With all this busing around in my spare time I’ve gotten a chance to do a lot of thinking. Looking back on where I was, and where I am now, and honestly – it’s all pretty great. If I go back only 6 months, I am so far ahead of where I was. If you are ever feeling shitty about life, just look back a few years. Inevitably you will probably be able to say “Thank god _______ happened to me, because if it didn’t, I never would have found __________!” (I hope you fill in those blanks with: I inherited that marshmallow factory, and, how good I am at tap dancing!).

A friend remarked to me recently that I seem like an eternal optimist. Which is only partly true. I think in the back of my mind when I am most worried about how scary life can be sometimes, that is when the optimist switch gets flicked, and I start to look at ridiculously small wonderful things all around me, as a reminder that despite it all – life is pretty outstanding.

I’ve begun to write down a bit of a personal manifesto for myself. Loose rules of thumb that work for me and ultimately help me to become a better, happier person (especially when I’m feeling like a mediocre, negative person). I write it all down in my Wonder Woman sketch book. What started as just a few statements has now descended down the page and around the corner. Here are a few snippets:

1. Enjoy what you already have – get to know it before you move on.
2. Use it up (toothpaste, shoes, and ideas).
3. Listen. Really.
4. Have very specific dreams.
5. Reevaluate often.
6. Always have something to bring to the table – if not creativity, cookies.
7. Take care of what you own (mind, body, spirit).
8. Do your best. In everything you do, no exceptions (love, life & laundry)
9. STOP MARKING TIME.
10. Go outside.
11. Stop living life wishing things were different… change, or change your thinking.
12. Always have a jar of pens. Sketch often; jot things down.
13. Never trust your memory.
14. Nothing exists until it needs to.
15. If you don’t have anyone to go with, go anyway.
16. Drink water.
17. Guilt causes resentment; avoid both at all costs.
18. Give people the benefit of the doubt.
19. Don’t be afraid to fuck up. Don’t be so hard on yourself when you do (and you will)
20. Talk to as many people as possible. It’s good practice for making friends.
21. Make opportunities for yourself.
22. Notice the details, they are what make life interesting.
23. Try.
24. Baby steps will lead you there eventually, no matter how daunting the journey.
25. Be kind.

Where am I going to be in a month? Will I have found a new amazing job? Will I be working at an in-between position until my dream one comes along? Will I have met some new friends? What new music will I have discovered that I now cannot live without? Time will tell…

26. Time = Perspective.

The media is of course having their usual exploitative heyday with the Vancouver Riots. I don’t even really want to acknowledge the whole thing, because frankly, it’s all been done. It’s be said. Over and over until we want to collectively cry. And yes, it was horrible. But out of that dark again, Vancouver proved herself to be comprised of some of the most inspiring, caring and selfless people around. This is what that post is about. This is a post where I talk about how I came to the realization tonight that since moving into this little apartment, the best possible thing could have happened: my extreme lack of space forced my hand into not having a TV. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love watching HBO series and documentaries as much as the next person. But I found that when I had an actual TV in my possession, i often ended up watching a lot of News. Under the guise of educating myself, I was in actuality poisoning my psyche, one day after the next with the endless constant negativity. Now yes, i understand this sounds all very dramatic, but there was a definite downward slump in my mood when I was watching the news 2 hours a day. The sometimes subtle sad or hostile undertones, well – we’ve become so accustomed to them in our daily lives that we don’t question them anymore. But undoubtedly, they are toxic.

Now, because I don’t have my own TV, but have still become quite the hockey watcher during the playoffs, I ended up at my best friend Tara and her husband Jim’s place for Game 7. We understandably we all super excited, and drinking beer and having fun. And then we lost. Disappointing? Yes. Of course. The end of the world? Not in the slightest.

Then we got a call saying that the downtown core had begun the rioting. So we switched the station, and then we watched, stunned. Horrified. And for a few wordless minutes, heartbroken. Despondent. Those pictures – those Molotov cocktail throwing testosterone enraged psychos… this couldn’t be our city? Admittedly, i was in a tipsy state of denial. A friend and I walked home together, and overhead you could hear the helicopters circling, and the endless drone of ambulance sirens taking load after load of casualties to nearby Vancouver General Hospital. What is one to do in this situation?? Well, obviously – the only thing that made any sense to my mind in that moment: go find some swings, and swing the hell out of them. So we did. Then, after the swinging had concluded, it only made sense to further continue the tipsy party in the back courtyard, sipping Granville Island Raspberry beer, and laying in lounge chairs under the stars. Listening to our city, which had in the course of a handful of hours resembled a war zone.

Had this been my old apartment, I would have rushed right home, plunked myself in front of the TV and stayed up until 4am watching in horror as the police struggled in vain against a bunch of hoodlum assholes hell bent on creating destruction. But, because I didn’t, I brushed my teeth, got into bed, and fell asleep.

When I woke up this morning, I felt melancholy. I wasn’t bummed out about the game loss. The Canucks played a great series. Bruins played a better one. It’s ok to admit that your opponent is good. I kept reading Facebook posts about a clean-up that was going to start happening early in the morning downtown – people would be heading there with bags and brooms and dustpans, ready to put the city back to right. Back to normal.

I grabbed my camera and hopped on a bus, preparing myself for a few hours of documenting the carnage, and perhaps lending a hand, if I was needed. But when I got there, my heart almost burst at the weight of it all. The sheer number of smashed windows, the burnt dumpsters, the blood on the ground. BUT… and here is a very large BUT – I was absolutely blown away by how many people were out already, making the city sparkle. People from all walks of life were there – children, teenagers with mohawks, seniors in wheelchairs, businessmen in expensive suits, women in high heels. And they were all working together. And they were all doing it with smiles on their faces. There was no hand-wringing; there was no endless bitching about how the city has failed us, and all the things that could have gone wrong. It was just people in love; bursting with pride for their little city, protecting her and shining her up. Not quite brand new, but almost. And it brought tears to my eyes, several times.

Tonight I realized – I’m so much better off without the TV. I’m better off surrounding myself with things that inspire me, or restore my faith in people who care to do good for those around them, and the place they call home. You can look elsewhere for scathing commentary on the downfall of humanity and the ineptitude of whoever the fuck you think dropped the ball. Personally, I think that the Vancouver Police Department did a bang up job. I think the paramedics and firefighters and civilians who threw themselves in harm’s way on behalf of a city we all love so dearly— you were all amazing — and words cannot thank you enough. So instead, I will do what comes easy to me – I will tell the story of my day through pictures. And I hope that the positivity comes through. The optimism and gratitude. Vancouver, don’t let this get you down. You’ll shake this off just as you have before. You really have no other choice – there are too many of us here, cheering you on.

You usually bought your ticket from a sweet senior sitting in the tiny booth,  the smell of popcorn already wafting out the open front door. The huge lit-up sign out front was old and shabby, but had a certain nostalgic charm about it; you could certainly envision how in years past, she must have been gorgeous… state-of-the-art for her time. Even her name was regal: Hollywood.

Every time they took my money I felt a slight pang of guilt and excitement at the price. When I first discovered this art deco theatre in my early twenties, I had just moved to Vancouver. It was $5 for a double bill. At that time (and still, currently) regular theatres might charge you slightly less for the ticket, and then gouge you on snacks. But not the Hollywood. It was cheap to get in, and cheap to eat popcorn for dinner. And I did both—regularly.

I would always choose the same seat. Sneak up the dark curtain-draped side staircase into the balcony. It had super threadbare 70′s (60′s?) carpet—a remnant of many years past—but it all added to the charm. The mystique. Besides, it was so dark up there you couldn’t really see the details (which, in the end, was probably in the best interest of everyone).

Although I have ridiculously long legs, I always sat in the front row of the balcony. There I could kick off my shoes and perch my feet along the well-worn wooden ledge. It was never comfortable. But it was tradition. There were no railed barriers in this theatre, like you see in newer lawsuit-paranoid multiplexes (ones that prevent small children or drunken teenagers from dropping 30 ft. onto their heads). Here we were free to place feet or sit upon the ledge, or fall to our deaths. It was a throw-back to a time of user self-responsibility, and I loved it. I loved it like only a 5’11 pretzel jammed tightly into the front row of the balcony, could.

Although she was old, but she had beautiful bones. I sat among ghosts in that balcony. While waiting for the first film to begin, or during intermission, I liked to imagine all the people who had sat in these horrifically uncomfortable seats. In my mind’s eye I could see a time-lapse movie of 75 years worth of comings-and-goings. Dapper suits to scrappy kids, teenagers throughout the ages who came to drink beer and make-out in the privacy of the balcony—hippies to hipsters. We have loved you, all of us. A common thread to tie us together.

I saw Garden State there 4 times. This was a feat in of itself, being that each double bill only has a run of 1 week. But that was during a particularly rough and lonely time in my life, and I found comfort and solace in that film. It gave me hope, it broke my heart, it made me happy.

I formed nightly crushes during each of my adventures to the Hollywood. To pass the time I would choose who would get to be my unsuspecting movie-boyfriend for the evening. He would be cute and solo, the only prerequisites (although depending on how many patrons there were that evening, ‘cute’ might be used in the loosest possible sense). We would never actually interact of course, but I would imagine that solo-movie-watching-him would see solo-movie-watching-me, and we would come together and bond over the coolness and liberation that comes from watching movies alone. Generally speaking, when given a chance, I will choose to watch movies alone. Without question.

People who go to the movies alone are awesome. There is a quiet coolness about it. A certain self-assured “I don’t give a shit if I don’t have a sidekick” confidence. Often I wouldn’t even care what the films were, I would just go to be out in public; I would go and stare at the screen, basking in the glow of it all and just have time to think. When you are a tiny speck in a rickety balcony, regardless of what’s going on in your life, problems feel smaller. You get lost in the darkened distraction.

The Hollywood Theatre has been owned by the same  family for 75 years. They have quietly opened her doors night after night, despite lack-lustre sales and ridiculous corporate competition. They have only reluctantly raised prices in the last couple of years, but even when it topped out at $8, it was still an insanely good deal. But for the longest time, it stayed at  just $5. I always wondered how they could afford to do it, being in Kitsilano—one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Vancouver. The cinema itself was rarely busy, and there were nights I would sit through 4 hours in the balcony, completely alone (which admittedly always kicked ass). It was out of love they did it, I’m sure. Certainly not fame or money. But I suppose there is an end to everything.

The Hollywood Theatre is closing this weekend. Or rather, she is “changing hands”, which NEVER bodes well for beloved established businesses. I’m sure if she remains a cinema, she will be gutted and renovated; stripped of charm and fitted with dolby surround sound and top of the line technology. The movies will become first-run, and the tickets will become $13. That is if they don’t decide to bulldoze her to the ground to build condos. She was an institution. She was a Vancouver landmark. She was mine.

I wonder what they will do with her glorious tattered sign? With the incredible old architectural details like the seats and deco fixtures and signage in the powder room (which was always much fancier than a regular bathroom, on account of the chandelier).

Originally when I heard the news of her closing this weekend, and I checked the double bill, it was disappointing. A shitty movie with Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, and some animated movie I’d never heard of. It seemed extra sad to see that she was going out with a whimper rather than a bang. But when I checked a minute ago, I see they have added CINEMA PARADISO as the first film… which seems a rather more fitting goodbye.

I will go this weekend, and sit solo in the balcony. Breathe in the sights and smells and back-wrenchingly uncomfortable seats one. final. time. I hope for once she is packed to the gills. I hope that everyone who ever laughed or cried or made-out or had terrible or awesome first dates will go and pay respects. I hope that the Fairleigh family will see how much she was loved and how empty that spot on Broadway will be without her. She will be sorely, surely missed.

I have built a ridiculous amount of Ikea furniture in the last 2 weeks, during which it was necessary to utilize both the accompanying allen key, as well as a case of Strongbow to help to decipher the universally confusing instructions. There are no words (well, except for the occasional copious profanity from me) to explain the process — only seemingly easy, yet-always-confusingly-ambiguous diagrams. I like to imagine the Ikea Informational Designers laughing heartedly at the millions of North American dopes swearing profusely while trying to patch together the Lerberg shelving unit. Frustration ensues (as does more Strongbow). Everything ultimately ends up working out fine, albeit slightly considerably off kilter. My friend Meghan lent a hand with the large Expedit room divider thingamajig, and if she hadn’t, I might not be here typing this right now. I would instead be visibly twitching in a corner muttering about wooden dowels not fitting into too many holes. Why are there holes if nothing fits into them?? Why, also apparently confused Ikea Instruction Man, why??? At times I was concerned about my mental desire to punch an illustration in the face. But, it all worked out in the end.

There are subtle differences to my feelings for this apartment vs. the last. I love the hardwood floors. I dis-love the lack of counter space. I love the brightness. I dis-love the fact that sometimes I feel like I’m living in a fishbowl. I love the fact that I can walk from one end of my place to the other in roughly 3.2 seconds. I dis-love the fact that I can walk from one end of my place to the other in roughly 3.2 seconds. The windowbox of course, goes without saying.

For once in the history of me I have far too many shelves for books, and not enough volumes to put upon them. Over time, one builds a substantial collection. Bit by bit, your personal library expands to fill the space, to tell the story of your literary life, your tastes and trends as you get older. But books are tedious to move, and being that I knew I would be coercing my put-upon friends to help me move again at some undetermined time in the future, it seemed only right that I cut my collection in half… in quarters. So I gave them all away. And now my shelves look alarmingly empty. I never realized how much I felt my book collection somehow reflected my intelligence or ability to be interesting. Funny how those ideas seem to develop all on their own, in the back of your mind. So I’m beginning again. At least now I can been more choosy, and can do arty things like color-coordinate them, as opposed to my tried-and-true ‘lining them up in terms of height’ method before.

Here is some photographic proof that despite me not having any sort of cohesive style, it still sort of works, in all it’s randomness. (It also proves that I, like the rest of the city have fallen into NHL playoff watching fever). I love color. I love texture. I love vintage ceramics that involve anthropomorphic cats wearing hats and smiling mischievously. I love out of date technology like cameras and typewriters. Although mildly alarming sidenote: my typewriters are currently M.I.A. (which when you think about it, is it a feat it itself, being that they weigh about 20lbs each, and there are 4 of them).

I have managed to separate the space with the shelving unit, which actually ends up making a pretty sweet little bed nook. I hung paper lanterns overhead and curtains at the foot of the bed to close off the space a little. Which ends up making it feel really cozy when I’m tucked inside.

I was afraid that if I moved into a bachelor suite that I would end up feeling like I never left my bedroom. I was worried that people would come over to visit me and it would feel awkwardly small, but the opposite has been true. I think the mirrors and giant windows lend themselves well to opening it up in here.

Plus, the times I feel like I need to get away from these walls, I can slip out into the back garden, which is absolutely gorgeous right now. There are bluebells strewn about, and people have staked out tiny garden plots and filled them with vegetables and soon-to-be-flowering plants. There are chairs to laze around and read books in. Trees to lay under, and quiet enough to forget that I am living in the city (well, except when I am actually inside the apartment, when there is no way in hell I could ever forget that I live in the city, and more accurately, on the side of a highway). Thank god for earplugs.

So here I am – feeling pretty damn good about life in general. It’s nice to tick one thing off my life list. Having a home base that I feel excited to be in makes for a pretty contented me. I’m still on the job search, but it will come soon enough. In the meantime it’s officially dress and t-shirt weather, and the days stretch past 9:30. Hurray for Spring (and very shortly, Summer)!

No news to report on the apartment hunt. I’ve gotten a chance to check out a few places, and I’ve gotta say – the whole writing-letters tactic generally works quite well for this. I would recommend it to anyone (especially those who are maybe living abroad and thinking about moving here for school) because it just gives landlords a chance to get to know you. Unless of course you are an ax murderer or have horrible grammar. Perhaps then it’s better to just keep that to yourself. Looking for places is always stressful, regardless. Craigslist is always a mad dash, crazy competition, gong show. The rental listings on there are usually quite a bit higher than they are if you just wander around the neighborhood looking for signs. And when you are going up against lots of others who are looking, you feel rushed to make decisions. Settle for places under pressure. I don’t want to do this. For once, I actually have the luxury of being a little choosy with this situation, so I’m holding out for just a little longer. Mostly for that damn bathtub. Curse you, clawfoot (kidding, I love you). Plus, there are cats here, which somehow make the situation quite a bit more tolerable.

In the meantime, I’ve hung out with many friends lately. Gone to dinner parties. Consumed a bit of wine. Walked over the Cambie Street Bridge with Meghan to watch the SUPERMOON! Enjoyed watching the blooms come out… even in the rain. Been pretty contented with life in general.

Vancouver, you couldn’t get more beautiful if you tried.

Unrelated side note: Despite being (somewhat) homeless, and living out of various boxes and bags, I took the plunge and bought even more crap that I can’t momentarily use… a set of cooking pots! Some of you may be questioning if I’ve suffered a mild concussion recently. But it’s true! I couldn’t resist. I’m envisioning my dream kitchen, in which I’m homey and inclined to cook things… in beautiful turquoise pots. They are almost too pretty to use:

The plane ride was super turbulent, due to a heavy wind storm that had started earlier in the day. I am a mixed flier. Most of me is excited by the turbulence—it’s similar to an amusement park ride, where all of a sudden your stomach drops out from under you. It’s fun. Then I get flashbacks to the plane crash scenes in every stranded-on-a-desert-island movie ever made, where backs of planes are suddenly ripped off, and people are sucked out in screaming fiery explosions. I momentarily get a little nervous and white knuckle the armrest until the plane rights itself. Then, all is well. The green of the land and that intense grey-lavender that comes after a storm here in BC, coupled with the ability to walk around in a hoodie… you’d be hard pressed to find a happier girl at that moment. Instant comfort.

It’s been 1 week. 1 week of running the gamut of emotion: Happy, scared, worried, disappointed, excited, discouraged, sad, comfortable, happy again. Wash.rinse.repeat. I’m ecstatic to be back, but also feeling at a bit of a loss of where to start to rebuild. It’s like I hit the “reset” button on my life, and now I’m back trying to find a house I adore, find work I love, reestablish me in this place, all.over.again. Funny how everything can be knocked down to zero in the course of just under 6 weeks. Instant regrowth.

I’ve realized the hardest part about what I will now refer to as “the experiment” in Banff, was letting go of my apartment. When I moved away, I said my goodbyes as I was scrubbing her black and white checkered floor. I lovingly removed every scrap of myself from within her walls, whispering reassurances of adoration as I worked. When I locked the door for the final time, I felt like I had closure. I knew I would get over the loss. Sure, it might take awhile, but I would be better from the experience. But because I cut the experiment short, I didn’t have enough time to feel like I had moved on. So here I am back, feeling as though I could just walk right into my old building, open the door and find all my things—my studio, my bathtub, my life. Start from where I left off. Obviously, it’s been a tough break-up, me and that apartment. A lot of sleepless nights, a lot of regrets. I just hope that I can eventually move on. I just hope that I don’t spend the next 5 years reminiscing about all the good times we had, she and I. Holding a ruler up to all the new apartments, forlorn if they don’t quite measure up. But she will be a tough one to live up to—with her high ceilings, beautiful kitchen, decorative mantle, clawfoot bathtub, windowed office, southwest facing, cheap(relatively speaking, for the Westside of Vancouver). She was pretty special. I daydream about the property managers calling me up, telling me the new occupant had to take a job in a foreign country unexpectedly, the suite suddenly available again. These are the fantasies that live in my thoughts now. Instant longing.

I realized that looking for a new place is not unlike online dating. You get a super brief description, and then show up hoping to hell that it all works out. Sometimes you are amazed at the diamond in the rough that came from a few descriptors: one bedroom, 2nd floor, non-smoking, no pets. And then it ends up gorgeous and amazing. Other times, no matter how much they try to spruce it up by using words like “spacious” (380 sq ft bachelor apartment), and “bright” (as bright as an underground basement suite can be), and “cozy” (read: 6.5′ ceilings), there is just no prettying it up. I like to imagine who ends up taking those places. Midgets? Vampires? Hobbits? Not girls with long legs who like to collect things… not me.

Rental pricing in Vancouver is atrocious. I knew this before, but some of the rent is ridiculously laughable. All this “Vancouver is the Best Place on Earth to Live” is hurting us. $1200 for a teeny tiny bachelor suite? I don’t care if you do have an elevator (which, by the sounds of it, is larger than the apartment itself), or in-suite laundry. Having the convenience of washing your shirts at 2 a.m. pales in comparison to being able to stand upright in ones own living room.

I’ve approached the process in baby steps (much like everything else in my life as of late). I’ve slept on the floor of my best friend’s apartment so I can be in Vancouver, searching. I’ve wandered around, writing down addresses of buildings that seem like they would have character—be somewhere I would like to call home. I’ve drafted a letter, and sent out many envelopes, explaining my situation. Pleading my case. Hoping that a vacancy will come up and they will take a chance on me. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, I’ve enjoyed hanging out with my folks. Playing with their cats. Eating home-cooked meals. Catching up with dear friends. Taking in all the signs of Spring—the yellow and purple crocuses, the tiny fragile paperwhites, the cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom, the light out until 6:37 pm.

I don’t regret the experiment. I had to do it in order to know. But at this moment it’s hard not to look back regretfully on what once was. It is with this experience that I hope comes something new—something even better. In the midst of uncertainty, it can be tough not to dwell. Only when you’ve had some space and time to reflect do you truly understand that that situation was necessary to get where you now stand. That rough patch was necessary in order to move forward. That’s what I just keep trying to remember. It will all work out in the end— it always does. Instant faith.

If anyone hears of a great one bedroom character apartment in Fairview, Cambie, Main Street, or the WestEnd, please let me know. I’m responsible, quiet, and love places as though they were my own. Because I suppose for a short time, in my mind, they actually are.

It’s easy to say now that a huge boulder-sized weight was lifted off my shoulders since my last entry. It was a tough one to write, but necessary, vulnerable. I was afraid if I admitted those feelings out loud, wrote them down on paper, it would crush me. It would push me into a downward spiral and consume me. But, I’m here—happier than ever.

Coming here has been one of the best things I’ve ever done. For a myriad of reasons—most totally unexpected. But over the course of 5 weeks, I have grown so much. I learned I can be the type of person to throw caution to the wind and uproot my life to take a chance on the unknown. I learned that shyness and loneliness are things that travel with you—often despite efforts to lose them in transit. I realized that other people can relate.

I learned how much I love the outdoors, and simultaneously how much I hate snow. Well, hate is a strong word—I love snow when it’s falling, I love it when it’s pristine for as far as you can see, I love it when it caps the mountains. But I hate the cold—how it breaks you down, and makes you wish for green; makes you long for the buds just beginning to peek up in Vancouver, the cherry blossoms and magnolias that will be growing there shortly. Most of all, I learned so much about who I am. I know that sounds cheesy and cliché, but also, true. I learned that -36 weather freezes ice to your eyelashes, and makes cold feel like you’re pressing your skin to a hot burner. Curious, opposite.

I learned it’s OK to change my mind.

I’m ecstatic to admit that I’m heading back to Vancouver. In a self-propelled, determined-to-continue-to-make-this-year-what-I want-it-to-be way.

A few months ago I spoke to the fact that this being my 32nd year, I felt a lot of pressure to really DO something with it. And in the weeks after getting to Banff and feeling disheartened and failing, it was hard to see the idea of me not continuing here anything but admitting defeat. But nothing could be further from the truth. I made the choice to come here, and in that process, got to spend 5 weeks in the mountains, meet a handful of really amazing people, grow internally by leaps and bounds, be inspired, and solidify that not only do I know more than ever what I want out of life, I’m strong enough to recognize when I’m not getting it, and take the steps necessary to change.

I’m not advocating giving up on things when they get tough. I’m advocating looking inside and knowing what is best for you, regardless of other people’s opinions, or self imposed obligation. I realized this last week that life shouldn’t feel like a prison sentence where you are counting down the days until you can do something different—be somewhere else. If that is what life feels like, regardless of place or circumstance, it’s time to change. If you are staying at a job you despise because you are terrified of what you will do after it, or if you continue in a relationship that is not fulfilling because you are scared of being alone. You’re not going to win a “I Toughed Out an Intolerable Situation for a Ridiculous Amount of Time” award. Or if you do, it will be ugly and won’t match your decor.

So I’m advocating the ‘Reassessment Pass’. The ‘It’s-OK-to-Change-Your-Mind Pass’. It’s like a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, except smaller and more liberating.

In my 32nd year so far, I’ve moved forward from a job that wasn’t creatively fulfilling, despite paying me very well. I packed up my life that was comfortable and familiar and moved to another province to try to advance my career. Understood that in the situation I put myself in, there was no way that was going to happen. Made it ok to change. Taken about 3000 photos so far, created about 10 new pieces of art. Written. Read books. Designed. Made new friends. Been true to myself. Understood where my heart lies.  That in of itself is huge—noteworthy. Enough.

I’m heading back to B.C. on Wednesday. I’m determined to continue my search for a great job. I’m thrilled and excited at the prospect of discovering my new home. I have a hazy idea in my mind’s-eye of what she looks like, but will know her when I see her. I hope she has a clawfoot tub. Windowboxes. Maybe a new neighborhood that I can explore.

I think the most important lesson for me has been this: Never, never settle for anything less than what brings you happiness. Screw what other people think. Screw preconceived notions and expectations placed on yourself. If you’re not getting what you need, take steps to change it. Life shouldn’t be about marking time.

Spring, here I come.

I got into an interesting conversation with a girl from New York, and we were talking about technology and our inability to keep up with it. I confessed that if given a choice, I would much prefer to write everything down, old-school style with a good pen and a crisp sheet of paper. She looked at my incredulously, like I had suggested chiseling text on stone or cave painting. I tried to explain myself; I felt like handwriting says so much about a person, and how likely in 5 years, with our ever-increasing dependence on email and text messaging—that no one will have unique penmanship anymore. It’s a sad thought. We will all be reduced to a handful of typefaces, the sentiment lost in the generic uniformity that comes with perfectly typeset notes.

This idea came to me a few weeks ago. As a compulsive list-maker, I’m alarmed by my own budding reliance on the ‘Notes’ feature on my Ipod, whereas I used to jot everything down in a moleskin journal. I find ridiculous amounts of pleasure in flipping though those books now, trying to figure out a) my poor handwriting, b) my horrendous lack of spelling and proper grammar, and c) half defined thoughts, ended midway—with no context whatsoever. It makes for a bit of a game. As artists and designers, so much of the creative process can begin through the act of bringing pen to paper. One doesn’t often go to the trouble of starting Word to jot down a quick note to themselves, or opening Illustrator to do a small sketch. Or, at least I don’t. I rely on memory, which fails me every.single.time. I think technology hinders experience in those instances; I believe a certain amount of art and idea may be lost to this, in future generations. I suppose we are the lucky ones, sitting comfortably on the cusp of both methods. We can operate computers, but we still had to labor over cursive in 5th grade (although few of us still use it). I can’t imagine how many projects would have never been realized, if not begun as a whim, jotted down onto paper.

I was feeling a bit stifled in my apartment yesterday, having not left the house the entire day previously. So I bundled up, braved the -29 cold and headed up to the Centre to have breakfast. Saturday it turns out, is the perfect day to go, because the campus is almost completely empty. I was able to camp out on a cushy overstuffed chair by the wall of mountain-view windows, bust out my Wonder Woman sketchbook and write. Write and write until my hand was cramping and the words were almost indecipherable.

I feel like I’m on the verge of having a breakthrough with my project—with the theme of my book, and the direction I would like to take it in. Much like my life, I’m trying to break it into babysteps. Manageable chunks, so I don’t choke on the enormity of it all. Creating a book from scratch is an undertaking, but if I look at it page by page, section by section, chapter by chapter, it’s not quite so daunting. Besides, it won’t be a proper book—requiring formula, sense and continuity (thank god). It is a book about details, with small written blurbs,  photographs, sketches, maps, recipes, ephemera… and white space.

I realized this week that essentially, if you are not getting the project you want within the context of your job, you must make that project yourself. For the longest time I’ve waited to find a position that I could be fully creative in, which is difficult because I consider myself equal parts designer, photographer, writer, maker. I don’t imagine myself as an expert in any of them, but I find if I neglect one for any length of time, I feel unfulfilled. I suppose that makes me a bit high maintenance, creatively speaking? So until I find my niche in the world, I will try to build my dream project in the meantime, on my own terms. Find my own direction.

Unrelated awesome sidenote: I finally hit the houseplant JACKPOT. So far it’s the only thing that makes this place feel like home.

I was feeling horribly lonely yesterday during the day. In fact, I wrote a pretty raw blog post explaining my head space while on my lunch break. I saved it in my ipod, with the intention of posting it online when I got home. Work was pretty normal, but in the evening, I was able to attend my first actual event at the Banff Centre. It was called “Artists Crossing” and it allowed employees and workstudies to give presentations about their work. A girl I work with, Leanne, who is a writer, showed a video and spoken word piece, which was really moving. Also there was a sculptor, a sound engineer/composer, and a videographer. The turnout was surprisingly big—it was held in the Maclab bistro in the Kinnear Centre, which was the perfect space for the event. Imagine a modern restaurant combined with the laidbackness of a pub—all windows and gorgeous mountain views. Plus, they serve beer, and what likely was the most incredible burger that I have ever consumed in my lifetime. So I shook off the loneliness, got a chance to talk to some new people, drink a lot of beer, and observe the insanely inspiring talent that seems to inhabit every inch of this place. Needless to say, I didn’t post my raw blog post when I got home. I’ll save it for another day, because I think it deserves a place, too.

Despite not getting to sleep until 2 a.m., I awoke this morning at 9:12 (a totally respectable time in my option, under the circumstances). So I’m up, showered, gulping down a mediocre cup of coffee, surprisingly functional, and ready to go by 10:09. I’m impressed with myself. I grab my camera and head out the door.

Today is wonderful for a lot of reasons. 1, (as stated) it’s CreativeDay! 2, it’s three degrees outside! THREE! And for the first time in weeks I have been able to leave the house sans toque and scarf. I kept the mittens, as I knew I would likely be crawling around in the snow, but the temperature was perfect. The temperature reminded me of home.

I headed to this tiny cemetery that I pass each day on my way up the mountain. It’s so small, and serene. I’ve had my eye on it since the first day I arrived, mentally counting down the days until I got to wander around in it. Added bonus—on route, in the yard of the instrument maker, were two beautiful deer. And for the first time I was able to capture them with my camera. It was shaping up to be a good day already.

A strange thing about this cemetery, apparently no one goes there, aside from the deer… and girls stupid enough to try to wade through almost 3 feet of snow in the name of photographic exploration. I know this because of the dainty deer tracks mapping their way around the tombstones, and my clunky gigantic footprints messing up the pristine snow everywhere else. At times, I felt like I was treading water trying to make my way through it all. This was the stuff of parent’s stories meant to evoke guilt in children (unsuccessfully, I might add). This was “Don’t you complain about that, because I HAD TO WALK TO SCHOOL IN 3ft OF SNOW UPHILL, BOTH WAYS” snow. And admittedly, it was pretty tough to walk through.

I had intended on trying to get about 150 shots today, and ended up getting 349. I’m shocked by that number, but I did take a ridiculous amount in the graveyard trying to capture mossy tombstones and old decaying statues. I’m a sucker for the angel wings. If I get 20 solid shots from that 349, I’ll be thrilled. The secret to good photography? Take stupid amounts of photos.

Tired of snow trekking and picture taking, I decided to loop around the downtown core to grab a couple of things at the store. Did I mention that I only had a cup of coffee on my way out the door? So understandably, I was ravenous by the time I got to Safeway—which, as we all know, is a recipe for spending insane amounts of money on things that you would never purchase under normal circumstances—like Fig Newtons and Kraft Singles. I almost went for Cheez Whiz, but mustered up the willpower at the last minute to restrain myself. Lesson to myself: eat before you adventure.

Two gigantic shopping bags later, I’m toting the groceries down the street mentally wishing for a wagon, and accompanying dog with which to pull it. No such luck. I stopped at the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine, and reasoned that since I was already lugging 42lbs of groceries, my super heavy camera, a bottle of wine, and my enormous purse full of crap I never use, why not go all out and stop at the library? Two hardcover books added to the pile. Sled-dog, where are you when I need you? Good-for-nothing, lazy imaginary dog.

A word about the library in Banff—it has provided so much pleasure while I’ve been here. I always forget about how wonderful the library concept is, with their ridiculously unprofitable business model. Most of the time I stare at the clerk incredulously, still expecting them to say “That will be $37.91, please”. And yet, they never do. They just stamp the inside cover card (old school style!) and push the books across the counter. Done and done. This town is great.

(Trust me, I do appreciate the irony of the bag of Hershey’s kisses laying atop the 0-calorie Coke Zero)

Funny the difference a day makes. Yesterday morning I was feeling hollow, desperate; Today, I feel inspired and content… slightly stronger from the grocery lugging, considerably poorer from the grocery buying. Home by 1:47. A very successful CreativeDay, indeed.

I wake up every morning and get excited to open the curtains. You never really know what the weather is going to be like here. So far, -26 has been the coldest, which was excruciating. That was painful, eyelashes-fusing-to-your-skin cold. Then, two days later, it’s 4 degrees. I’ve realized that Banff is not a town to look pretty in. Regardless of how much time you spend getting ready, inevitably by the time you get to where you are going, you are either red faced and runny nosed, sweating your ass off, or just generally looking 25lbs heavier from all the layers. I’ve given up trying, which may hinder my ability to attract mountain men while I’m here.

Walking through this town is pretty amazing. Before I came, I had a picture in my minds-eye of what I thought it would be like, and in many ways it was both everything and nothing like that. It is quaint, and yet strangely corporate at the same time. The main street is littered with tiny shops (many of which are touting the usual “I Heart Banff” tourist sweatshirts and shot glasses with bears on them, stamped “Made in China” on the bottom). There are a ridiculous (read: AWESOME) amount of candy stores in this town. And liquor. Banffians (Banffittes? Citizens of Banff?) love their booze and sugar, apparently. As you walk down the street the rich smell of dark maple hits you in the face like a hammer… fudge. It’s like crack for the nostrils, and it’s been all I can do to avoid it thus far – I’m afraid if I falter and give in even once, I’ll spend the rest of my days here strung out under a snowy bridge, in a sugar induced coma. But the smell is intoxicating, and so very “Canadian” at the same time. These are the types of places that I expected of Banff, and yet unexpectedly, an even larger portion of this town seems to replicate big city landscape – Lululemon, Gap, Foot Locker, Lush, Louie Vuitton, Benetton, Mcdonald’s, Indigo… on and on and on. In some ways it seems to rob the place of personality, from a tourist perspective. However, from a local perspective, it’s been hugely handy to be able to pop in and pick up some mass-produced necessity I forgot (surely packed in box #47, now buried deep in the trenches of my parent’s basement). I think Banff Ave. is the main tourist street, while it appears that most locals try avoid it like the plague, sticking instead to side streets and back routes. Many places here offer a “local discount” which makes me feel like I’m part of a top secret club, and rather than perks like decoder rings and complicated handshakes, you mostly just get 10% off of wine purchases and cheap breakfast.

I’ve been incredibly creative since I’ve gotten here. I guess my lack of internet largely contributed to that, combined with my desire to get out and explore the city. I’ve taken a bunch of photos and written quite a bit. While I’m here at the Banff Centre, as a work study I am in the Banff Centre Press 4 days a week, the other day is set aside to work on my own creative project. I doubt I will get a chance to do much design at this position, so I’ve made it my creative project to do a book layout. Similar to my “City Within” project, only set in the mountains. I’m going to try to incorporate some of my journal entries into it, just so it can involve a bit more typography than the first one. But it feels good to have something to work toward. Something that is entirely self directed, and something that I will be forced to find focus in, if for no other reason than distraction, because I still don’t know many people here yet.

In the mornings I walk over a frozen river to get to work. I was terrified the first few days I was here to even brave the river path, which as been worn down from all the people who live in the housing co-op that use it as a shortcut, so I would take the long way around, over a bridge. Eventually though, my laziness won out over my fear of death. It does make things much quicker. Plus, there is something so beautiful and serene about standing in the middle of the snow covered river, surrounded by trees and mountains. The landscape has not lost one shred of it’s novelty yet. I don’t know if it ever would. Several times a day I feel fortunate to be getting a chance to have this opportunity. To live in this snowy town, to be attending one of the most prestigious artist centres in Canada. I’ll delve more into the Banff Centre in the coming days, but I just wanted to write another entry fairly soon after the first. Try to keep on top of it all.

There is so much to say, and I’m still formulating the order in which I want to write about it. Countless unseen stars, the tenacity of magpies, being able to call oneself an artist, the glory of libraries, tiny graveyard squirrels, life in the co-op, the nature of loneliness,  church bells heard ringing throughout the town on Sundays. So many incredible details to talk about. I hope that you will continue to come back and visit… and it’s always much appreciated if you leave a comment. It lets me know that you are out there, and makes it feel a tiny bit less cold here.