Lifestyle : “Believe that it is yours now in spirit”

Missing Canada …? I realized, and realize, that there is a different sense of community there. At the time, the people and the mentality of the town make it what it is. So many people seem to be implants and have satiated that spot in their souls with Squamish. The rest continue their quest to quench that wanderlust. To find it is middle ground. Not Whistler, nor Vancouver. Community is part of a cultivated lifestyle – establish your morning routine amongst the presence of greatness in the Zephyr café.

Sunny days, rainy days; in balance so it seems. The Chief tends to safekeeping, drinking the cleansing rain and I spot him out my window in meditation, alone now. And I realized, my last night there, his presence. Alive. The rock is special and there is an enchanted forest below him? Beyond, Skypilot out my window. Across the Howe Sound and snow on the tops and so much snow on Brohm Ridge and then there was the Black Tusk.

Different frequency of positive vibrations one must listen to hear. Being pretty much happy all the time. A man on my own – almost.

Lifestyle: “Believe that it is yours now in spirit”

This is the fourth of six essays I decided to write as a result of the six lifestyle decisions I made (and attempted to adhere to) out in British Columbia. Writing is with me now in spirit. Some days it is my break, that little American opportunity to move up and take something from the precipice of unknown reaction, qualification and ability and move forward to create something – yet other mornings I feel like there is much work to be done to drive site traffic, to meet people in person to direct them here, to improve layout, web hosting, and many things that aren’t up to snuff with my vision for this experiment.

… an experiment … as the “Accidental Creative” manifesto goes, originality is derived from each of us as individuals; our backgrounds interact with the circumstances of our environment and form meaning with our mindset.

Sounds like the Midwest perspective to me. Traveling, so much longitude, East and West to be an ambassador for the lakes and streams. Lifestyle, with latitude, a manifestation of the lake effect, up North. Muse, because our location is bigger than our occupation – but that’s a personal philosophy. Fiction, or not so much, to toy with past reality and write for multiple audiences. All giving direction to move forward.

But now that I have it, we need to have it … to engage authentically in a healthy way that the world actually changes. As we discover our unique voices, we form a reality; Todd Henry calls it artistry to be part of deriving meaning out of our existence in this method. The world is going to change around us because it of.

And that message is uplifting. “You must find your unique voice if you want to thrive.”

So the past three months or so – travel, trains and a series of posts on life in motion and a lot of movement in British Columbia has been my source of unique environment. In the background, the core of one Midwest perspective – mine, though with some assistance -- were notes to share the things I noticed to understand and explain what was “now.”

But – though it is a catchy domain name (at least I think so) -- to consider it an entirety, or a monolith of perspective would be foolish. It is not the difference of perspective that binds people together but the communality of the way people view their lifestyle that intrigues me. There must be more “authentic” engagement to get at what I really want.

Lifestyle: Mantra Essays

#3 – Claim it to be yours already

Smelling the notebook in front of him, digits, names faces flew past the place where the unconscious and conscious mind meet. There was deliberate, meditative thought guiding this new way of life.

“I’m writing about my time here,” he tells her as she plops down on the porch couch, recently demoted from being a house couch (“never did like that couch”). Before continuing he wavers in speech; to declare more would be to break the silence of his mind more than necessary.

Shirtless and squinting in the southern sun, basking, no, to bask would be too much, too strong, to accompany his thoughts. “Am I happy now.” An ideation somewhere between wonder and declarative, forcing new thoughts, grounded in the trial’s prescription, vitamins, and if those he took earlier will kick in soon.

The departure looms. Neither say this aloud during dinner on the porch in the same white chair, on the same white table, of parmesan chicken pasta – a feast. Chicken two nights in a row.

She goes inside, writes him a check for his services and his time spent in the Centre, a modest fee. It permits the return trip to happen. Thankfully as a patient he didn’t tear the padded walls apart too much – the last place he left the posters, torturing him with the voices from the vents and eyes were turned around to reveal blank canvasses, 36” x24”, used to leave idioms of madness scrawled in black permanent marker for posterity.

“Why did you really come here?” she inquired, though no sun set on their time together nor on the day. The question had been hanging in the air since they placed him there, Craig Slist, LLC, the firm working in conjunction with the Canadian Research Society (CRS) to which she was contracted as part of the Canadian government’s ongoing investigation. She had agreed to harbour the young American for a trial period of three months. Her only obligations were to install cameras to monitor substance abuse violations and do weekly briefings with the patient’s supervisor from community service.

“I desired to live for myself again, as I saw fit, be protected by the Chief, live with a new insatiable happiness,” Zed said, deliberately yet not making any eye contact with her as she had just returned to sit on the porch couch.

“Did you find it?”
“It found me.”
“Gratitude?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still have it? That’s all they want to know.”
“I always did. I knew it. I knew what I wanted – it wasn’t hitting me in the face – it was a day to day direction from an overall goal set four years ago. I wanted January 11th. That was all it took. Everything has been mine again since that moment.”

Last Words: Paralympics

“The IPC is a symbol that is in motion, with three Agitos (from Latin: I move) encircling a center point; emphasizing the role that the IPC has of bringing athletes from all corners of the world together and enabling them to compete.

Paralympic athletes are constantly inspiring and exciting the world with their performances - always moving forward and never giving up.”

_____________________________________________________________

The concluding symbol for me was in the Coca-Cola bottle sitting on a table where hours earlier a vibrant workforce check-in table had been, staffed with volunteers I would later go out to enjoy the closing ceremonies with.

It was a free-for-all for some, grabbing posters and anything else likely headed for the end.

I took some useful things, tape, an official VANOC pre-Games writer’s style guide, lunchmeat and some fruit to last me a few more days.

Some other odds and ends, given away upon arrival in Whistler, was piled in a box.

And then that Coca Cola bottle, warm, sitting on the table. Drinking it on the bus, I thought of this. The Ricoh printer guys next to me on the bus were flying out the next day, happy to go home but left with the impressions of the beauty of the mountains in their minds.

The mass globalization of the world, could it be, in one little bottle, one little blog post, obscured right here in this text?

The giant corporatism of Coca Cola and so much product given away as part of the sponsorship but so much interaction with people from different cultures. Memories both in mind and in little black books.

Priceless handwriting from Australians, Brits, Canadians, Frenchmen, Russians, and Swedes mixed with my own. Names, addresses, “fuzzy feelings of friendship” and all derived from what?

The athletes? The corporations? The IOC or IPC? The human relationships formed at random from rides, glances, dinners and everything just mixes into live reality?

The same journalists who walked past me in the mix zone are here in the Whistler Live! area … the same journalist who gave me his Craft Swedish ski cap is probably out there someplace too, but I can’t miss the green and red of the Belarus broadcasters, I write, but cannot explain, that “all the jackets are on a touch level now.”

“See you in Sochi!” the jackets say.

We lift our glasses “To Smurfs!” and I think about the incident while I was on duty of the president of the Croation IPC delegation falling and spilling coffee on himself, cheerfully wiping off the coffee from his jacket.

As the closing ceremony crowds stream back, the final toast, “To The Stroll!” and Charlie puts it best:

“Olympic colours, exhilarating and moving, profound moments of reflection of the human spirit, indominatable perseverance, achievement, success. Athletes first, handicapped second. What a source of inspiration.”

The last ride home, our final stop in the Paralympic Village at 21:50.

Our driver ends the experience for all of us. “Hoping everyone made new friends, new experiences – it’s what the Olympics are all about – helping each other.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go to sleep now. We’ll meet again, so long, goodnight.”

Canada 2010: What is, and what was

The Olympics begin today, for me, just like everyone else. I’ll see the Opening Ceremony on television in PST – the first time I’ll be in the same time zone as an Olympic event.

I’ll be in Whistler during the Opening Ceremonies, watching on a Panasonic television in the Uniform Distribution Wait Room – a television donated as part of being a worldwide Olympic partner.

I partially know what is coming; the dress rehearsal was comprised of most of what people will see – some things, naturally, like the entrance of the athletes and speeches of important people cannot be done as stand-ins. The flame will be lit, the Games will begin.

People will be commenting, Twittering, Facebooking, LinkedIn-ing – I’m not sure the breadth of it all, or what will be said, or impressions – I’ll be active with some of that too, I’m sure.

Right now I’m writing free-form, coming up with something to make the connection I’ve been striving for – this is not a first impression piece, or one from notes to The Midwest Perspective, just an attempt to make a connection to those following this one blip amongst all of the others.

Tired of that, I switch to my initial Whistler Observations from the first day I arrived. The best:

// “The place is a warzone. Howitzer blasts for avi control mix with Miga, Sumi and Muk Mukk.”

“3.5 billion (television viewers) will conclude that, from West Vancouver to Whistler, lies the recreational capital of the world. 3.5 billion people will conclude that Canada is everyone’s dream and our reality.”

“Blenz Coffee Shop; randomly waiting for Accreditation and Uniform Distribution in two hours. New snow on the mountain.”

“Think: what can I do to deliver stories back to MN being here?” “…Emerging themes: Signs of globalization – hydrogren busses”

“Two iPhones [one per person] are replaced by one iPhone and new Macbook by a man in artsy glasses, drinking tea and biscotti, complete with teapot. My little Verizon phone seems so inadequate but so relieving.”

“…biscotti dropped awkwardly”

“…and to Tapley’s in Whistler to watch the Vikings and Cowboys – Vikings up 7-3.”

“The worst is that one has to pay to sit or do anything – soup, ginger ale, etc.”

“In the correct place for gentrification as I am by far the youngest person here.”

//

Lifestyle: Canada 2010: Australia Day

Tuesday was a little bit of Australia Day in Whistler. Longhorn’s Saloon and Grill attracts the yellow and green facepaint crowd, the special yellow and green jackets reserved for this one occasion on the mountain; those who fear no fall are in their swimsuits and fly with Australian flags draped around their necks. Most of them are quite drunk by now – the lifts have closed, some take pictures, many pretty girls in the patio chairs talking amongst themselves.

Sunday was America’s day, in my first “expatriate” experience of watching the Vikings play while being a minority caring much about it. Minnesotans (a Target Corporate guy, two CPA-types and another sitting around in Longhorns with their jerseys, believed to be all different, drinking what would normally be cheap beer, expensively. The guys offer me up a spot, I eat some celery, chat about my writing and post college “plan.”

But today is not a good one to mention being an American to these people. Rowdy (one punches another – two Aussies – and the one guy gets escorted away for medical attention with a bloody tooth – “Woman,” Wolfmother’s classic, blares on the P.A system, the security guard kicks two men out sitting on a ledge not far from me, waiting for friends.

The only journalism I attempt is with two girls, I introduce myself, ask if they are Aussies, one acknowledges to be, the other is British, so I ask them what they think of the scene in front of us. They are observers, not drinkers, and tell me that they’re slightly ashamed of it all, not really proud of it – so I ask them about what people in Australia are doing right now back home.

“At the bars, probably the same thing,” meaning causing trouble. “What is Australia Day all about?” I ask one of the girls.

The Aussie cannot really come up with a good answer, she mumbles something about Captain Kirk, feels dumb not knowing what it is all about, their friend arrives to take the focus off of this lack of patriotic knowledge.

But it brings into good question what days like this are for – simply an excuse to get drunk on a Tuesday? A sense of bonding in a place dominated by fellow countrymen, for once, a concentration of likeminded people as a mutual majority while the American journalists scribble away on pieces of scratch paper, trying to get at least one of these cultural events about the things he sees, trying to avoid a confrontation so maybe I’ll live to see another?

It is nice to see things from the outside, to think on them, make poor conjectures; but, at the very least, I’m not the one waking up with the wicked hangover --