Winds of Change

So here we are; in a new month, and new year, and a new home.  in some ways it feels like ages have passed since my last post, and then when I realize it has been the better part of a year, they might as well have.  In keeping with the sweep of change across the pages of my life, I am taking the monumental step of moving this blog on to wordpress.  As first glance it seems much more difficult to manoevre than blogger was, but perhaps that’s only because I don’t really know what I’m doing with it yet.  Maybe with a little more time to play around with it I’ll be able to mold it into exactly what I want – and if the past few months are any indication of how much time I’ll have to play with it, you’d better get used to seeing it the way it is right now.

Waiting…

Snow on the mountains. I hadn’t expected it yet, but suddenly there it was, brilliant white against the tired grey flanks of the rockies; a marker of the season’s passing. Not surprising that it would come now, at the tail end of September, on one of those exhausted, overcast days that define the transition between fall and winter. All around me sprawled the gritty expanse of the city, stretching itself awkwardly towards the jagged spine of the horizon as if it wanted a closer look at the pristine blanket left there by the receding clouds. I stopped and stared for a moment, feeling the edge to the wind bring a realization that the domineering grasp of winter is much closer than I realized.

I have known for well over a month that summer was over. I’m not sure what it is about the seasons that speaks to me so directly, and especially the fall. Something about the fall resonates deep within me, communicating with me on a level I am not sure I understand. It was sometime during the third week of August that I walked out to the garage to get something and felt the change in the air. It wasn’t subtle at all; more like nature’s equivalent of a brick to the face. In an instant it was painfully apparent. The grass was a little less green than it had been, and the water pooled on the kids’ play structure carried an icy sting that had been absent only days before. The sky now displayed, if only slightly, the telltale grey undertones that speak of a coming change in the weather, and the air, of course, felt different; as though something immense and threatening had turned over somewhere far beyond the horizon, and was starting to wake up. Summer was most definitely over.

Sometimes I feel funny telling people when the change is coming, because the reactions I get vary wildly. Sideways glances, sarcastic nods of the head, or even outright ridicule are not uncommon. It seems that as with so many other things, what cannot be felt firsthand is often dismissed outright as the overactive machinations of an undisciplined mind. Perhaps that is, in fact, the case; but then there is the curious matter of my accuracy. On more than one occasion, I have been laughed at outright when I voiced my feelings about summer coming to an end, only to see the same people shivering a week later beneath the cooling advances of the same autumn they had denied not seven days earlier. Still, I take no satisfaction in being right. It is not a matter of right or wrong, or being to predict something before anyone else; it is more a matter of what simply is.

I guess in the end it doesn’t matter if I know it’s coming or not. It will come just the same, with all the grace of a plane crash. I just find it funny that I feel so tied to this time of year. Maybe it’s because this is when I was born. Maybe it’s because the fall has always seemed to be a time of great transition; the return to school, beginnings and endings of so many friendships, and ultimately leaving home, going to university, and taking those first uncertain steps into adulthood. I have quit jobs, moved from house to house, and struggled through the collapse of serious relationships, and when I look back on the timing, it has seemed to happen, with alarming regularity, in the fall. Then again, maybe this is reading too much into things. Maybe it is, once again, something that simply is.

Looking up today and seeing that sheet of white on the eastern slopes, not glittering in the sunlight, but reposing almost stealthily beneath a grey sheet of cloud, made me wonder what else is just beyond the horizon. What else, when the fall ultimately cedes its tenuous grasp to the relentless advance of winter, will take its place?

The Sweet Smell of Decay

I guess it’s really easy to get used to the idea of nothing being around forever; to quietly accept that we live in an encompassing mindset of transition and impermanence. We readily and consciously design and anticipate throwing things away, resigned to the non-negotiable fact that nothing man-made endures longer than absolutely necessary in order to fulfill whatever short-sighted purpose we may have had for it. This concept of planned disposability intrigues me. I was once a student of architecture; impressed and inspired by the beauty and expression of mechanical and artistic creation. I am still awed by the soaring cathedrals and intricate stonework of ancient masons that endures to this day in many parts of Europe and the “older” places of this world, but I am equally interested in the North American mindset, where obscene amounts of money are spent to erect towering edifices of steel and glass that will have a lifespan of maybe sixty years – much less than the average human being.

I’ve been scraping along the jagged edges of this post for a better part of a year. The thought process began around the same time I became interested in urban exploration, or UE. For those of you out there who are unfamiliar with the term, UE involves “exploring” urban structures such as abandoned buildings, storm drains, utility tunnels, construction sites, and those dark, forgotten recesses of the city that people have either forgotten about or really just don’t want to remember. It is a gritty, secretive, dangerous, and misunderstood activity. More often than not, it involves an element of lawlessness, as regardless of the fact that these locations have been abandoned and left to crumble, more often than not they do belong to someone and that someone usually is not wild about the idea of people poking around in their unattended and probably quite hazardous private property. What really piqued my curiousity about all this was the fairly rigid code of ethics that most serious urban explorers live by. Though technically they are trespassers, they are not petty criminals looking for a thrill by breaking and entering. They do not steal, they do not destroy. They do not “tag”, or leave graffiti. They are there simply to discover and to observe; and many of the things that they see are disturbing, nostalgic, or truly magnificent.

I am a firm believer that buildings, inanimate objects though they might be, have personalities all their own. Some are good, most are fairly neutral, and some make you want to run screaming into the night. I have stood in places that made my skin crawl; felt irrational fears and feelings that truly can not be explained, and have instantly felt comfortable and at home in places that I had never been before in my life. I have often wondered if it is possible for buildings to gradually absorb bits and pieces of the lives and events that play out within their walls, and to retain those feelings and share them with anyone in tune enough to listen. If so, perhaps some buildings speak louder than others.

Shortly after becoming interested in UE, I discovered several web resources dedicated to the Buffalo Central Terminal. This building nearly leaped off the page at me the first time I saw it. I began to research its history and learned more about its former glory and tragic descent into dereliction. Constructed during the heyday of passenger rail travel, it boasted a throughput capacity of 3200 passengers per hour, or 200 trains per day. As passenger train service began to decline, so did the fortunes of the terminal; until it was finally formally abandoned in 1977. The only reason it still stands today is that the city of Buffalo’s tenuous financial situation does not permit the expenditure of the estimated $12 million USD that would be required to raze the terminal and its surrounding buildings. The building itself is striking; a monolithic art deco landmark that dominates the surrounding area. The interior was once spectacular, and now is so overcome by the ravages of time and the elements that it was recently used as the setting for a horror movie. From the moment I learned of it, something about this building called to me. Even though it is half a continent away and there is every possibility that I will never see it in my lifetime, I still feel strangely drawn to it. As I looked at the photos of the precarious, rusting walkways and crumbling walls that were traversed by the individuals exploring the building, it became quite apparent that touring the Buffalo Central Terminal would entail quite literally risking one’s life. I was surprised then, to feel strangely like I understood the motivation for doing it. The building is so dilapidated that it is truly frightening; almost sinister. It is only when one looks closer and begins to see beyond the grime and decay that masks the once-proud pieces of yesterday that the building begins to tell a story. It is a story of progress and technology; of society and its evolution. It is illustrated by faded, cracking paint chips, and carved stone letters now devoid of their gold leaf definition. It is told by an empty newspaper stand that will never sell another newspaper, and by the empty pedestal that once held a magnificent statue of a Buffalo, welcoming travelers from far off destinations to its namesake city. Filtered through stained and broken windows, the light plays across these things and paints them with a mood that is all at once ominous, thought-provoking, and beautiful. There is something in the ruined shell of this building that refuses to be forgotten. It is a microcosm of an urban life cycle; both an inspiration and a grim warning.

Although my involvement with UE has been mostly from the sidelines, I still find it interesting to follow along with these adventures from behind my computer screen, amazed at some of the places these guys have been. Some of these buildings have tremendous histories; interesting, mysterious, and sometimes violent and bloody. Exploring them seems to be a way to touch on that past, and maybe to learn something from it. It is a way of finding beauty in decline and even death; of assuring oneself that although nothing lasts forever, it doesn’t need to be forgotten either.

It kind of hit home for me last night when I was standing in the parking lot of West Edmonton Mall. Once the largest shopping mall in the world, I am still amazed at its size and scale. I can remember as a wide-eyed 14 year-old, stepping under the loops of the roller coaster and trying to summon the courage required for a ride on the “Drop of Doom”. I remember spending all night wandering through the seemingly endless corridors of that mall and still not seeing it all. I remember how new everything seemed; how shiny and new and impressive it was. Last night, as I was leaving the mall, I stopped to watch a kids’ hockey game being played on the rink near the east entrance. I can’t remember what it was that drew my eyes upwards, but I was surprised to find the painted trim underneath the glass dome overhead to be discoloured and showing the telltale greasy-looking spots that are the early signs of mold. At first it didn’t really register, but as I walked out to my car I began to notice more indications of disrepair. The concrete detail work on many of the fountains was chipped and broken, even if only slightly. The faux-marble floor looked worn and tired, and there were long and evil-looking rust streaks streaming down the once-immaculate glass canopies over the main entrances. As I reached the car, I noted that many of the lighted signs on the mall’s exterior were partially burned out or were missing letters. The sign for the Bay looked as though it were disintegrating from the inside; its dirty yellow letters streaked with grime and flickering softly. West Edmonton Mall, the glowing temple of commerce I remember from my youth, is rotting.

The drive back to the hotel seemed longer than it actually was, because something about the mall’s decline really disturbed me. It felt almost like someone I knew had fallen sick, and for some reason I knew that they would not recover. Images of the Buffalo Central Terminal came to my mind, and I began to imagine what the mall might look like some years from now when the price of oil crashes and interest rates bankrupt those of us who are currently riding the wave of the boom and living well beyond our means. I could see the lagoon around the pirate ship, long drained of any water and populated only by the peeling paint of the concrete coral formations and a few rusting scraps of metal that used to be the guide rail for the submarines. I could picture the dry, discoloured recess what was once the wave pool, the glass overhead dome dirty and broken in several places, no longer shielding the cracked tiles of the former pool deck from the elements. I could imagine the cavernous expanse of what used to be the amusement park; the concrete floor cracked, broken, and punctuated only with rusting bolts protruding from footings that once anchored some of the most spectacular rides in the country. The Mall itself would have become nothing more that a rotten shell; its once brilliant corridors and storefronts now subject to the elements and at the mercy of the vandals and vagrants that would easily penetrate the crumbling exterior walls.

I wonder if it will ever come to that. Thinking about it conjures up images of a Mad-Max type, post-apocalyptic society, but in many ways it really isn’t that much of a stretch. In many ways, society is already in decline. From a physical perspective, it only makes sense that we will take our monuments down with us. The only real question to be asked is what will we learn from it? What will the urban explorers of tomorrow think as they are picking their way through the wreckage of what was once the mightiest shopping mall on the planet? Will they mourn? Shake their heads in disgust? It is a question with an answer that only somewhere like the Buffalo Central Terminal knows.

Coming down

I’m not sure what it is about electrical storms that I find so engaging. There is something mysterious and powerful about watching jagged bolts of lightning rip open the night sky; something both intriguing and humbling. My oldest son is afraid of the thunder, as many children are. Strangely, I have never been afraid of storms. In fact, I have always been inexplicably drawn to them. I can remember as a small child making the midnight walk to the large plate glass window in the dining room of the home I grew up in to get a better view of the tempest outside. Sometimes, in later years, I would sit there at the table for hours, watching the rain pound off of the rooftops across the street and turn the gutters into a muddy torrent. As chaotic as a storm usually is, there was a peacefulness to them that I simply cannot explain.

That feeling has followed me for years. I have written about it before and have never been able to capture even a small part of what it actually feels like, and I won’t even attempt to do so now. I guess it may seem strange to some to have such an attraction, or even attachment, to a meteorological phenomenon. I would explain it if I could.

Tonight there is a colossal electrical storm going on right outside my hotel window. More lightning that I have seen in a long time. So what am I doing? Sitting at this computer, two floors from the top of what it the tallest building for miles. Darwinism anyone? Still, I couldn’t help but write something down, because that’s what you do when something inspires you and what is happening outside is nothing if not inspiring. For some reason, it makes me feel closer to home. Watching the violence of nature’s rage makes me think of my family, safe at home in our tiny house where my boys are asleep with their stuffed animals and glowing mobile of the solar system, and my daughter is sacked out, snoring, with her feet up on the wall beside her and her sippy cup full of warm milk from bedtime still clutched in one hand. Where the sounds of the city at night have faded to an indistinct murmur outside the window of the bedroom where my wife sleeps; exhausted, but happy that I am coming home to her tomorrow. Lightning or not, it’s the same sky out there watching over all of us.

Being in such a large building, I can’t really hear the rain even though it is pouring. Rainy nights seem somehow calmer; maybe even softer. I hope it is still raining tomorrow when I wake up.

Some glorious return

I have been debating what to do with this blog for some time now. I have seemingly lost the desire to keep it current, and consequently it has lost much of its relevance. Rather than making great and terrible promises to post daily, (even monthly might be a stretch at this point) I am wondering if it might not be better to just let it die.

It’s tough to write without a focus, and more and more often lately I feel like I’m running hard up against that big, brick, fourteen-foot-tall “I don’t have a focus” wall. Family takes up whatever time work doesn’t, to the point that not only have I stopped pursuing my other interests, but rather alarmingly I find that it has now been so long since I was involved with them that I find that I don’t miss them nearly as much. It kind of feels hollow, in a way.

Maybe it’s just the timing of it all. New job, lots of travel, ugly strike and subsequent month-long sejour in Regina, (of all places) and the suffocating advances of a certain day in October that will confirm what I already know to be true: I am getting older. Honestly, I’m OK with that, but it sometimes hits me in an unpleasant “you can never go home again” way that somehow makes me feel really crappy. By and large I’ve done pretty well with my life so far; hottest wife in the universe, great kids, good job that I actually enjoy, and fantastic friends. It’s just that sometimes you get to feeling that there could be something else out there that is just passing you by- something that maybe everyone else sees and whispers about behind your back, wondering how on earth you can be so oblivious. What is it? If I had any idea, I wouldn’t be writing this, would I?

Maybe this blog needs something to pull it into focus. More humour, more gravity, more humanity; more direction. If I had any idea how to inject any of those things into these writings, I would have done it months ago instead of waiting so long between updates that I forgot the password to my own Flickr account.

The long and short of it is that writing can’t really be forced if it is going to end up being anything worth reading, and lately I just simply haven’t had anything to say. Even this post, when it all boils down, is really just a poorly-worded diatribe about having nothing to post. Its one redeeming quality is that if you’re still with me at this point, I have managed to keep your attention long enough to waste between two and three minutes of your day before actually telling you that you’re a sucker for wasting your time reading this. (I even spelled out the numbers 2 and 3 in that last sentence so it would take longer for you to read them) Maybe next time you’ll think twice about checking back, eh?

Mmmmmm…..mashed potatoes

Sometimes, it’s so perfect I couldn’t have said it better myself. Eat your heart out, David Suzuki. (Get it? EAT you heart out?……never mind) I’d better go put on some bluegrass music; my neck is feeling a little red.
For some really good entertainment, check this out.

Soundtracks

It’s been almost two full months since my last post; by far my longest lapse since starting this blog. In celebration of my glorious return, I have decided to post something completely shallow and irrelevant, yet mildly entertaining. I have always loved music and have often wondered what the soundtrack to my life would sound like if for some crazy reason someone decided to make a movie out of it. I could have spent hours poring though my music collection weighing out my options, but just couldn’t find the time (and quite honestly, the desire) to bother doing it. Lo and behold, my friend Alicia posted this on her blog a while back and I just had to take the easy road and post it again here. Nothing I love more than someone else doing all the heavy lifting for me.

If you’re in to this kind of thing, I wholly recommend giving this one a shot. Some of the results are actually strikingly appropriate- others, not so much. Enjoy.

If my life was a movie, what would my soundtrack be?

So, here’s how it works:

1. Open your music library
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that’s playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool.

Opening Credits: Prime Time Deliverance by Matthew Good Band
Waking Up: If You Could Only See by Tonic
First Day At School: Desert Rose by Sting
In Love: Sucker by Lincoln (I’m not kidding)
Fight Song: Heavy by Collective Soul
Breaking Up: From Yesterday by 30 Seconds to Mars
Prom: Photograph by Nickelback
Life’s OK: XXL by Mylène Farmer
Mental Breakdown: White Flag by Dido
Driving: Bring Me To Life by Evanescence
Flashback: Precious by Depeche Mode
Getting Back Together: Closing In by Imogen Heap
Birth of Child: I Love You by Sarah McLachlan
Wedding: Parallel Universe by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Final Battle: Dead Souls by Joy Division
Death Scene: Shackled by Vertical Horizon
Funeral Song: Building a Mystery by Sarah McLachlan
End Credits: Song for Holly by Esthero feat. Danny Saber

Hmmmm. Parallel Universe? I’m sure my wife would be impressed. Keep on rockin’, kids. Hopefully it won’t be another two months before my next post.

Out into the world

So here I sit in a Kamloops hotel room, wondering if I have lost my mind completely. I am two days into a job that will be my life for the next two years; 48 hours and I have already lost my taste for restaurant food. This is certainly going to be an adventure.

It certainly came with all the trappings. Company cellphone, company laptop, company credit card, expense account….the works. A golden extravaganza of potential involving travel to such exotic places as Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and Cranbrook, BC. A daunting cycle of weeks spent in rail yards capturing variances to operating plans and managing the pent-up angst of employees with 30+ years of service who are trying to do the right thing but simply can’t or won’t understand the direction the company has chosen to follow. A challenge, for sure; but one that will certainly bring with it a wealth of experience and a lot of war stories.

It was strange leaving the NMC for the last time on Friday morning. Walking away from the desk knowing that I wouldn’t be back was sobering; almost saddening. I will definitely miss the guys I worked with, as well as the job itself. It was hell on many an occasion, but it was never boring. I suppose this won’t be either. All in the name of progress.

I am not really sure what the coming months will bring. I can already see how the travel will be draining, and I am beginning to understand exactly how little time I will have with my family and I’m not sure I like what I see. I guess I knew coming in that there would be drawbacks, and that now I will have to buckle down and bear with it for the next few years so my family and I will be able to realize the benefits of doing this.

I have never really enjoyed change, which is strange for a man who requires variety in his work or he gets so bored that he loses interest and ultimately stops caring. I suppose it is rooted in me; a deep-seated desire to stay close to what I know. Funny then, that I search for the things that will destabilize what I am familiar with. Perhaps I feel a need to expand my horizons, push the envelope a little, and stand on the precipitous edge of my comfort zone. Maybe it really was just born out of a desire to do what was best for my family. Maybe I’ll never know.

What I do know is this. At 6 am on Friday mornig, as I walked out of the NMC and back to my car after finishing my last night shift, the air smelled like spring. It was the middle of February, but there was the unmistakable scent of fresh growth and life beginning anew. For a moment I almost expected to drive down the ramp into a brilliant June sunrise, bathing verdant treetops with the pale golden light of a new dawn. It was only when I closed the car door and settled back into the musty grit of a long Alberta winter that I realized that the sensory deception was just that. Still, it sparked in me the realization that it doesn’t really matter where you’re at with your life; things can and will always change, and they will do it with or without you. What happens next is all a result of how you choose to deal with the differences and what you make of the situation.

Here’s to change.

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Ridiculous

This is among the most disgusting things I have ever read. These people need severe beatings. If this makes you as angry as it made me, get involved. Make phone calls, write letters, leave comments on sites like CBC that actually pay attention to what their readers are saying. It is high time we stopped rolling over and playing dead in the name of political correctness. If you stand for something, don’t be afraid to tell someone else what it is.