Hour 0: After bus confusion and wandering around lost downtown for a bit wondering what direction Nelson Street is, I finally caught the cushy community bus and headed toward Comox & Denman, to the Urban Rush Cafe—the official headquarters of this year’s Vancouver 12×12 Photo Marathon. I register. Am ecstatic to see that I am lucky number 7! Glancing around I feel a bit intimidated by the amount of GIGANTIC lenses there are, and fancy-schmancy cameras attached to them. Tripods, crazy compartmentalized bags, and every other photographic implement of destruction imaginable is present. Humbled. I struggle to remember how to even load film into my crappy Canon Rebel. Man, this is going to be a long day! Briefly consider running away unnoticed;  instead decide that although I have none of the expensive equipment, nor knowledge on how to use it, at least I have a relatively quick trigger finger in order to be the 7th person registered. I drink congratulatory coffee and celebrate small miracles.

First theme announced: Your Entry Number/Different Angle

And we’re off! Feeling refueled by the caffeine and excited by the process, I head out in search of 7 of *something* with which to photograph. I’m hoping for a parade of frolicking ponies pulling wagons of adorable babies but realize this is probably pushing it. Settle instead for standing under a string of seven balloons tied to a stop sign, and wait… ever… so… patiently for them all to line up perfectly. They do, and SNAP – commitment! Not at all sure if I caught the shot. Am suddenly painfully aware of how dependent I am upon the LCD screen preview on my digital camera.

Hour 2: Back at the cafe, excitement in the air. I wish that I had a chance to go to the previous week’s meet-up because everyone seems super friendly and familiar to each other. Feel a momentary pang of shyness. Decide to drink more coffee.

Second theme announced: The Usual Suspects

I head out again in the same direction – back down alleyways and through the residential areas. I think it might be cool to try to locate some pigeons and crows for this shot. Cannot find a single bird to save my life. Finally, I stop a homeless man who tells me a Canucks joke and chats to me about being a camera repair person in his former life. He is fascinating and so very sweet; he tells me I should go to the beach for birds— they like the garbage down there. I wish him well, and am off again. Finally spot two crows on top of a power line. Look through my pitifully small lens and wish that I had thought to rent something better. Wait again patiently for the bird’s heads to line up to show their beak profiles. In the split second between me pressing the shutter and it catching the shot, the birds move. This is ruined shot #1. This is the first of many. This game is harder than it looks.

Hour 3 – Feeling a little sad about my missed shot, I start thinking about how we take for granted the ability to curate our work. How often people don’t understand that out of the 30 great shots that you post on Flickr or Facebook, there may have been 300 others that weren’t. quite. right. It’s a strange feeling thinking that people will be able to see your glory and all your mistakes in this project. No retakes. No trash bin. I’m again humbled when I think of the giant lenses and professional photographers no doubt currently taking masterpiece shots of prancing pony parades and flocks of choreographed seagulls.

Third theme announced: Human Nature

After the bird fiasco, I’m feeling the pressure to do something better with this particular theme—it can be interpreted in so many ways! This is where the challenge lies. I just have to carefully decide what direction I want to take it. I remember seeing a bunch of shoes hanging from wires in a back alley about an hour back, but cannot remember where, for the life of me. Spend the next 45 minutes wandering aimlessly looking for shoes, unable to shake the idea to see other possibilities. Funny how your brain will sometimes fixate. Finally locate them… thankfully they do not move at the last second.

Forth theme announced: Reliable

By this time, my feet are really beginning to ache. I contemplate taking off my shoes and just walking barefoot. Decide instead to stop at Shoppers Drug Mart for emergency Band-Aide triage kit. Oh, good god there is still 8 more hours left. What have I signed myself up for?? I take a picture of my feet. At least they are still attached to my body.

Fifth theme announced: My Greatest Wish

My greatest wish… ? I wish for a shopping cart and someone to push me around in it. And a popsicle made of Strongbow. The odds of this combination happening also seem slim, so I decide instead to find something simple. It feels a little like a cop out, but my feet are killing me, so when I spot the fluffiest cat I’ve ever seen hiding under a bush, I think he would make a perfect wish (No Pets building for me, boo!). He sits patiently waiting for me to compose the shot (an obvious pro photographic subject) ready, set… press the shutter, cat MOVES. Mother$*#@er!!! Curse out loud, in manner similar to sailor. Pet adorable cat to console myself, despite his obvious leanings toward sabotage.

Six theme announced: Odour

After grabbing a bite to eat and a couple of beers, everyone seems refreshed. Odour seems like a great theme—everywhere I look today I’ve seen fragrant things: flowers, dumpsters, porta-potties atop flatbed trucks. Decide in the end to shoot some people crossing the ‘Finish’ line of a bike marathon. Wonder if any of these things will make any sense once printed without the aid of artistic explanation? Decide to risk it anyway.

Seventh theme announced: Echo

Man, these themes are getting tough! My creative brain is throbbing much like my feet, although the beer and band-aids helped immensely for at least one of those issues. My friend Craig talks about his idea which admittedly is pretty awesome, and rides off to capture it. I wonder if it’s possible for me to finish the rest of this marathon without actually moving from my chair? Curse you, footwear. I think of all the cool shots that might visually echo… reflective surfaces repeating, over and over. Head back to Shoppers Drug Mart to see if I can find a hand mirror. I buy it, but am used to knowing how a shot will work on my D80, with the 18-135mm lens. Through the film camera, the shot doesn’t seem nearly as good, but I do my best, anyway. Not sure if this one will come through. Drink more beer. Congratulate myself on strenuous tasks already completed today, like breathing and walking upright.

Eighth theme announced: Trapped

I’ve gotten a chance to talk to a few more of the participants. Funny how you see the Photo Marathon lanyards from across the street and nod and smile knowingly at each other. They understand your pain. They know your exhaustion. Fellow troops in the trenches. By this time Denman is starting to get insane with the amount of people heading downtown for the fireworks. I take my picture and then wander down to the beach. We couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day! On the way back to the cafe I see another marathoner taking the same picture that I did for this theme. I wonder how many duplicates of any given subject there will be?? It’s kind of great to know that similar things catch your eye. It will be interesting to see the different takes on the same idea.

What’s this? A beer? Don’t mind if I do. No longer feel quite so glum about my inadequacies in the lens-department, due largely in part to being slightly tipsy and mentally exhausted.

Ninth theme announced: Take it to the Grave

After sitting on a park bench in the sun with my friends Ryan and Ruwan, eating burgers and bitching about first world problems, we discuss the day’s events thus far. I love how clever my friends are. They were organized and brought props. PROPS! I didn’t even think to bring a tripod… or shoes that actually fit my feet. Clever. Lessons learned for next year.

Beer time?

Tenth theme announced: Second Chance

I debate trying to recreate the echo shot, hopefully get it right this time, but the light is waning, and I know that pretty soon I’m going to be screwed. So I tried instead to find one more street subject. I locate a tattered couch in an alley. My already shaky hands are generally adept at messing up shots in the sunniest of conditions; henceforth, it’s unlikely that I will get a steady picture, sans-tripod. I wish I could shoot “Second Chance” tomorrow, with a new roll of film and a better camera. Again, unlikely… I’m now imagining difficulty moving my limbs in the morning.

Coming into the home stretch!

People galore, downtown! Seriously, I am normally claustrophobic, so the steady and constant stream of bodies down Denman Street is starting to make my heart pound and my hands sweat. Then I see some policemen ride down the street on giant, gorgeous Clydesdale horses, and the Hare Krishna’s following — dancing exuberantly with trumpets and tambourines. This is the best. day. EVER. Is there always this much cool stuff happening around here?

Eleventh theme announced: Not for Sale

By this time all I can think about is my limited light options and lack of tripod. I head into the thick of the crowd at the beach just to try to catch the last shred of sunlight. Line up the shot beautifully. This might actually work! I realize after the fact that I set it on the wrong shutter speed. Dammit. This one is bound to be insanely overexposed. Oh, hello camera— have we met before? I apparently have no idea how you operate. I silently vow to teach myself better photography skills, and hope that my roll of film mysteriously goes missing during the developing process.

Twelfth theme announced: Expectation

We are all rejuvenated knowing that the torture adventure will soon be ending. This has been one of the most interesting experiences I have had in a long time. It’s been so amazing to come together with a great group of creative people, of all levels and backgrounds: from film novices like me, to seasoned professionals—bound together by the appreciation of the photographic medium. I can only imagine what goes into organizing an event like this; everyone did an incredible job! Although we are all tired from today, I can only imagine that this is just one of several really long days that have been put in by the entire 12×12 Vancouver team. Bravo, you guys!!

The final exhibit is in a month. I’m both excited and nervous to see it. I realized after this weekend how much I depend upon automatic settings and trial-and-error in my own work. I’m not sure what the final result will look like, but even if I get 2 decent shots from the film I’ll be thrilled. I can’t wait to practice over the next year, and *fingers crossed*— I’ll get a chance to participate in this event again in the future. Vancouver is a special city, and to have an opportunity to meet amazing people, drink beer together, and be collectively creative? You can’t really ask for anything better. (Except maybe ponies).

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)!

I had kept in contact with the manager of my old building and asked him to keep me posted on vacancies. He had mentioned that a large suite would be opening mid-July, and it would be almost identical to the place my cousin was currently living in. I didn’t think I could wait that long, I said. Although he knew I was looking for a 1-bedroom, he mentioned that they had just evicted a man who had lived in a bachelor suite for 11 years. But he had been both a recluse and a chain smoker, so the place was in pretty rough shape. Although I had no desire to live in a bachelor suite, my curiosity to look at the bachelor suite won. So I agreed to check it out.

Holy hell, was I unprepared for the state of the apartment when I walked into it — despite the landlord’s forewarning of the disgusting condition. I discovered that not only was smoking his favorite hobby, but he was also an expert at avoiding cleaning and not taking out the garbage… FOR ELEVEN YEARS. Without a word of exaggeration, this man could not have cleaned that apartment a single time that he lived there. It was like a scene from “Hoarders”. There was garbage piled everywhere, and this was apparently after the they had already trucked out 4 gigantic bins to the dumpster, including a pretty impressive collection of porn VHS tapes from the 80′s. Cobwebs clung to every wall, and the smell of stale smoke hung so thick that I had to cover my mouth with my jacket sleeve to quell the urge to throw up. It was horrendous. Instantly, it was confirmed: not only did I not want to live in a bachelor suite, there was no way in hell I could ever live in that bachelor suite.

In the meantime, living in Maple Ridge became increasingly more stifling, creatively speaking. I had not written, taken photos or done much of anything aside from sleep, eat, job-hunt, and dream of a new life since I got here. My wheels were spinning.

Long story somewhat shorter: I imagined this amazing life in this end-of-July, large 1-bedroom upstairs apartment without actually seeing it. When I finally did see it, it left a lot to be desired. The interior bones were different from my cousin’s suite that I was basing my image upon. And honestly, it just didn’t feel… mine.

One heart, sank.

I was so conflicted. This is the problem that arises when you live much of your life in your mind before it tangibly unfolds in reality. Back to the drawing board. I went to ask the landlord to continue to keep me posted about future vacancies. He was deep in the midst of reinventing the Hoarder’s Den.  I was absolutely astonished by it’s transformation. It’s pretty incredible what a few coats of paint, ripping out of hideous filthy carpet, trucking out 2 tons of toxic garbage, several weeks of fumigation, and complete gutted renovation can do. It was beginning to shape up beautifully! The inlaid floors were in gorgeous shape (that was one thing I always longed for in my old place… hardwoods). The black & white tiles were laid in the kitchen, the clawfoot was in the living room, waiting to be reglazed. The windows, beyond repair, are set to be replaced with double paned ones to keep out the street noise from 12th. The new appliances ordered. It was a work-in-progress — but still, all of a sudden, I realized…

This was my little apartment.

I would end up paying substantially more than I would if I chose to take another bachelor suite down the hall, due to all the cost incurred while renovating the Hoarder’s Den. But it seemed worth it because this would be new and clean and quaint and wonderful. It had the tub, the tiles, the high coved ceilings, the floors, heritage built-ins, a kitchen window! This apartment had everything I was looking for… only bite-sized. This apartment was giving me the vibe that I had been waiting for from all the other larger places I had been checking out. This little place was giving me the sense that I could live within her walls quite happily, despite her small stature. I was as surprised as anyone to realize this.

This was my new home.

Now realistically — I know myself, and I have lived in bachelor suites at previous stages in my life. It’s tough. I like having space to create, and make a mess, and lay on the floor in the middle of the living room listening to records and drinking wine. But this apartment didn’t have a living room. Or rather, it had one LARGE living room, and no bedroom. Admittedly, it was going to be a huge challenge condensing all my stuff into one minuscule space. I would need to be more organized. I began taking a lot of inspiration from Apartment Therapy’s website, and it’s “Small Cool” contest — where people who live in small apartments send in photos of their homes and discuss how they deal with the challenges of condensed living… (some with only 200-300 sq ft, which make this bachelor suite’s 430 sq. ft. seem spacious!).

I understand that it’s unlikely I will live in this place for much longer than 6 months… ultimately I want to have a place that is not right on 12th — a place I can actually put roots down in. Luckily, I will have first dibs on any other apartment that may come up in the building, so I can continue to be choosy, IN VANCOUVER. But for now, I am prepared to take a beautiful tiny apartment for an undetermined amount of time. For now, I’m prepared to think of this place as my home and make it amazing, as best as I can. For now, I’m really just excited about the thought of picking up my life and getting on with things, already. I’m hoping once the reno’s are done (mid-May) and I’m settled in, I’ll be able to carve out a space that’s all my own, and my currently-on-life-support creativity will be revived.

Next up, just a few other small details: new job, finding a boyfriend, financial stability, general grown-up-edness, dinner parties hosted in a teeny apartment. Baby steps… one square foot at a time.

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.

I couldn’t help it. I had all this pent up energy inside of myself that I have been supressing for the last week. I’ve been anguishing over a couple of letters that I needed to write, and kept second guessing my writing style. It was one of those horrible times where I would write 5 words, erase 3, write 2 more, etc—and absolutely nothing felt right. This happens to me about 50% of the time, and it’s frustrating because so often I’m faced with an endless monologue in my mind of things that I wish I could be writing down—generally when I am sans writing utensil. Yet when I have 3 computers and a myriad of pens at my disposable, nothing. Writer’s block is terrible, but forcing it is worse. I find it a difficult balance between trying to sound professional and yet having my own voice and personality still come through in the writing. Nothing is worse than trying to write stodgy business-style letters (I’m sure as painful to read as they are to write). With any artistic endeavour, it is always best to put it down and do something else if I’m just not feeling it. Ultimately the product that comes out of these trying times is generally sub-par anyway, and it takes most of the fun out of the process. Sometimes it’s necessary though, an inevitable part of trying to be creative for a living.

But my dance signaled the end of the anguish. I can breathe a sigh of relief to know that another thing has been crossed of my List of Things to Do that Terrify Me. This time it was more completing the process that I tried to find comfort in, rather than being hung up on the end result. Woohoo! Done and done. Now I can go outside and enjoy the incredibly blustery day that has hit us here in Vancouver. Yesterday was dismal torrential downpours. Today is bright and lovely and autumn, which we all must enjoy while it lasts—it sounds like snow and mitten weather will be arriving soon enough!

…so I thought until my beautiful vintage stove, with whom I have shown nothing but serious love and devotion from the moment I laid eyes on her, set me on fire. FINE! Fuck you, stove. And believe me, this had absolutely nothing to do with my inability to utilize basic brain function enough to recall that lighting flame when you smell gas is a bad idea, and everything to do with the fact that my stove obviously has some innate desire to violently snuff out my life.

Last week I had decided that because of my recent unemployment situation and lack of food in my pantry, I should think of things I could cook that could last me a few meals. This is a responsible, adult-like concept, right? I thought tuna casserole would be a good choice:  Cheap. Filling. Delicious. Plus, I remembered what all the ingredients were, and even more importantly, had them all in my possession. Clearly, the universe thought it would be a good idea to cook. Everyone loves comfort food, right?

Not my stove. My stove thinks comfort food is like a small puppy that it would like to punt down a stairwell. My stove finds amusement in torturing 3-legged baby goats and frail grandmas. My stove thinks it is funny to set girls on fire when they are only trying to cook tasty casseroles. My stove, apparently, is a real bastard.

I think we take for granted that most modern appliances have been safety tested with idiots in mind. There is very little harm generally that  can come from them, save for perhaps hacking off your fingers with a spinning rotary blade, or death from asphyxiation by getting your tie stuck in a mixmaster. But because this stove is from the 40′s, there aren’t the same safety standards we have today. Back in the 40′s kids were allowed to juggle knives blindfolded, and shower in DDT in the backyard. Back then, you had to manually light the stove with a long match, and touch it to a little hole that spews gas at the front of the open oven. This takes some getting used to. Normally when you light it, it makes this slight “whoooooosh” sound when it catches; once I hear that sound, I wait for 10 minutes and the stove is good to go. This time I’m dancing around to Broken Bells, hands covered in casseroley goodness, juggling pyrex dishes and grating cheese like a culinary master. I hear the “whoosh”, and yet – 1.5 minutes later I can smell gas. My stove sometimes has a horrible habit of blowing out the pilot light if I have windows open… a strange backdraft type situation which has happened 25 times at least- it’s no biggy. Normally I just open the top of the stove and relight the pilot. This time, when I pick up the top, the little pilot flame is still going… but my kitchen smells increasingly more like gas. Confusion ensues. So I open the door to the oven, instinctively grab the long lighter, and click the flame to the gas hole. All of these steps take place over a matter of maybe 1.7 seconds…

It is at this point a raging fireball bursts! forward from the oven, igniting all the hair on my arms, my eyebrows, and front hair on my head, and burning the shit out of my arm, lips and chest. I can see the fire on my skin, feel the burning, and smell the god awful smell of burnt hair EVERYWHERE. I’m flailing my arms around, running from the kitchen to the living room, frantically slapping my hands over my melting arm hair, and smoking hairline. My skin hurts, but I’m incapable of understanding what the hell just happened?? Was I really burned, or just in shock that a fireball  just attacked me? It was a surreal situation. This could be the calm that is felt if one loses a limb and yet still manages to drives themselves to the hospital. Aside from a fair chunk of body hair gone, did I need to go to the emergency room? I couldn’t tell. Strangely, I was so embarrassed at the idiocy necessary to touch open flame in a tiny chamber that had been filling up with gas for 2 minutes, that I couldn’t think straight. I imagined how silly Michael Jackson must have felt when he set his entire head on fire while shooting that Pepsi commercial in the 80′s. I dreaded the reaction that my good friend Meghan would have at her wedding in 2 weeks, when she saw that I, as a bridesmaid, was in possession of only 1.5 eyebrows. Of all the times in my life I felt truly stupid, I think this might have taken top prize. Nice work!

I’m fine now. I spent the evening in quite a bit of pain, slathering my entire right arm from wrist to armpit with aloe. It hurt like a son of a bitch but in the end wasn’t serious enough to wait in line for 5 hours to get in to see a doctor. My hair will grow back. I was so lucky. I think I may have used up another of my 9 lives now… I’m fairly certain I only have 4 left at this point.

Stove, we are no longer friends. As you sit there, silently smug and mocking, I’m reminded of who is the boss of this apartment and the reason why cooking should be avoided at all costs.

Fire: 1. Chrissy: 0.

I’ve decided to guide you through a process of making a new Bittersweet. I went to see Cirque de Soleil the other day and the popcorn consumption was everywhere. I was inspired by their old timey packaging, plus I always like sewing pieces that have multiple faces. So here goes nothing. I apologize for the time you are about to waste reading what follows.

I start with the idea. I generally do not sketch them first, as I’m lazy; I like to whip out the scissors, throw caution to the wind and just start a’cutting. 9 times out of 10 I fail miserably, as puzzles, mathematics, and perspective have always been just out of my intellectual reach. I go through a lot of felt this way, but patterns are for pussies! Pussies I say! (Or rather just people far more methodical and able to follow directions than I am). Whatever.

So I choose the color scheme, in this case I’m going to go traditional red, white and beige. Beige? What color is popcorn usually? Felt really doesn’t come in that many colors, unfortunately. I should probably go the route of the stuff that they sell at movie theatres that is fluorescent yellow and likely leaching chemicals into our systems as we speak causing birth defects to future generations. I might go beige and sew it all together with yellow thread.

Figure out the base piece first. It’s usually the large foundation that I will build the rest of it on. If I screw up this part (which I often do) I will either have to unpick everything and redo it, or what usually happens – is I pitch a fit and throw the piece behind the couch in a fit of frustration and a slew of obscenities. Then I eat some ice cream to console myself. I’m going to be more careful this time. I think It’s going to be the base, the stripes, and then the popcorn. In total, it will probably be about 25 separate bits. Although I have no less than 17 pairs of scissors in my apartment, I’m convinced the little bastards corroborate during the night and play a game of hide and seek just to piss me off. Do you think I can find any at the moment? I’m contemplating using my teeth, or gardening shears. Either might end up with a interesting final effect.

Scissors located! Let the cutting commence. Have I mentioned that despite 5 years of art school I can’t draw a straight line? Thrust a sharp cutting too in my hand and it’s even worse. It’s a miracle all my digits are in tact. I will knock on wood to undo the inevitability of me now snipping off my thumb tip by making that comment.

Dear Perspective, why are you such an asshole? I’ll give you a minute to think about it and get back to you. The red stripes look like half bitten hot dogs. Because I’m trying to do this step by step in front of an imaginary audience, I’m screwing everything up more than usual. Stop pressuring me, people who don’t exist, and who are currently scrutinizing my inability to have basic motor skills. I’d like to see you do better! Actually, I wouldn’t, as it would make me feel even more inadequate about my craftiness on account of being one-upped by a fictitious person. Alsoplus, I’m not doing this as a video, but rather still frames and half-assed descriptions, so it will be tough to piece together what I’m doing anyway. It’s more like those annoying cooking shows that take you half-way through the recipe, then put the batter under the counter, and magically 2 seconds later, pull out a fully formed cake. That’s this, only slightly less organized, and much less tasty. I’m sorry in advance. Shit. I just slipped and cut off too much felt, and now I’ll have to redo the base. It’s ok, we’ll put more icing on it later, no one will be any the wiser.

OMG, I’m embarrassed at my momentary lack of sewing skills. Perhaps it’s just performance anxiety? Or just poor judgment. It’s not unlike a drunk deciding it would be a good idea to take up chainsaw carving in the midst of a bender. Speaking of drunk, maybe wine might improve this situation? It certainly couldn’t hurt at this point.

The funny this about this whole thing is that this is not a tutorial, and no one will  actually see this, and it’s going to take me 4 hours to sew the damn thing together anyway. I don’t know why I’ve put so much undue pressure on myself.  I should also refrain from typing while I do that because it will turn into a 9000 word rambling essay about my lack of hand-eye coordination and repeatedly jabbing myself with needles and drinking wine. Which is helpful for no one at any time.

The popcorn heads are drastically disproportionate, and lopsided. Which when I sew the faces on it will be interesting, but for the sake of picture taking, just look pitiful. Poor mutant popcorns. I’m sorry I did so much drinking while conceiving you.

The popcorns are now starting to look like malformed jellyfish or ghosties with glandular issues. I no longer care.

I also just ate a substantial piece of felt. It almost went unnoticed until it got caught on my esophagus. Wine helped washed it down. Thanks wine, for your always appreciated help in these situations.

Wait, why do I sew angry foods again? I always get to this point, where I’m super stoked about my great new idea, and cut it all out, and get ready to sew it, and then it occurs to me how the majority of the population does not understand what I’m doing, and just thinks it’s bizarre. In my mind I think I’m clever, but most people just smile politely and look away, and then I never get invited to dinner parties anymore.

This is taking too long, and I’m fairly impatient and want to have a nap after all that wine drinking and thumb jabbing, so I’m just going to post what I have already, and add the finished pictures later…

To be continued…