An hour after my arrival in Halifax had left in me in a conflicted emotional state. It was Saturday; the ARK was closed - we'd have nowhere to rendezvous with national hobos, since neither of us knew the hangout spots in Halifax. There was nothing to do except what we'd done in dozens of other cities for dozens of other hours - stand on a street corner and look useless. At least there was a few hours of light left.
For the first twenty minutes, me and Squanch stayed together, with a friend she'd synchronically reunited with the moment we got dropped off. Twenty minutes was too long to tolerate his drunken ramblings and the dissonance of his credit-card-picking on his ancient single-stringed guitar. I figured I'd find a scene more rewarding, and left the fool and her raspy crack-punked friend behind.
That being said, I remembered that my social anxiety makes me useless. Without friends by my side, I can't make room for new ones. I met a couple high school stoner kids, their eyes glazed into burning embers. They lacked the east coaster accent I'd awaited, but they humoured me (or was it the other way 'round?) as I played them a didgeridoo riff and had a quick conversation devoid of meaning. The experience - my first truly social encounter in days - left me exhausted and depressed. Introversion is a daunting ally to a traveler.
I wandered down to Spring Gardens, one of the more urban streets in Halifax, and set my sights on two hobos drinking a bottle of vodka on the front steps of an abandoned house. I joined them - those who wander the same path of life love to converse, and I found some relief in the brainless interactions that ensued as the ancient floorboards creaked beneath the weight of our asses.
Satiated by a couple shots of the vodka, I realized that the situation wasn't helping me at all. Sure, I'd got my 'social' fix, but I craved intelligent conversation. This brainless blather was more of a detriment than silence, only serving to drain the energy from the few brain cells I had left.
Obligated by their generosity, I endured Tim's fractured rambling and Jack's heightening fury at the state his new girlfriend had just left him in by foregoing their relationship. The vodka was downed, his complaints tripled in volume, I grew tired and left their yammering voices behind. Even with each pedestrian's eyes carving judgement into my camouflaged backpack and my soon-to-splinter didgeridoo, I felt like a translucent spirit wandering the crowded streets. Judge me as they will, I'd only ever be a fading glimpse; and them the same - two egoic travellers, wandering lost in a galaxy built on individualism.
What to do with myself in a city where I had no friends?
Wednesday 19 February 2014
Sunday 16 February 2014
FUCKING VICTORY!
"NO. That's not how shit works on the road. You should know this - you've been hitch hiking for how many years?"
We'd spotted another hitchhiker holding his thumb out at the only liable hitching spot on this chunk of highway, and Squanch had decided she wanted to park her ass a hundred feet down the road in front of the other guy. This would ensure, in all its conceited stupidity, that we got the first ride.
Hitchhiking étiquette may not be common knowledge to the general population, but it's pretty fucking common courtesy to give the right of way to an individual who's been bracing rain, cold, and whatever other ungodly whether for ungodly amounts of time. If someone's been standing out overnight in the rain waiting for the grand sale of an IPhone 200 or some shit, they're not going to be pleased if somebody without a reservation barges to the front of the same line. Hitch hiking's not much different, except that there's no security guards to enforce the rules - only fists (and the occasional blunt weapon.)
I pointed out her ignorance, but our argument was misguided because we realized that the hitchhiker was just a shared mirage. It evaporated and we grabbed the spot that our delusional figure had occupied.
We finished the journey to Halifax in four short, adrenaline soaked rides. Each minute closer procured a more erratic heartbeat; each mile the cars drove east sent me a mile closer towards my only sense of accomplishment.
Our last ride was perfect. As we crossed the main bridge into Halifax, I was ambushed by swaths of nostalgia. It's strange how subtleties in foreign places can feel just as homelike as the town in which you were born. The bridge's suspension rose to a mighty nexus - cross sectional pyramids that sliced the cerulean sky into bright polygons. I was reminded of days past when I still lived in my single digits. My mother used to take me on trips to visit her grandfather (my great-grandfather, rest his soul.) Before the infrastructure of Vancouver had been butchered more than it already had been, we'd always ride across the great Lion's Gate Bridge. Each time we approached, shudders of angst rattled my body; once we had survived, relief would fall over me like pollen blown by a summer's breeze.
It was this relief that I felt now as we entered Halifax. We (I) was here. The East Coast was ours(mine). It was a shame that me, Scrib, Fernweh and Aids couldn't have arrived together, arm in arm, laughing at the five thousand-odd kilometres that couldn't separate us if they tried. S
That was what we'd imagined as we'd turned our backs on my mom on the opposite side of the country. A teardrop (no, surely just the sunlight reflecting on her sparkling eyes as they rested atop a smile laced with the loving admonition of our pointless journey.) A camera held in her hands clicked silently at us as it preserved the astonishing colours of our gear. Surely the full spectrum was accounted for in our bags, clothes, and headgear. Our footsteps were in unison as we tread towards the ferry to the mainland.
Months later, only two of us had made it to Halifax - hell, I wasn't even sure if Fernweh was here yet.
I was though, and I was ready to kick some East Coast ass.
We'd spotted another hitchhiker holding his thumb out at the only liable hitching spot on this chunk of highway, and Squanch had decided she wanted to park her ass a hundred feet down the road in front of the other guy. This would ensure, in all its conceited stupidity, that we got the first ride.
Hitchhiking étiquette may not be common knowledge to the general population, but it's pretty fucking common courtesy to give the right of way to an individual who's been bracing rain, cold, and whatever other ungodly whether for ungodly amounts of time. If someone's been standing out overnight in the rain waiting for the grand sale of an IPhone 200 or some shit, they're not going to be pleased if somebody without a reservation barges to the front of the same line. Hitch hiking's not much different, except that there's no security guards to enforce the rules - only fists (and the occasional blunt weapon.)
I pointed out her ignorance, but our argument was misguided because we realized that the hitchhiker was just a shared mirage. It evaporated and we grabbed the spot that our delusional figure had occupied.
We finished the journey to Halifax in four short, adrenaline soaked rides. Each minute closer procured a more erratic heartbeat; each mile the cars drove east sent me a mile closer towards my only sense of accomplishment.
Our last ride was perfect. As we crossed the main bridge into Halifax, I was ambushed by swaths of nostalgia. It's strange how subtleties in foreign places can feel just as homelike as the town in which you were born. The bridge's suspension rose to a mighty nexus - cross sectional pyramids that sliced the cerulean sky into bright polygons. I was reminded of days past when I still lived in my single digits. My mother used to take me on trips to visit her grandfather (my great-grandfather, rest his soul.) Before the infrastructure of Vancouver had been butchered more than it already had been, we'd always ride across the great Lion's Gate Bridge. Each time we approached, shudders of angst rattled my body; once we had survived, relief would fall over me like pollen blown by a summer's breeze.
It was this relief that I felt now as we entered Halifax. We (I) was here. The East Coast was ours(mine). It was a shame that me, Scrib, Fernweh and Aids couldn't have arrived together, arm in arm, laughing at the five thousand-odd kilometres that couldn't separate us if they tried. S
That was what we'd imagined as we'd turned our backs on my mom on the opposite side of the country. A teardrop (no, surely just the sunlight reflecting on her sparkling eyes as they rested atop a smile laced with the loving admonition of our pointless journey.) A camera held in her hands clicked silently at us as it preserved the astonishing colours of our gear. Surely the full spectrum was accounted for in our bags, clothes, and headgear. Our footsteps were in unison as we tread towards the ferry to the mainland.
Months later, only two of us had made it to Halifax - hell, I wasn't even sure if Fernweh was here yet.
I was though, and I was ready to kick some East Coast ass.
Saturday 15 February 2014
Zoom Zoom Zoom
The last ride of the day dropped us a half-click past an empty truckstop near some tiny village in the God-forsaken land of who-knows-where. After an hour's time in which only a half-dozen cars passed us by (the hour seeming much shorter due to some... pleasantries, courtesy of Squanch) we decided to try our luck at the truckstop.
Luck was nonexistent, seeing as the only trucker we saw all night was going west. We looked around the stop for a sheltered area to spend the night - there was none, but we found an electrical outlet and I spent the night gaming out on my cell phone. I was awash with memories of Scrib, my hitchhiking partner of the year prior.
We'd spent a night awake in Kenora, elated by our first evening free from Habeeb, our less-than-entertaining driver, in half a week. He'd spent that night playing the same game I played now, and I felt part of his soul settle into mine as I played into the early hours of sunrise. Damn, I missed that kid!
Did he miss us? I dozed off entertaining hopes that the court date that had separated us wouldn't result in serious jail time; I awoke with hopes that the morning would offer us a decent ride.
The first car that fled from the rising sun behind us pulled over, stifling our need to put out our thumbs. The ride was a good one. We veered off the Trans-Canada and sped down the scenic route, Ye Olde Highway of Canada, which ran parallel to a stream that constituted the US Canadian border between Quebec and Maine. I remember thinking that it looked pretty damn easy to get across that border. You could canoe across in a minute, hell, even swim. Even if the current was voracious enough to pull you downstream, the river was barely a hundred feet wide. I made a mental note on the potential of smuggling contraband.
The ride got us a solid 5 hours eastwards and dropped us in Truro. Halifax was less then an hour away. The distance between me and my only real accomplishment in life was coming to a close.
West-to-east, baby!
Luck was nonexistent, seeing as the only trucker we saw all night was going west. We looked around the stop for a sheltered area to spend the night - there was none, but we found an electrical outlet and I spent the night gaming out on my cell phone. I was awash with memories of Scrib, my hitchhiking partner of the year prior.
We'd spent a night awake in Kenora, elated by our first evening free from Habeeb, our less-than-entertaining driver, in half a week. He'd spent that night playing the same game I played now, and I felt part of his soul settle into mine as I played into the early hours of sunrise. Damn, I missed that kid!
Did he miss us? I dozed off entertaining hopes that the court date that had separated us wouldn't result in serious jail time; I awoke with hopes that the morning would offer us a decent ride.
The first car that fled from the rising sun behind us pulled over, stifling our need to put out our thumbs. The ride was a good one. We veered off the Trans-Canada and sped down the scenic route, Ye Olde Highway of Canada, which ran parallel to a stream that constituted the US Canadian border between Quebec and Maine. I remember thinking that it looked pretty damn easy to get across that border. You could canoe across in a minute, hell, even swim. Even if the current was voracious enough to pull you downstream, the river was barely a hundred feet wide. I made a mental note on the potential of smuggling contraband.
The ride got us a solid 5 hours eastwards and dropped us in Truro. Halifax was less then an hour away. The distance between me and my only real accomplishment in life was coming to a close.
West-to-east, baby!
Murphy's Masturbatory Law
It had been a while since I'd been able to exploit Murphy's Law - since I'd split up hitchhiking with Scrib back in BC, actually. We'd intended to one-up Murphy by manifested ourselves a ride by cracking a beer - a flawless procedure that we'd used dozens of times before. Most people don't like hitchhikers drinking in their car, so when they pull over you have to toss your brew. Unfortunately, that time, Murphy hwarted us - certainly, once we'd cracked our beers, a truck pulled over and we had to toss them. After we'd tossed them, we found the truck driver drinking his own beers - so he definitely wouldn't have minded us drinking our own. Thanks Murphy. Furthermore, he dropped us in a shitty location that stuck by such an awkward shoulder that we had a hell of a time getting a ride out.
This time, I decided to exploit the fundamental law by going and whacking off down in a ditch on the side of the Quebecois highway, intending to water the waving wheatgrass as the blades looked up at the underside of my looming phallus. Hey - cut me some slack. I'd stopped banging Squanch, I needed some sense of relief.
I knew that right before I came, someone would pull over and I'd have to hobble back to the highway, conspicuously doing up my fly and trying to hide an awkward boner. Lo-and-behold, this is exactly what happened. I almost wish Squanch had just ditched me, so I could've had some solitary sanity (and been able to finish busting my nut.)
We exploited Murphy's law four times that day - once more from me trying to fap, one for me cracking a beer that we'd bought at the easternmost Depanneur in Quebec, and once from me convincing Squanch to give me a blow job (in an effort to make this stupid promise I'd made to take her to Halifax a bit more manageable.)
Each time we were picked up at the most inconvenient of moments; each time we thanked Murphy for reminding us that when things could go wrong, they would.
This time, I decided to exploit the fundamental law by going and whacking off down in a ditch on the side of the Quebecois highway, intending to water the waving wheatgrass as the blades looked up at the underside of my looming phallus. Hey - cut me some slack. I'd stopped banging Squanch, I needed some sense of relief.
I knew that right before I came, someone would pull over and I'd have to hobble back to the highway, conspicuously doing up my fly and trying to hide an awkward boner. Lo-and-behold, this is exactly what happened. I almost wish Squanch had just ditched me, so I could've had some solitary sanity (and been able to finish busting my nut.)
We exploited Murphy's law four times that day - once more from me trying to fap, one for me cracking a beer that we'd bought at the easternmost Depanneur in Quebec, and once from me convincing Squanch to give me a blow job (in an effort to make this stupid promise I'd made to take her to Halifax a bit more manageable.)
Each time we were picked up at the most inconvenient of moments; each time we thanked Murphy for reminding us that when things could go wrong, they would.
Thursday 6 February 2014
Retards will be retards.
Charles' house was built on a communal property purchased by him and a group of friends that had remained close since childhood. There were a few houses dotting the area; surreal outdoor kitchens and washrooms, minimal electricity, gardens that flourished like small forests. A true caricature of self-sufficiency.
The house he took us to was just off the property, overlooking a lake whose water was as still as stone. Inside, we were bombarded by peaceful connections and good energy. Everyone in the house sparkled, but nobody could match the ambivalence of Charles' excited serenity.
In all honesty, I felt tremendously uncomfortable in the house - certainly the opposite effect that the hosts had hoped for. Their beautiful outlooks and presence reminded me of who and what I wanted to be - and, yet, was not. This night as the beginning of a long journey towards realizing how poisoned my soul was; how my spirit had become torn through years of alcohol, debauchery, and over-indulgence. Could they feel that? Were my convoluted insecurities seeping out of my mind and into theirs? It was obvious that these were some of the least judgemental people on the planet, but somehow that made me more vulnerable. I didn't deserve to be placed as an equal, I was feeble in comparison - confused, ill, and mentally malnourished.
I put the neurosis on the back burner and tried to enjoy the rest of the evening. The walls of the house were garnished with guitars, long paisley tapestries and candles; the stove of their kitchen accompanied by a pot simmering with succulence. Dinner was prime, a myriad of different curries - vegan and strictly home grown. The healthiest meal I'd had since my last visit to Scrib's house back on Vancouver Island.
After dinner, the hosts realized how tired we were and introduced us to the tiny mattress that was to be our bed. This mattress, cramped into a mezzanine behind the staircase to the second floor, was in part responsible for my further decline into insanity. Once we'd unpacked our bags and bid Charles goodnight, we readied ourselves to sleep.
"I want the mattress," Squanch whined.
"Uh, I was gonna say we could share it, but okay…"
We'd spend the week prior cuddling every night. Even if our bond had fallen out, I saw no problem spending a night back-to-back sharing warmth like decent people. Instead of pressing the subject, I rolled up a bed sheet for a pillow and lay down on the hardwood floor while she snuggled up with the thick dusty blankets and pillows that Charles had provided. I'd been well acquainted with concrete mattresses for much of the last year, so I wasn't too upset. I nuzzled my bed sheet and drifted off to sleep for a few hours.
In the midst of some fantastic and ludicrous dream, I was awoken by Squanch shoving her paws under my head and pulling out the bed sheet I was using as a pillow. Irritated as I may often be, I'll rarely get angry, but this was enough to push me over the edge. The energy in the house was too pure for me to feel comfortable blowing my top and screaming at her, but my agitated grumbling got the message across. Her complaints of being cold were lost to me because
A) Her jacket was right fucking beside her. Put that shit on, retard.
B) if we'd just shared the mattress in the first place then I wouldn't have had to use this stupid bed sheet as a pillow and she could have used it and kept her jacket off if she wanted to.
I grabbed it back and told her to kindly put her jacket on before fucking off.
The next morning, we graciously (for the most part - Squanch remained silent and stupid-looking) thanked our hosts over a breakfast of bagels and hit the road. One of Charles' roommates left me with a name - Jelly - to look up once we'd reached our destination in Halifax, a passing pleasantry that I figured would never amount to anything.
It was an hour long walk to the highway, and I spent much of it nose-deep in a book that Charles had offered me - a translated memoir of an Asian dude's life after the loss of his family. When I wasn't reading, I was fantasizing about dipping off the road and hiding in the underbrush until Squanch finally gave up looking for me and wandered off to finish the journey on her own. I'd grown tired of her infinite idiocy. Her three-year-old philosophical ideas and repeated inquiries exhausted me; I took to ignoring her but refrained from jumping off the road and bailing on the journey. After all, I'd promised I'd take her all the way.
The house he took us to was just off the property, overlooking a lake whose water was as still as stone. Inside, we were bombarded by peaceful connections and good energy. Everyone in the house sparkled, but nobody could match the ambivalence of Charles' excited serenity.
In all honesty, I felt tremendously uncomfortable in the house - certainly the opposite effect that the hosts had hoped for. Their beautiful outlooks and presence reminded me of who and what I wanted to be - and, yet, was not. This night as the beginning of a long journey towards realizing how poisoned my soul was; how my spirit had become torn through years of alcohol, debauchery, and over-indulgence. Could they feel that? Were my convoluted insecurities seeping out of my mind and into theirs? It was obvious that these were some of the least judgemental people on the planet, but somehow that made me more vulnerable. I didn't deserve to be placed as an equal, I was feeble in comparison - confused, ill, and mentally malnourished.
I put the neurosis on the back burner and tried to enjoy the rest of the evening. The walls of the house were garnished with guitars, long paisley tapestries and candles; the stove of their kitchen accompanied by a pot simmering with succulence. Dinner was prime, a myriad of different curries - vegan and strictly home grown. The healthiest meal I'd had since my last visit to Scrib's house back on Vancouver Island.
After dinner, the hosts realized how tired we were and introduced us to the tiny mattress that was to be our bed. This mattress, cramped into a mezzanine behind the staircase to the second floor, was in part responsible for my further decline into insanity. Once we'd unpacked our bags and bid Charles goodnight, we readied ourselves to sleep.
"I want the mattress," Squanch whined.
"Uh, I was gonna say we could share it, but okay…"
We'd spend the week prior cuddling every night. Even if our bond had fallen out, I saw no problem spending a night back-to-back sharing warmth like decent people. Instead of pressing the subject, I rolled up a bed sheet for a pillow and lay down on the hardwood floor while she snuggled up with the thick dusty blankets and pillows that Charles had provided. I'd been well acquainted with concrete mattresses for much of the last year, so I wasn't too upset. I nuzzled my bed sheet and drifted off to sleep for a few hours.
In the midst of some fantastic and ludicrous dream, I was awoken by Squanch shoving her paws under my head and pulling out the bed sheet I was using as a pillow. Irritated as I may often be, I'll rarely get angry, but this was enough to push me over the edge. The energy in the house was too pure for me to feel comfortable blowing my top and screaming at her, but my agitated grumbling got the message across. Her complaints of being cold were lost to me because
A) Her jacket was right fucking beside her. Put that shit on, retard.
B) if we'd just shared the mattress in the first place then I wouldn't have had to use this stupid bed sheet as a pillow and she could have used it and kept her jacket off if she wanted to.
I grabbed it back and told her to kindly put her jacket on before fucking off.
The next morning, we graciously (for the most part - Squanch remained silent and stupid-looking) thanked our hosts over a breakfast of bagels and hit the road. One of Charles' roommates left me with a name - Jelly - to look up once we'd reached our destination in Halifax, a passing pleasantry that I figured would never amount to anything.
It was an hour long walk to the highway, and I spent much of it nose-deep in a book that Charles had offered me - a translated memoir of an Asian dude's life after the loss of his family. When I wasn't reading, I was fantasizing about dipping off the road and hiding in the underbrush until Squanch finally gave up looking for me and wandered off to finish the journey on her own. I'd grown tired of her infinite idiocy. Her three-year-old philosophical ideas and repeated inquiries exhausted me; I took to ignoring her but refrained from jumping off the road and bailing on the journey. After all, I'd promised I'd take her all the way.
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