Etchings
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
The Scottish Chronicles: Epiphany
A girl with red hair and perfect makeup. Sitting in a swivel chair at the bottom of a set of stairs. Lights glint off the ancient cobblestone. The air is filled with sounds of overliquored youth - shots bought with Daddy’s money, downed in split seconds. The girl in the chair sets her eyes on the group that is laughing down the street toward her. Her eyes send the message before pretty lips part. “Who are you? Who do you know here? How much money do you have?” Luckily when her questions reach me I’m looking away. Down - at my American Eagle vest bought 75% off. Down - at my baggy green cargo pants that last week I wore four wheeling. Down - at my Aldo sandals, an extravagant expenditure at fifty dollars. To the girl in the swivel chair, these sandals signify everything I am. Or - to her - am not. Not rich, not powerful, not connected, not important. Everything I own, everything I wear, everything I am, is cheap. More than cheap, it is worthless. I walk away. Here I am nobody. Here I do not exist.
This is an ancient Scottish city. It’s seen its share of wars, I’m sure. Wars for land, wars of Scottish tribes, wars of famine. This night, an ancient war – one ancient as humanity itself - is being played out right before my eyes. Perfect makeup, a book of names, and judgments cemented in a pretty red head – these are the weapons. An immaculate blonde sweeps by. Bend, peck on cheek, smug smile. These too are weapons. She dashes up the stairs, silk scarf trailing and diamond earring flashing, to play out her role in the war of social status in the flat overhead - a flat older than her money, diamonds and ideals.
We turn to leave. Swivel Chair thinks she has won. I can feel the others around me deflating. For them, this has been a crushing defeat. By the looks of it, it is not the first. And they know it won’t be the last. It is a battle their family has been fighting – sometimes winning, sometimes not – for their entire lives. They have sent their children here because desertion is not an option. Ten minutes ago we were free flowing, hip young world travellers dancing the night away. Music, a darkened pub, a few pints and the pure, raw energy of a group of young twenty-somethings with nothing to lose were all that existed for us. A few pointed questions from a girl in a chair and suddenly we are all uber-aware of those rigidly defined categories our world has divided us into. Seven different countries are represented between us and yet every one of us knows precisely where we have just been so effortlessly placed. Whatever there is to have, we don’t have enough of it. Some will try to obtain it and succeed. Others will try, only to fail. Others will not even attempt it. They know it’s not worth it the struggle, the heartache, the feeling of complete and utter worthlessness that envelopes the soul when that which is so highly prized is not gained.
To the others, the categorization just experienced is not simply the product of one person’s opinion. It is the Truth. Inarguably. The Truth. The one and only, elusive Truth. The Truth that comes flying at you when you least expect it, in the quaintest of towns, only yards from a crumbling ancient castle, between the rugged highlands of Scotland. Here, of all places, their Truth comes in and slaps them in the face. This truth will not set them free. It will take them roughly in the arms and put them firmly in their place. Any struggle is futile. That much was clear in the eyes of the redhead with the notebook. The notebook that holds all the names. The names of those who can go by. Those who can climb the stairs. Those who can enter the battle ground and fight the fight.
But I know that this is not the Truth. Here, in these streets, within these walls, it is well camouflaged as such. But no. Oh no. No, no, no. I know better. I recognize it for what it is. Because I am from without these walls. I am from a place that - against all odds, against even the most basic of humanity’s socializing patterns - has allowed me to develop a firm disbelief in the Golden Rule of Has and Has Not. I know that there is truly no separation. There are not those who are better and those who are worse. There are only those who are. Those who do not have money, do not have diamonds, do not have flashing smiles and silky smooth hair - they too exist. Even those with flies in their hair and eyes that know no happiness – they are of equal value as human beings as anyone else on this green and blue sphere.
The Truth is: if there were to be a separation, it sure as hell would not be based on possession of man made trifles – “things”, for want of a better word - to which our society has ascribed such arbitrary value. The only jewels worth having are found within. Swivel Chair and her Bible – the book of names - are wrong.
Earlier this same night, after a particularly sweaty bout of dancing, I sat on the lowest of a set of aged stone steps and said a few words to a man with a thick Scottish brogue. He was older, friendly, polite, and extremely Scottish. The exact person I came to this country to speak to. One who has the hills, the sea, the sky in his blood - and in his eyes. Before I could ask his name, I was whisked away. My saviour informed me, sternly: “no one speaks to locals”.
Yes - these are unmistakable fighting words. They speak so simply and eloquently to a war I’ve thus far only read about in glossy magazines. Here, though, this war is a real and present danger. If I keep my wits about me, I will be able to hold my tongue and remain the neutral state. I cannot let on that I know the secret: I have unveiled their Truth. I have unwrapped her drapery and seen what lies beneath. It is none other than the ugly, greedy face of Capitalism. But shhh. No one knows.
This is an ancient Scottish city. It’s seen its share of wars, I’m sure. Wars for land, wars of Scottish tribes, wars of famine. This night, an ancient war – one ancient as humanity itself - is being played out right before my eyes. Perfect makeup, a book of names, and judgments cemented in a pretty red head – these are the weapons. An immaculate blonde sweeps by. Bend, peck on cheek, smug smile. These too are weapons. She dashes up the stairs, silk scarf trailing and diamond earring flashing, to play out her role in the war of social status in the flat overhead - a flat older than her money, diamonds and ideals.
We turn to leave. Swivel Chair thinks she has won. I can feel the others around me deflating. For them, this has been a crushing defeat. By the looks of it, it is not the first. And they know it won’t be the last. It is a battle their family has been fighting – sometimes winning, sometimes not – for their entire lives. They have sent their children here because desertion is not an option. Ten minutes ago we were free flowing, hip young world travellers dancing the night away. Music, a darkened pub, a few pints and the pure, raw energy of a group of young twenty-somethings with nothing to lose were all that existed for us. A few pointed questions from a girl in a chair and suddenly we are all uber-aware of those rigidly defined categories our world has divided us into. Seven different countries are represented between us and yet every one of us knows precisely where we have just been so effortlessly placed. Whatever there is to have, we don’t have enough of it. Some will try to obtain it and succeed. Others will try, only to fail. Others will not even attempt it. They know it’s not worth it the struggle, the heartache, the feeling of complete and utter worthlessness that envelopes the soul when that which is so highly prized is not gained.
To the others, the categorization just experienced is not simply the product of one person’s opinion. It is the Truth. Inarguably. The Truth. The one and only, elusive Truth. The Truth that comes flying at you when you least expect it, in the quaintest of towns, only yards from a crumbling ancient castle, between the rugged highlands of Scotland. Here, of all places, their Truth comes in and slaps them in the face. This truth will not set them free. It will take them roughly in the arms and put them firmly in their place. Any struggle is futile. That much was clear in the eyes of the redhead with the notebook. The notebook that holds all the names. The names of those who can go by. Those who can climb the stairs. Those who can enter the battle ground and fight the fight.
But I know that this is not the Truth. Here, in these streets, within these walls, it is well camouflaged as such. But no. Oh no. No, no, no. I know better. I recognize it for what it is. Because I am from without these walls. I am from a place that - against all odds, against even the most basic of humanity’s socializing patterns - has allowed me to develop a firm disbelief in the Golden Rule of Has and Has Not. I know that there is truly no separation. There are not those who are better and those who are worse. There are only those who are. Those who do not have money, do not have diamonds, do not have flashing smiles and silky smooth hair - they too exist. Even those with flies in their hair and eyes that know no happiness – they are of equal value as human beings as anyone else on this green and blue sphere.
The Truth is: if there were to be a separation, it sure as hell would not be based on possession of man made trifles – “things”, for want of a better word - to which our society has ascribed such arbitrary value. The only jewels worth having are found within. Swivel Chair and her Bible – the book of names - are wrong.
Earlier this same night, after a particularly sweaty bout of dancing, I sat on the lowest of a set of aged stone steps and said a few words to a man with a thick Scottish brogue. He was older, friendly, polite, and extremely Scottish. The exact person I came to this country to speak to. One who has the hills, the sea, the sky in his blood - and in his eyes. Before I could ask his name, I was whisked away. My saviour informed me, sternly: “no one speaks to locals”.
Yes - these are unmistakable fighting words. They speak so simply and eloquently to a war I’ve thus far only read about in glossy magazines. Here, though, this war is a real and present danger. If I keep my wits about me, I will be able to hold my tongue and remain the neutral state. I cannot let on that I know the secret: I have unveiled their Truth. I have unwrapped her drapery and seen what lies beneath. It is none other than the ugly, greedy face of Capitalism. But shhh. No one knows.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
The Scottish Chronicles: Iron Bridge to Sudbury
Well I am on my way, on the first leg of my journey to Scotland. It began as any good adventure begins - flagging down a bus on the side of a highway in a small Northern Ontario town. Iron Bridge to be exact. At 6:00 in the morning - 20 minutes earlier than it was supposed to be there, the bus rolls in, almost hidden between two transport trucks. I wave my hands in the air as if hailing my personal oversized taxi. The bus pulls over and I run along the curb beside it. The bus driver opens the door and looks at me as if I shouldn't be there. I ask him if his is the bus I would take to Ottawa. He answers with a gruff "yes". A hasty loading of much-too-heavy luggage (my whole life paired down to one huge hiking bag), and a teary, quick goodbye with mum. The bus driver - "We've got 40 people on board here, ladies". Mum tearily tries to inform him that her daughter's on her way to Scotland. She almost walks away with my laptop bag and pillow.
On the bus, of course, everyone is sound asleep. They're either stretched out using both seats as a makeshift bed, or are sleeping in one seat with their bag taking up the other. The Golden Rule of Greyhound riding is strictly adhered to: don't let anyone sit with you. I walk to the end of the bus. No empty seats. I walk back. Finally I sit with a girl, about my age, who is fast asleep. It's not until we reach Blind River that she shifts enough for me to see that she's holding a baby on her chest. Like the rest of the bus, he is sleeping soundly to the hum of the air conditioning and gentle breathing of 40 passengers. Once in a while he strechtes out a tiny hand toward her face, as if to reassure himself she's really there. Sweet. The mother is young. She's obviously in for a long trip, on the Greyhound, just her and her helpless bundle of newness. I can't help but think that she must be a little scared. If anyone on this bus needs two seats it's her. I decide to switch in Blind River. Surely someone will sit up or move their bag at that stop.
No such luck of course. After about five trips up and down the bus, a bearded man in the front seat - a new-age-hippy-yoga type - offers me a seat. He has kind eyes, and keeps his books in a metal lunchbox. They're mostly about the art of Zen. Guess I prejudged him correctly. I accept the offer gratefully. As I finally sit, tears of frustration (at these selfish seat-hogs and thoughts of my poor mum unable to hold me long enough to say goodbye) well up in my eyes. I don't want to cry. I allow myself one tear. Then I think of the adventure I am beginning. Adventures, I've learned, are only the more memorable when they challenge you. And so far, every step of this has come with a challenge - or ten. One tear rolls down my cheeks and rests saltily on my lips. I am fine. Everything will be fine.
Life rewards you when you least expect it. Somewhere between Espanola and Sudbury the sun rises a huge, brilliant orange out of the mist. It hides now and then behind the spruce and poplar that line this part of the transcanada, along the north shore of Lake Huron, but mostly it sits just above the horizon, as if beckoning me forward. I realize that, although I'm going to a place reknowned for its rolling hills, crumbling castles and savage seashores, I am leaving a place I will forever think of in my heart as the being the most beautiful in the world. Northern Ontario, North of the trans canada, deep into the region of cutting granite cliffs, winding rivers, cool lakes of deep blue. Home of animals still kings of their forests, still wild and unharmed. The place where loons call late in the night, giving voice to harvest moons and icy thick fog. Where nights are cool and frogsong deafening. Where often, silence prevails and opens our ears to our oft-forgotten sister, Solitude. Mother of harmony. Keeper of inner peace and tranquility. Alien to most of the modern world.
The moon is rising, glowing red, as the mist whispers around the trees and hides the road, causing traffic - and life - to slow. Suddenly two black martins escape from their hiding place in the long dewy grass and dart across the highway. Northern Ontario is saying goodbye. It knows I will be back. And it will be waiting to welcome me home. But for now, I'm going away.
And so, the adventure begins.
On the bus, of course, everyone is sound asleep. They're either stretched out using both seats as a makeshift bed, or are sleeping in one seat with their bag taking up the other. The Golden Rule of Greyhound riding is strictly adhered to: don't let anyone sit with you. I walk to the end of the bus. No empty seats. I walk back. Finally I sit with a girl, about my age, who is fast asleep. It's not until we reach Blind River that she shifts enough for me to see that she's holding a baby on her chest. Like the rest of the bus, he is sleeping soundly to the hum of the air conditioning and gentle breathing of 40 passengers. Once in a while he strechtes out a tiny hand toward her face, as if to reassure himself she's really there. Sweet. The mother is young. She's obviously in for a long trip, on the Greyhound, just her and her helpless bundle of newness. I can't help but think that she must be a little scared. If anyone on this bus needs two seats it's her. I decide to switch in Blind River. Surely someone will sit up or move their bag at that stop.
No such luck of course. After about five trips up and down the bus, a bearded man in the front seat - a new-age-hippy-yoga type - offers me a seat. He has kind eyes, and keeps his books in a metal lunchbox. They're mostly about the art of Zen. Guess I prejudged him correctly. I accept the offer gratefully. As I finally sit, tears of frustration (at these selfish seat-hogs and thoughts of my poor mum unable to hold me long enough to say goodbye) well up in my eyes. I don't want to cry. I allow myself one tear. Then I think of the adventure I am beginning. Adventures, I've learned, are only the more memorable when they challenge you. And so far, every step of this has come with a challenge - or ten. One tear rolls down my cheeks and rests saltily on my lips. I am fine. Everything will be fine.
Life rewards you when you least expect it. Somewhere between Espanola and Sudbury the sun rises a huge, brilliant orange out of the mist. It hides now and then behind the spruce and poplar that line this part of the transcanada, along the north shore of Lake Huron, but mostly it sits just above the horizon, as if beckoning me forward. I realize that, although I'm going to a place reknowned for its rolling hills, crumbling castles and savage seashores, I am leaving a place I will forever think of in my heart as the being the most beautiful in the world. Northern Ontario, North of the trans canada, deep into the region of cutting granite cliffs, winding rivers, cool lakes of deep blue. Home of animals still kings of their forests, still wild and unharmed. The place where loons call late in the night, giving voice to harvest moons and icy thick fog. Where nights are cool and frogsong deafening. Where often, silence prevails and opens our ears to our oft-forgotten sister, Solitude. Mother of harmony. Keeper of inner peace and tranquility. Alien to most of the modern world.
The moon is rising, glowing red, as the mist whispers around the trees and hides the road, causing traffic - and life - to slow. Suddenly two black martins escape from their hiding place in the long dewy grass and dart across the highway. Northern Ontario is saying goodbye. It knows I will be back. And it will be waiting to welcome me home. But for now, I'm going away.
And so, the adventure begins.
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