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.

Fiction: # 7: Blow as Deep as You Want to Blow

As I blow as deep as I want to blow, I’m thinking how. “Write about all interesting people, remove degrees of friendship,” I tell myself.

As the lack of energy in the air is palpable, people are confused -- it’s very quiet here. People are looking forward to the new Games.

As Paralympic flags go up in Whistler; I send Post back to the States.

As gone is the CTV Whistler Broadcast booth in Mountain Square, the bricks are back to being underfoot. People in general continue to pour off the slopes on this sunny day.

As some volunteers still have not gotten the memo about drinking in the uniform, après ski goes on … five beautiful girls sun themselves below the same sushi bar I waited with hundreds of others to catch a glimpse of the women’s Canadian bobsleigh team.

As décor is back to colorful snowboarders and Whistler women walking their dogs, 30% off Olympic merchandise signs go up.

As I’m trying to notice things for you, all around, there’s not much to notice on a walk and a half of the Stroll.

As one barista at Blenz asks another, “What’s going on here?,” the same answers her own rhetorical question. “There’s so much space!”

As I’m in Whistler because I had to get out of Squamish, I must go back to Squamish to eat.

As the cookies keep me alive, they are love to other people.

As I’m sunbathing outside with tea and talking to you on the telephone, I think of the moral of this story.

As the stories continue to flow, I work to deepen my integration. As I integrate, I get smarter. As I get smarter, I blow deep. As I blow deep, I remove the dust from my lungs and from the windowsills I look out upon the mountains.

Fiction: Chapter Three: “Unconscious Transitions” :: Introduction

A fall day, slate gray skies, arousing the remnants of my soul, which part, or entity of it, I do not know. The wind tells the soul, "transition is coming." Most striking, as I sit here at this dugout of Van Cleve Park, to my senses - the brisk Canadian wind coming from places westward, too early to be an Alberta Clipper, but the wind sweeps through most of the state today; chilling. Nature itself, a constant transition, every second, Fall is just a major warning to the more unobservant. The canopies of the trees are swaying back and forth as a gust hits -- no matter to rush hour traffic a few blocks away, but the observers observe the tops of the trees emptying, another fall has arrived.

September rolls through to October soon. Transitions spanning from MBH to 1130, connected through 15th Avenue SE, the main artery, more than just seasonal. What was far is now near and vice-versa; a trip to the West Bank is loathsome -- there better be purpose. Back then it was a rare time to venue to Como Avenue, much less Hennepin, where the sounds of 35W can almost be heard and the commuting traffic in the mornings on the thouroughfare tells me there is still hope for an economy.

There is no hope for this fall to be much like those of the past, recorded now as it is coming to an end. Parties from 1057 still contain my freshman ghost -- each day I ride by it and the house becomes another abstraction, becomes any other forgettable object of the commute. Some days I don't notice, banking around the corner on slippery leaves or avoiding cars while riding without hands. Some days I hear the voices calling from inside, tempting me back inside to relive it one more time, barging in past new occupants, saying, as I'm reaching to the handle on Ari's old room, "this is where I brewed my own beginning and end."

As I sit in the dugout, watching nothing, but everything, finding time to observe the system in place of control in my own life, I get intense and passionate feelings about baseball from imagining a game going on in front of me. Invisible players; it is almost as though I have died and I can feel the souls of those around me who have played here on warmer days. Almost crying now, I think of the wood smoke that will be drifting in the air tonight.

As much as I fear consciousness to be slipping by me, one of many reasons behind all of this noveling, just sitting, looking and alone, a rush of memories fill my mind. Red Bull, we win Open Ice, the mind snaps to Calhoun in the snow, jumping to parties at 1202 down the street, revolving just to my right at Elmwood Properties; Amalia.

I contact Annie - plans are made for wine, it is time to stop dwelling on this new book of blank space crying out to be filled -- I must leave both of them alone.

Muse: Chapter 3: On Transition

Is it beat, maybe, for the customer who thinks the barista doesn’t want to be wished a good or even nice day in the path of their week, at this place? With Room for Cream I never known about courtesy, everything gets flipped on its head. They don’t work too hard, it is hard but easy to tip these people, the jar is right there, but the grand total was two dollars, you put the money in the cash register, took out the muffin, poured some coffee. I added the cream, which you did ask me if I wanted, so that is customer service, but I feel better when Room for Cream seems surprised to be thanked.

All around, either the greatest subculture lie or a lie to what I thought was my own reality of normalcy and academia and life in general. A subculture of actual reality? I am here? In colors, not black, without patches. I eat the same food. Breathe the same air. Where else does it exist besides here? Subcultures, loosely used, because the aesthetic of the place, without knowing the history of the geography of the West Bank has members here who signal themselves through a distinctive and symbolic use of style; black boots, angry patches, fixed-gears. They also are extremely leery of people in colors, which includes my own sense of fashion, and mannerisms, but maybe they just don’t like me watching them, knowing they are being researched and thought of while they work.

The study of these people, normal people really, are visibly affected by the Look, on purpose by some, others live it, I don’t know. This is the main phenomenological problem I have with them, I realize it does not matter if I find out if some ARE, some TRY, some DON’T KNOW. But it bugs me, because I am here at “their” place, a distinction made without saying, perhaps falsely, and I am myself, a member of a disillusioned yet dominant system, seeking to understand and interpret these symbols of authenticity through the "primacy of perception." I am done with stage one, that was perceiving the world through a sole perspective-- I’m on to round two, philosophically perceiving things. Perception, for the first time, aware as my body begins to perceive the world. So I am torn between the images I see, the people I see and what they may or may not represent, and what my body, the third episodic character, is deciding about the way this place is. The body stands between this fundamental distinction between subject (i.e., perceiving a whole spectrum of this aesthetic present around me) and object, ambiguously existing as both. Perhaps. As I study-via-waiting the phenomena of the people, social construction is in action, a manic mind mixing day-old muffins with philosophy, I think not as they appear to "my" consciousness, but to any consciousness, so if I was not me, but watching this beat old place unfold, what would people think of me thinking about this thinking?

Fiction Interlude, Part 1

The man next door moved in to our neighborhood of slanted cobblestone streets on a crisp September day, if I recall correctly. He showed up in a blue minivan, one of the old ones with wood paneling on the side. The wood looked like it had once come from a nice mahogany tree but now was bashed in on the passenger side door. I passed the damage off as simply a reckless driver, but as I would find out later, the man was anything but careless. Instead, the man across the lawn was quite the opposite.

My family and I went out to dinner the night he moved in. Steak, or something like that. But we got back late. Patrick was asleep, and the street was dark. Tomorrow I would introduce myself to the neighbor.

Instead of assuming his new neighbors would make the first visit, the man decided to make pre-emptive visit to my doorstep the next day. He was wearing a maroon vest that looked as though he had attempted to iron it before this all-important visit, but I didn’t make mention of that the first time I was introduced to Mr. Riley.

“Oh,” he said as he approached my stoop. “I didn’t expect you to be out here. I was planning on ringing the doorbell.”

“Are you some sort of…doorbell repairman,” was my awkward attempt at furnishing a joke. “No, I just like to be formal. As Gayson said, “Friendship is neither a formality nor a mode: it is rather, a life.”

“Well, Mr…”

“Riley. James Riley.”

“Well, I’m glad you see neighbors in such a positive light. I’m Oliver by the way. Oliver Len—”
“Right, right anyways… Oliver, right?

“Ye-”

“I wanted to start my footing in Maine quickly. Do we have any neighborhood potlucks coming up?”

I have to admit:I was slightly taken aback by the man who called himself James Riley -- Here was a man who quoted David Gayson colloquially, rudely interrupting me-a man who didn’t even want to find out my last name! I found that my eyes were wandering to his assortment of yet-unpacked luggage. If he was so insistent upon coming over here to meet me, why hadn’t he taken the time to unpack? A small, second-hand trailer had pulled a small watercraft from somewhere. The minivan’s suspension system was overloaded with bags.

“Potlucks? Oliver? Potlucks?”

Re: Dear Nancy

Someone writes back promptly, maybe the intended recipient, perhaps not. "On authenticity: I DO know how to go about finding it, it is not whimsical, it is a bird in the hand, resources, practical things like that. Thoughts from the backseat and countertops of society in little messages to mothers only go so far as that mother whom still loves you but is afraid of what you've become."

Carrying on now.

"Just because the "cabineers" symbolize the "technology reality" of sorts" (what does this even mean) because you come up North, to our modern getaway, it doesn't mean much. Now, knowing that you wrote this on a pad of my stationary, maybe slightly drunk on wine -- I found this review as well, stashed away in the pantry with the recycling:

Clingy, heavy lags, high sugar content.
The review: Little Penguin Shiraz.

Caramel accents (?)
Australian shiraz, grown in what region? (SE Australia)
A bit fruity.

(Indistinguishable handwriting follows).

Furthermore: "I can be witty and creative to and use metaphors for things like this, so let me deconstruct your made-up axioms just like Stalin would with the non-non-believers. The technology propelling your food with fire burn restrictions is only a temporary solace." (So, hypothetically, the fire bans are lifted; you wrongfully assume that technology for some people is actually easier than starting a fire, perhaps some people find it an inconvenience and prefer to make the meal over the fire, slow, time consuming as hunger is driving through the brain --"

"And the town, connected, is more of an "inconvenience in authenticity." An inconvenience in authenticity implies that there is a slight slip in authenticity, a probe beyond the normal level, assuming there is one. What you are trying to say here is that why drive 250 miles north for relaxation, serenity, a respite from authentic daily life, in a sense, where you may lose a bar of cell phone service or actually have it improve from your house, I don't know, ours improves, but why, and I agree, that it is slightly an inconvenience to this madness. It was not always that way though, capturing that sentiment can be found in black-and-white photographs of days past.

"Hybridization of sexuality" means nothing, complete b.s. "The man who is the sole romantic aesthetic" versus others find it in those who represent classical knowledge as well" is just an attempt to cover something up, an inadequacy, unknown.

So here are my own, based upon what you've already written, coming from the wine review.

Clingy, heavy lags, high sugar content: A lot like a personality, maybe, a big high followed by a crash.

The review: Little Penguin Shiraz. The flavor has equally impressive dark sweet fruity closing with an impressive length. This Australian shiraz holds its own with hard cheeses and anything on the barbie, from red meats to blackened fish. Done.

Caramel accents (?) Maybe you meant camel? Australian shiraz, grown in what region? South-Eastern Australia' denotes an enormous zone which includes South Australia, New South Wales, and Victoria.

A bit fruity. Meaning you probably drank too much.

Excerpt

Last night, Bartlet’s house. Same shorts, same t-shirt as today. A walk to the Store in early fall, easily managed, taking Seventh street to purchase some beer, Red Hook, taste, thirteen dollars, walk back, beer in tow, collegially as a car payment could easily match the cost of a month’s worth of booze, proceed to start drinking. We get good and drunk before Mitch gets a call from Chris.

“I’m in dire need of obtaining,” he says. Supposedly Chuck drank all of the Miller High Life that was supposed to last them more than one night. Mitch goes out and buys case for these kids, begrudgingly at best, I think we share this sentiment of things like this that must change, or that I can’t do anymore.

“It’s just not our problem anymore,” he says, out the apartment door and whisked away in a car with fifteen minutes left before ten. He’s back in ten minutes, record time – and checking the phone while getting a ride from Lofgren it is 21:54, one of the last time stamps I can place from the previous evening.

Jordan drives us somewhere who is going to pick someone up at the Dome – Blarney’s first, spelled correctly now, located in Dinkytown, an old haunt of Mitch, myself, everyone from last fall when all friends began the inevitable 21sts. Old haunt indeed; some say it loses appeal very quickly.

Billy Mike comes across to me as an abstraction right now, visible, the scene, tired himself, the scene is bad and tired tonight but not necessarily because of him, belting songs on karaoke. No drinks ordered yet- we pick up SDS and head to Library. There we see Tim, an upcoming dignitary.

“I’ve landed a job,” he’s forced to shout over the crowd and general malaise of the stereo system.
“Where?” Barlett asks, inquisitive but drunk on beer.
“Somewhere,” and it is good enough for Mitch, who orders a vodka cranberry ($1.50) to appease the inside joke and his period with the waxing moon, claiming it to be his drink on the rocks if one exists. The four, five, six beers I have help ease hitting on the hardbodies and they seem interested. One blonde is cute while the others are simply part of the posse, out with themselves tonight.

“Best leave them alone,” stumbling, twisted and truthful in the upper part of the Bar, Mitch, “not much need to pick them up,” he finishes, fragmented as he eyes the girls himself before leading the charge to The Block Bar; where you and I have spent the second most of our inheritance money besides Downtime – more on this later, when the live band is in.

“How long are we going to be here?”
“No idea,” Mitch says, “how long have we been here?”

In that way that he asks it I cannot come up with a response, he sits down at the tables near the beer pong game, my best attempts at getting any were there, seeing two girls (unknown visages) and managed to buy them drinks. They, these visages, then head off and high tail it to quieter parts of the bar after I had managed to get in line for them while they, being short, and bitchlike, were not able to. Mitch picks up the tab for Sammy in repayment of the bacon and Bartlett for the lettuce and tomatoes of our prior sandwiches consumed with the Red Hook the other day- no, the same day as today. For dinner. At this point I meet Laura, and friend, graduate students.

“Wise to all sorts of tricks, appeals made by intoxicated undergrads don’t usually work there mate,” Mitch says as he orders another vodka cran from Jade. Little does he know that they are indeed hard to pick up but she did show some interest; my confidence was right about maxed out when I went and talked to Gulia, a friend of SDS.

“I’ll come over to your table and chat,” she lies, does not occur, I use the wrong line on her, I should have responded with “to come over and talk to use,” when she asks what SDS said about her instead of “kind of good looking,” smarmy, a probable drunken answer. I could tell I was too drunk and not thinking too clearly; self loathing began and I lost control of my thoughts, including advanced theses with the graduate students, managing to screw up.

When Laura asked me some thing about “what I was preparing to do,” after leading her on. “Allegedly it is getting late,” I think, not recalling if this was my true response but I had to get out of there before I spent any more fucking money. That much was certain. Time stamp on a drunk text to Liza was about 01:05.

Me: “Will you still be awake in an hour and a half?” I was planning on driving there immediately if she was quick with the response.

Instead I passed out by my phone and shoes, waking up on the floor with one Salomon shoe off. Crawled into bed with the other still on. I wake up around 09:55 or so to the dust and pounding going on around me. Charle sends me a text inquiring location, we go to his room, clear our heads. Thus begins the thoughts of the day.