Victoria BC, Hotel Grand Pacific
"As Canadian as possible under the circumstances" - Heather Scott
We're on the ninth floor. It may be important to include that I'm prevented from writing poetry because nothing in the English language rhymes with the word 'ninth.' I hope you're happy.
Yesterday we took off at around early. We waited in the line at the terminal for about half an hour behind a gay couple who seemed to have nothing to talk about. Boarding group one put us on the boat, in our seats, breakfast ordered and eaten, and several "how long now's" before we even started moving. I turned on my Law and Order DVDs and fell asleep listening to some very gotherey cops lay down the line.
We set off for lunch at the wraps place.
Victoria is as crowded as it ever gets. There are booths all along the dock with twenty different displays of the same beaded necklaces and 'I will draw your name in dolphin letters' artists. There were a few pieces out there that, had I the money, I'd feel good buying. One was a yellow painting with the thick black silouhette of a bare tree and an old woman. I liked it very much. No money, though.
A man dresed in a Darth Vader costume played for spare change on the corner by the dock while a thrity-year-old live-at-home-with-the-folks street magician dropped flame torches from atop a very high unicycle. There was a very artistic marimba band camped out across the street from the chocolate shop. Asians and seven-year-old kids crowded around staring and taking pictures. Some women danced in small head-shaking, hand-snapping sequences while plenty of people tried to not look like they were enjoying the heavy metallic beat. I tried to ignore the smell of cannabis and body odor and enjoy it... but for me those hemp-toting hippies could only be enjoyed from the other side of the street. I'm sorry, I tried.
Dirty hippies.
We came back from lunch and I decided that it was time to curl up on the deck with my laptop and watch a movie. The kids went swimming and I was going to go out for a little walk - I usually like to explore the city - but I wasn't in the mood for curiosity for some reason. Maybe I've acquired a spot of laziness over the past few weeks.
So I watched a movie someone burned for me called "Naked Lunch" - based on the book by Billy Burroughs. I probably would have enjoyed it more had I remembered to bring my heroin with me, but I will say that it was cleverly artistic at times. Definitely modern writing. William S. Burroughs could be a genius sometimes... but I guess I'll never really understand drug-induced artistic appreciation. Oh, here's me being artistically snobbish: if you have to alter your state of mind to connect with a piece, I really don't think the art did it's job very well. Now, I've never tried it so I can't give a completely bias-free opinion... I just don't think it's a very rewarding way to understand art. It seems like a cheap way to apply significance to insignificant things. Everything becomes significant when there is a high - but finding your own significance is what art is all about. Reaching the point of elevation through introspection and self-questioning - define your own truth and let it all happen without all these other forces.
Negative capability, bitches.
Okay, I'm sorry.
Never again.
A lot of the imagery was highly phallic. It made me curious about Burroughs. I think we all have our sexual obsessions, but bugs and aliens and typewriters... maybe I just don't get the turn on there. I want to read the book and look at the different phases of insect imagery... maybe how they tie to sexual identity in the book. There's a bit of homo/hetero questioning tied to different insects... it looked interesting. I also liked the ending. Doppelgängers never disappoint.
It did make me sick at some parts, so I don't recommend it if you don't have the stomach for it. Bugs and sex should never be interposed. I confess I didn't watch every single scene. Jibblies.
We did Italian for dinner. Heidi and Sarah met us there - they came with the band so they don't get to hang out with us all the time. We sat outside across the street from a pod of fifty or so girl scouts trying to make a human pyramid on the lawn of a historical building. Seated in the table next to us were two top notch girls. They propped their feet up on the table, shared a bottle of cheap champagne, smoked five or so cigarettes, and discussed their favorites of the cheap beers laughing in high nasal voices. It might have been less expensive for them to write "I'M EASY" on their chests in magic marker. It didn't work out as well as they'd hoped, though, because just one blue popped-collar dude joined them by the end of the evening.
Better luck next time.
You can borrow my pen if you want to try the writing on the chest thing...
We came back to the hotel and I wrote for a while. I sat out on the deck with a lawn blanket wrapped around me and scribbled and scratched out things in my blue notebook. I only got a page and a half done, but it felt good to at least be thinking about words. I wish I could sit out on a ninth floor balcony all the time. The hotel lights from the back of that tall brick "Harbour Towers" building covering up the sunset, the sharp wind, the blurry lights on the bay... too perfectly imperfect. If it were beautiful I'd have a hard time getting anything done. Beauty is food for the writer's unproductivity. Why create something beautiful when you have something right here?
It is beautiful in its own way. The sea gulls circle the tops of the hotels and whine at the wind, the band nerds here for the parade walk in loud awkward clusters, old retired couples hold hands and cut through the park behind the Days Inn. I can see the rim of the bay in small gaps between the buildings and trees. The water ripples against the rocks like a blanket you kick around in the morning just after you wake up - all moving together in subtle creases and lines to smooth out someplace and then ripple again. I'm right above the parking lot for the Days Inn next to our hotel. People get in and out of their cars with loads of luggage and coats slung over their arms and shoulders. They look tired or busy but don't look up. I don't know why. When I walk around I usually forget that I should be looking ahead to see where I'm going. When I'm on campus I watch the top of the mountains as I start to head for home. I don't notice the crosswalks or the Wilk or the dorm buildings - I watch the very tops of the mountains. That's where they keep the high places. That's where the pink hits in a wide stripe from the sun setting. That's where the clouds congregate on a snowy day. That's where the moon sits when it's full - white and frothy behind the thin clouds like a round slice of dry ice tucked into the valley. That's where the Y gets lit up and, despite my cliche lack of school spirit, it looks stunning against the black sky.
That's where the high places are.
The bands are lining up and following their drum beat. They must be glad the sun isn't out because their uniforms won't be so heavy and itchy. There is a group of high school students smoking in the parking lot and no cars on the street. There are people walking out to see the bands perform and I'm sitting here, inside, on my computer, pretending that I shouldn't be out there in it.
Last night I had a dream. It was one of those dreams you have where people that are in it do things you don't think they'd normally do. I woke up and I was alone in a pitch-black hotel room. My hand was empty and I felt very weird.
I wanted to get back to sleep but I kept thinking about that dream. I kept thinking about that person, I kept thinking about what they did - how I felt - how real it seemed and how hard it was for me to let go of it.
I did eventually fall back asleep. I didn't dream of anything the second time.
I can't seem to look straight ahead. I just want to look up. I want to look up and see the person sitting at the window on the ninth floor. I want to fall back asleep and slip into that dream again.
I'm starting to get hungry. The marching band is playing soon. I'm going to go watch them in front of the parliament building.
And stop writing.
I should be out there, shouldn't I?