadian beers to work up the courage to do so, but I'm very proud that I did. I've never even been out in Brisbane by myself, so to venture out in a strange city without anyone by my side took some testicles. Big ones.

I caught the streetcar to Slack's, which is a lezzie bar on Church Street. Does anyone else find it terribly ironic that all of the main gay nightlife in Toronto is on Church Street? I ordered a Bud LIght and stood at the bar ogling off the crowd, trying to pick if there was anyone hovering by themself or in a small group. I focussed my energies on a group of three girls towards the end of the bar that I had pretty much confirmed were going to be my first conversational target. Two seconds later a bloody Pom starts talking to me. Name: Jay. Here for work from the UK. Nice enough.

Slack's was a little lacklustre so we decided to catch a cab together to Cherry Bomb. Jay and I were dancing but I kind of lost her in the crowd. And then I met Alex.

TBC

Noun Confusion

Belonging. Belongings. We can have things that belong to us, and to some degree we're defined by them. Isn't that a weird concept? We think that if we dress in a certain brand, drive a certain car or buy a certain couch or television or whatever, and we upkeep a certain lifestyle, that we'll fit in. We'll belong.

I don't think I've ever felt like I don't belong anywhere as much as I do right now. But that's ok. I had mentally prepared myself for this. And the preparation is obviously working because I'm not curled up in the foetal position crying myself to sleep. I feel so completely stripped bare - that's the best way to describe it. I am void of my creature comforts. I don't have a job. Or a car. Or a phone. I've been wearing the same wardrobe of clothes for the last six months at least. I feel like a massive loser. I feel like I don't belong here.

And yet I still feel a strong sense of belonging. I belong to my parents; I belong to my brothers and sisters; I belong to my friends; I belong to my workplace; I belong to my community; I belong to my country. Feeling this way just makes me think that our sense of belonging is probably the most truly undervalued part of our lives. We take it for granted because it's omnipresent. This feeling that we unwittingly source from the people we share our lives with. 

What makes us strong and helps us to fit in has nothing to do with the shit we own. Don't be confused, it's belonging, not belongings.

Craigslust

Today's blog is brought to you by Weird Al. This post may not actually have that much to do with me being in Tronts. It may not actually make a lot of sense either. I'm in a strange mood. I feel silly like a kid. I've returned to my rudiments. My rudimentary self writes a lot of short sentences.

I've been thinking a lot about human nature and individual behaviour spectrums. Deep, I know. In particular I've been cogitating over lust and desire and our ability to rationalise what would otherwise be considered aberrant behaviour when it comes to questions of sex and love and attraction. 

There's a website called Craigslist. It's not that big in Australia but over here and in the States, it's a pretty huge deal. Craigslist has a whole gamut of classifieds. Go there if you want a roommate or if you want to sell a bike/computer/child, or, as is my case, if you need a job. There is also a salacious section called 'missed connections' under the personal classifieds. My curiosity got the better of me.

This was my favourite:

westbound on college with greens - w4w (college/ossington)

I think you got on around Spadina, or perhaps earlier at UofT. I saw you waiting patiently for the streetcar with your bags of fresh groceries. I'm guessing you had just come from a farmer's market?

We smiled at each other like old friends and I spent the entirety of the ride trying to decide if I would get the nerve to move one seat ahead and talk to you; to ask your name and ask you if that was bok choy or collards. I wanted to blurt out - "You're Beautiful!" but thought it might be too forward.

You got off at Ossington and locked my eyes again and everything went a little blurry.

The light was red, so I sat in the idling machine and unsubtly watched you walk up the street and when you looked back into the window at me, I waved - couldn't help it.

I hope you are now cozy and out of the cold. Maybe we'll cross paths again.

ps - what did you make for dinner?

I couldn't help but think 'wtf'. The woman who wrote this is probably, by most definitions of the word, sane. Hell, she's probably some professional, an accountant or something like that, just on her way home on the streetcar, minding her own fucking business when 'WHAMMY!'. She got love struck. She got struck so bad that she felt the need to go home, ponder what the lady with the buk choy/collards (what a stupid freakin' name for a vegetable by the way) made for dinner, and put it on the internet. The internet. The World Wide Web.

What kind of person would put everything they're thinking on the World Wide Web...?

 

The Purpose of Purposefulness

Ok. Brace yourselves. This first part could get a little bit deep. A brain is a dangerous thing to have when it has too much time to think. I want to start by talking a little bit about purposefulness; you know, the thing that you have when you have a purpose. For example (borrowing an incy bit of melodrama from the soapies) you might say, "Roger gave Miranda a purposeful look from across the room". The look had purpose. Roger gave Miranda that look for a purpose. Roger had a purpose. And by the sounds of it, that purpose just might have been to get Miranda into the sack with him. I'm getting off track...

Let me put this into context.

I was walking the streets of Tronts today completely without purpose. There was nowhere I had to be, there was noone I had to meet, there was nothing I even particularly set out to see when I left the house this morning. A moment of almost sheer panic ensued once I'd come to this realisation. After I'd spent a minute rationalising with myself I managed to turn my frown upside down. I began to understand what a truly unique position I was in. I don't think I can even count on one hand the number of times since I've become an adult (my state of adulthood may be debatable among some close friends and family members) that I haven't had some kind of purpose. So my prolific message for today is simply this: allow yourself to be purposeless sometimes. It can be scary as fuck, but it also allows a rare opportunity for pure spontaneity.

This is what happened to me today:

I walked to the subway. It was cold, around -9 degrees, and it was snowing. I held the palms of my hands out and let a few little snowflakes fall onto them so that I could see what they looked like close up, but they melted as soon as they met my warm skin. I boarded an eastbound train. I decided to get out at Spadina station because it sounded like 'vagina' when they said it over the loudspeaker. I didn't know where I was. I walked down Bloor Street. I passed through a suburb called 'the Annex', which I remember from the books I've read used to be the gay area. I kept walking even though my legs felt like iceblocks. I reached 'Korea Town' and found a park called Christie Pits Park. I trudged through the snow and sat on a park bench briefly. I walked back the way I came but on the opposite side of the road. I crossed back to the other side of the road when I saw a little cafe that I thought looked interesting: Snakes and Lattes.

This is what happened in the cafe:

IGOTADECENTFUCKINGCOFFEE!!! HALLELUJAH!!!

I also eavesdropped on a nearby conversation.

This is what I wrote in my journal while I was drinking my coffee:

"There's a girl at a table across from me talking about FMV games, which in context, isn't so strange considering this is a board game cafe. FMV stands for 'full motion video' according to the girl. She's describing one particular FMV game and I feel the need to chime in and tell her what the game's called, but I don't. I'll maintain my loner status for now. She's talking about 'Nightmare'. For anyone who wasn't born in the 80s, 'Nightmare' is the board game that has an accompanying VHS that you play along with. At a certain unknown point in time, 'the gatekeeper' appears on the screen and scares the shit out of you. The girl follows up her discussion of 'Nightmare' with an evaluation of FMV games: the biggest flaw of FMV games is that you can only ever really experience the game once; after that, you know what's going to happen."

Maybe life's a bit like an FMV game. I guess we've just got to make sure we keep changing the VHS that's playing.

La Vida Sin Amigos

I awoke this morning full of childlike naivety and hope that today would be the day I regained connectivity to rest of the functioning network of people who own cell phones (yes I did just consciously say cell phone). Up until this point I haven't minded going without; it is after all an expendable appendage when you're travelling with other people who have phones and/or know how to read maps. The most imminent problems that now face my lack of appendage are twofold: (1) I need a phone so potential employers can contact me; and (2) iPhones are cool and have cool apps and other really cool shit on them that I want and definitely NEED to help me navigate my way around the 'Tronts'. I've decided that's what I'm going to call Toronto: Tronts. Just then. I decided.

To make a long story short - Apple can sell me a phone outright and give me a micro sim card but then to actually use it (especially data, and let's face it, what's the point in having an iPhone if you don't have data) I would be looking at selling an organ to pay it off. Bottom line - I need to be patient and wait for my SIN card to arrive in the mail and then hot Maria at Virgin will let me sign up. Huzzah! I guess there could be worse things than seeing Maria three times in one week.

Allow me to digress...

It was a balmy 3 degrees Celsius here today. I actually overdressed and had to take a layer off. I'm sure it's short-lived though. I tidied my room up and unpacked everything this morning before setting off for yet another walk to the Dufferin Mall. Let's call him Duff, because let's face it, I'm going to be talking about the bastard  A <space> LOT.

First bit of exciting news, and I don't think we really need to dwell on this because in all honesty it's not that exciting, but I am now officially a member of the Bank of Montreal. Probably the most important thing you need to know is that the card is pretty.

As well as fulfilling my banking needs, I found a little gem in Duff today. A little bloody rippa' called Dollarama. It truly is Duff's best kept secret. I bought a swag of goods for only $18! And I got all of the essentials: wine glass, almonds, exfoliation glove, lint brush etc etc etc.

So anyway I was walking home through Dufferin Grove Park and I saw a squirrel for the first time. And not just one. I saw about 40. I was very nearly tempted to crack open my bag of almonds and feed the little critters. However, not being entirely certain of the propensity of squirrels I decided against it. Being ravaged by a throng of famished furballs was not on my agenda. Not today. Nuts are hard to crack, that's all I'm going to say.

I spent some time relishing in my Dollarama delights and having a bite to eat before heading down to The Common. A local coffee shop that seems to be teeming with lezzie baristas. If I didn't feel so intimidated I'd probably ask for a job. The lezzie today had arm tatts, wore a flanno, and had hair that looked like Beyonce's in Goldmember. It was a sight. I sipped on a latte and read some more of Breath by Tim Winton. In one chapter he describes a woman as handsome. That's what I like about Timmy boy, he mixes it up.

Moving on with my strenuous day, I met Sahira at the subway and we went to Apple together (please see story of despair in paragraphs one and two). Then we met Veronica and another friend of theirs, Alison, at the movie theatre. Alison is a very interesting person. She is a Canadian who did community work in El Salvador for two years and now speaks fluent Spanish. She even wrote a book in Spanish about the political climate and feminist issues in the country. And now she is doing a PhD in politics. That's a lot of overachieving.

Movie was ok. Then I ate a burrito and came home.

Humble Beginnings

It's nearing midnight here in the white city (aka Toronto) as I sit here sipping tea and typing my first blog post of my overseas adventure. So far, so good. No flooding here, just a bucketload of snow! I've had a cough-like thing since my second last day in New York. I think it has something to do with my lungs getting used to the subzero temps. Skyped the parents yesterday and Dad seems to think I'm coming down with pneumonia based on my 'bark'. 

Spent about an hour this morning at Service Canada which is Canada's equivalent of our beloved Centrelink. But alas, I wasn't there for a handout...if only living in another country was that easy. I needed to get myself a social insurance number (SIN) so that once I get a job the Canadian Government can take out their fair share of tax. This process went well and I was issued with a temporary SIN until my card arrives in the mail.

Next stop, trying to get a bloody mobile phone. This process wasn't so successful. Despite having an impecable credit rating in Australia, the folk at Virgin, Bell, Rogers etc don't really give a shit because I have no Canadian credit history. No Canadian credit history means no Canadian phone plan. Virgin were ----- this close to signing me up using my passport and my new SIN but it was declined by a higher power. Not God, just some Virgin financier on the phone activation line. Plan B is to go to the Apple store tomorrow and buy an unlocked iPhone4. Going prepaid should sidetrack all the credit bullshit.

Also on the agenda tomorrow is opening a bank account. I did a lot of research today and I think I'm going to go with the Bank of Montreal. They seem to have a lot of ATMs (or ABMs as they're called here) closeby and there is a branch in the Dufferin Mall, which is less than five minutes walk from my house. Score! Compared to home though, banking seems a bit shit. Every account I looked at had mandatory monthly account-keeping fees...unless of course you keep a minimum balance of $3000, which just isn't feasible for the average Jo Blo like myself.

I think Sahira and Veronica (my very awesome roommates) might be letting me tag along to the movies tomorrow night too, so that should be gooooood.

It's past midnight now and I'm starting to get sleepy - maybe it's the cold and flu drugs, who knows? Off to bed...