After traveling Australia I heard so much about Berlin. This hyper cool, progressive, cheap, fun, young central European city. Since coming back from Australia over 5 years ago, I wanted to go desperately. I tried to make my life here in Vancouver work but always felt this sort of force pushing me to a more aligned dream. It took me many years to finally get the courage to leave and go to Europe. I knew I could go for a few weeks if I wished, but felt a real opportunity to do something larger, and to go for a long time. I remember wanting to get a year working visa for Germany. I had already booked my ticket to Europe and had maybe 3 weeks before takeoff to apply. I was surprised to learn that the Visa for Germany takes around a month to approve, and must be done before leaving. I was sad that because of this a year in Germany for me was not going to happen. I got a Visa for The Netherlands instead since their rules were easier. I knew I wouldn’t stay in Berlin now long term because I couldn’t work, but at least ill experience Europe long term. I landed in Europe in mid October, in Geneva, and within 3 or 4 days was in Berlin. My emotional expectations of the city were very high, after all I’ve heard. When I got there, it was dark, with this heavy industrial feeling. Like getting dropped off on the outskirts of a city. Not the read carpet fireworks my mind imagined. I had a base to go to (a friend of a friend), and began settling in. The emphasis I gave on this city was so strong, and it took me a bit of reprogramming to see it for what it truly is, rather then what I want it to be. In many ways it was a great city. There was so much space, so many buildings, so much young culture, and a more liberal environment. There was an abandoned airport that was now a giant place for people to bike and exercise, as well as just meet. You could smoke and drink in many bars, and beers on the street were totally fine. Not to mention good beers were only a dollar. On the outside it was such a perfect match, yet I don’t know what it was that left me, unenhanced. It hurts to imagine some things that sound too good to be true maybe are. I didn’t stay here long; I think I was in the city for a week. Which is great to see the buildings, but not to actually do all the things it offers. After this point began a nine month journey through Europe, as well as 3 months split between India and Nepal. It was a big lesson for me on over expectations. Of putting too much value on something that maybe isn’t quite capable to fulfill them. Later in my trip I lived in a small town called The Hague in the Netherlands for 3 months. That to me was romantic, and much more individualistic. In Berlin I’m among plenty of other people from all over the world. In The Hague I felt much more special. A Canadian, in a Dutch city other than Amsterdam. I worked at a beach restaurant, and was the only non-Dutch speaker there. I felt cherished for that, rather than a part of the crowd. The irony of this entire experience is I wouldn’t have been confident to choose this experience beforehand. I was open to The Hague because I had to be, it was my only choice after many things weren’t working out. Yet, it turned out really special, and a secret so hidden from my sight months before. It’s so novel that system life uses. Sometimes where you end up can be very unique, and where you thought you wanted to go doesn’t fulfill you like you expected. It’s amazing the unpredictable nature of life. And to think we all go to the Berlins and Vancouver’s, and haven’t ventured off to the plenty of other inviting and embracing places as well. The big cities get so many spotlights. I look at this to myself as “Berlin Syndrome”. Where I dream and set huge expectations for something which isn’t based on my experience, but on others. Who knows, I could go back tomorrow and love it. It’s just ironic the way the cards played in that moment. I like analogies of poker. Sometimes the best hand going in loses in the end. And life is strange for that, but it’s always a possibility.
On September 11 2017 I left Holland. It was after a 4 months experience in that country, where I had a work visa, a job, and a settled feeling. I first volunteered in a hostel there, and then worked for a beach restaurant on the busy tourist beach Netherlands West Coast, in a town called Scheveningen. It was an exciting, relaxing, more grounded part of my 9 months in Europe. On September 11th I decided to fly to Poland and do some traveling through Eastern Europe. This decision came after working for months in Den Haag (The town I lived in), and ready to continue what I started – seeing the continent. Below is an excerpt that I wrote, that I contemplated. At this point I had 3 weeks left on my trip, and was at this point nearly one year away from Canada, away from home. I feel it gives inspiration to the thoughts going through my mind, the heritage and roots that so many in the world have in Europe, and just the questions I asked in that moment. As well this is my first post among 12 over the next 3 months of delving into my writings and seeing what I find. Enjoy!
“When I was in the plane looking down on Europe I imagined how man has tried to have dominion over this land for millennia. People killing others in the name of tribes. Name of god. Name of peace. Before some of us came to Canada, some of us were from here. Where for me, my roots must be. Perhaps in Poland or Russia. Maybe Sweden. Or somewhere in the Mediterranean. There’s a certain home about this place. An ancestral home generations and generations ago. Untraceable maybe now. Unfathomable how long back the cord of ancestry goes. Like a past life, a blood line, of all our past lives. Real birth and endless human cycles gave birth to me. I wonder if my ancestors in Europe imagined this. 500-1000-1500-2000-5000 years ago. The newest generation, living on a new continent. Flying. Vacations and long term travel. Inexistent at the times. Maybe my ancestors were simple working class, never leaving their cities, or more accurate their village. And here I am, never staying in a city for long – the irony. How one, on a long enough time line and after enough generations, gave birth to me, and to these times. 7 billion other people all born within the past say 100 years, so much re-creation. So many eyes and varieties get to experience this thing called life. And in our separateness, we are combined, with living in this century with these abilities and these obstacles. We all have cheap travel, and we all have global warming. What seems disconnected is a fight and celebration we all participate in together. What seem like clouds and dark greenish bluish land from this planes eye view, is really are cobblestone villages, medieval towns, modern universities, a detailed-ness hidden from a height so high. The detail is in the cities, is in being on the same level as what you are witnessing. “
This was a small excerpt but is mostly about getting the ball rolling on my project.
Reflecting back on this trip today, 2 years later in the summer of 2019, I felt really astounded by the life I was living. Nearly every part of my life was a contradiction from the times long before. Transportation, food, clothing, mixed cultures, credit cards and cell phones. We have evolved so far, it was great to contemplate and see that. Europe to me was a glossy cover. Beautiful landmarks, food, way of life, but Europe had its fair share of dark sides. Its slavery, wars, tortures, inequality, diseases, and poverty made me really aware of the yin and yang of those times, and life in general. We too have our past, each and every one of us. The beautiful things all arose from a world where this existed too. It was really conflicting. How the creation for some of these amazing monuments and wonders were funded by the conquering and killings and various exploitation. I did not go to Europe to learn that but I came back realizing it. That reality made the picture less romantic. I struggled to imagine living in those times. The crusades. The wars between countries, plagues killing millions. I went to see the buildings, meet new people, and learn stories. Incredible that one couldn’t be separated from the other. That its history is intertwined to its losses.
Why does the idea of writing sounds more charming then the act of sitting and doing it? It is a dream because it is literally experienced only in my dreams rather than reality. And it’s much easier there. I say the writer life is so romantic and what I want, yet it is all self-image. It’s a dream because nothing of my reality signifies that I am willing to commit to it. That I actually will accomplish at the level I dream I will. True, but the fact that people are growing up eating vegetables, sitting on benches, walking their dogs, doesn’t mean some of us can’t go to the moon. Collectively we are dreamers.
Waiting for inspiration
I procrastinate because I am awaiting that angelical divine insight to feed me a line or a story. It never comes. And when I try to write without that it comes out more plain and inspiration less than I imagine. I am trying to label and understand what is in me before it can be released. I have an idea of how and what should come out and the translator from feeling to words never does its job properly. All my work comes out with a sense of frustration rather than success. So I stagnate, until I erupt with the desire to write anything.
Quick starts but no follow through
Every new project begins as me putting the petal to the metal; my work is full of kick starts, surges of belief and energy, ready to finally aim and fire. But what is it but an empty beginning. The ability to maintain passion is the challenge. Starting it is the easy part.
Blurring the lines
How can I blur the lines of what a writer should be, and what I am? It makes me very self-conscious that I write so outside of the box. But I am just chasing the label less, following a scent that takes me at times beyond the city walls, beyond the predictable. Writing lately is a test of faith because I usually don’t know what it is exactly that I am writing. I am getting more and more in-love with going further and further away from knowing. How deep is the rabbit hole of unknowns? Writing takes you to the unknown because we have no idea what the destination really is. Knowing what you are going to write is like putting a blockade in my way saying that it HAS to happen this way. Being free is frantic because you have no direction. I am on my way and I don’t know where that is.
Passionate now, forgotten after
I feel like my goal is to experience dramatic bursts of self-expression. This entertains me now, yet afterword, it immediately is unimportant and done, and I am already focused on the next one coming through me. I have to accept I do that for the moment – there is no mourning of unpublished work, discoveries not shared, and there is no future moment of fulfillment or reward or material thank you. Life’s become a firework, bright one moment, gone the next. Embrace that.
The Label less writer
To think I can’t be put in a box. What makes a writer is not if he is a novelist or a self-help writer. It’s if you take a bunch of words on paper and shows it to people. I don’t have to label this, or feel that I have to be categorized in order to write. This is why people don’t start, or quit their jobs, because there’s not always labels and answers to define where we are going. People don’t leave jobs a lot of times because they are scared of the unknown. Of what they don’t know they will discover.
Who am I?
I don’t ask who am I and it’s mostly because I am scared of the answer being blank. That’s it’s not who I have been for the past 28 years. That who I am, what I believe in, is incongruent to what I discover. I’m scared of the shock of that, and the now what feeling. Maybe “Who am I” is a daily discovering, rather than a guaranteed label. Maybe who I think I am is only a small limited piece of myself. Maybe the whole picture of me is more than I can imagine. It’s terrifying to start blank.
What is true?
So what is truth? Is it the ability to clearly and orderly be labeled? Or is the willingness to say what’s on your soul rather than what will be embraced, be predictable, or accepted. If I was crying while writing this, would it be a holy experience? I’d say so. I’ve been to the temples, mountains, gurus, and days of silence, and felt less sometimes then I feel while writing. That’s why it’s sacred for me. This was a place where I find truth, rather than admire the truths that others have found. Sacred sites give you the impression you can buy your way to spirituality, that you can inherit it. That it’s a destination on the list of places.
Why does addiction override my logic? Why is our body built to chase what makes us feel intense, even if it is harmful, hurtful, and even when we tell ourselves we want to stop? We are intensity addicts. We think we will be better people if we stop, yet somehow that alone isn’t enough to change us. Logically addiction is self-destruction, and we can’t logically outsmart our way through things. Maybe addiction is a fear of the unknown.
The best part about life is our desire to distract ourselves. Perhaps we begin something out of our desire for something new, and don’t finish it because of our desire for the next thing new. It’s easy to begin a marathon, the first step you are the least drained physically, but the point of a marathon is what you must become to finish it.
I had a scenario in my routine last week which really rocked my boat. I was about to go to an auto show, and before I left I noticed a half finished project on my wall – it was an index card web of my journals, with the desire to interconnect my past few years, on the big topics of travel, writing, career, love, veganism, etc, into a giant mind web. I praised, almost worshipped this project in its early beginnings, when it was a new innocent idea. Yet, now here it is. Nothing like I imagined, like a decoration, an antique taking shelf space. I loved it but wasn’t ready for it to be a success. This day I was planning to go to an auto show, walk the seawall there and stop by a Starbucks in the afternoon. That was the plan atleast, but this realization that I was constantly delaying and distracting myself from finishing projects arose, and taught me a lot, and I wanted to expand on that.
I was moving at the end of the month so I realized I had to remove it, so I did so impulsively, and I got a huge wave of disappointment wash over me after. It struck me very intensely. I felt I was a failure for having no follow through. That the only thing I can show up for is my work that pays me a wage, where there is a threat if I don’t show, rather than a project that comes from my heart. My priorities felt totally unbalanced.
I felt like all of us get halfway through a project, and then gravitate to anew scenery. A new event we are invited to, a new place we want to visit, letting loose after work, coffees with friends, family, etc. How much we view completion, or anything that challenges us, as drudgery. As a small micro piece of our lives, creativity feels like the most expendable part of us. A project started with passion, and then forgotten, ending only because we contracted ourselves to do it; out of obligation, out of pity
I don’t know what is more real. What I said last week or what I said last month. How about how that weighs to what I’m saying now. Who’s the judge? What’s the priority? How does one choose to align what one said a month ago with what one is saying today? Its feeling like a scenic procrastination, an idyllic idle when what I do now is contradicting what I said I wouldn’t be doing.
I didn’t say a month ago I would be going to a car show, I said a month ago I hope I will be finishing this project. I listened a month ago but not a month later.
I didn’t act on solidarity and instead acted on impulse. This project, the one I thought about and carried around. And now its feeling heavy, realizing you may be one of those who makes promises and doesn’t keep them.
When we begin, we wouldn’t sacrifice it or imagine such a fruitless ending, so why now, weeks and months down the road, is the temptation so strong. Is an outcome like this so acceptable? The will to continue a project is so low.
These frivolous experiences are light, and just require us to show up once rather than consistently. Writing I have to show up a certain way – I have to be focused. How I show up is reflective of the work that is produced. Yet maybe elsewhere I can show up half ass, pissy with no accountability, and there is no justice there. In here, I am putting myself on the stage, and the attitude I bring is the attitude I will perform. I am transparent here, rather than hidden behind the screen. These letters on a screen reflect me as much as anything else does.
Away from this are crowds of people, rather where our personal project can feel isolating. Sometimes we embark on a journey just to leave our comfortable surroundings of our home, rather than cause it’s authentically the time to do so.
And writers block is a big reason too. I got half way because that’s as far as the first wind of passion took me. The other half required creativity that I said wasn’t good enough, or maybe not coming in at all. I felt justified to slow down, to not add dry content to the project, yet instead I swept it under the rug, with no trace or accountability of how long it should wait there. I wait indefinitely, till it bubbles under the rug…
We are so sudden, able to seek knowledge or come up with an idea so quickly, but so vulnerable, able to collapse and not withstand the work it takes to make an idea a reality. Stamina is as valuable as information. Resilience is as important as method. Follow through is inseparable, and just as essential as the idea itself.
The hunter gatherer exists; I can feel him in times like this. There is no sea wall, no auto show, and no other things. During a time where we can learn about anything, do so much, travel so far, it feels most contradictory to ignore all of them and focus on one thing. I’m a million years ago right now, all I have is nothing but the task infront of me. In its most stripped down basic and boring form. That is the prized possession today; it’s like an eclipse when I enter a mood like this. Not overstimulated, not desensitized. Not hiding behind the modern world, and not afraid to leave it for abit. Not afraid to be missing out.
It’s all an illusion, being amongst the most modern times, and the skill most untrained to me is to come to a place inside where none of it exists for a few hours. It’s bloody ironic.
It feels like we spend our time to get more money and spend our money to enrich our moments in time. Maybe if I spent money on a group program where we came together 3 times a month to work on a project I would have some structure and follow through. Lately it all gets lost among the muck and dreams of day to day unknowns and feelings.
I get the temptation to just give in and ignore this feeling. Life saying “Come back to us, we love the ‘you’ that does nothing! That isn’t ambitious, isn’t accountable! He’s the Adam who spends and will buy a coffee, lunch, and he pays for events and thrift shop clothes! Without you I loose a customer today! Come out, we love you in moments like this! You don’t need to do your project, I have a seawall, a Starbucks, a car show, a Saturday, come hang out!” Lazyness and procrastination will save you I think is that message, but clearly it didn’t do its job.
Does anyone else ever feel like they are eluding themselves? That they were following a faulty plan, an untested truth, a delusion. When the only way to make sense of it is to not question it, or to not sit with it?
I feel so bought into not striving for personal goals and just go pay some money and experience someone else’s success. The man who built the coffee store, the person who built that car, the one who wrote that book; I write to stop being a consumer and to ignite the desire to add myself to the world. Rather than to always absorb, I’m trying to find a part of me that shares.
It’s the fact that I am falling head first into this fork in the that road bothers me. The jealousy that everything was going ‘perfect’ until I seen my half-finished project. Damn you project! Wanting your time with me! Cant you see im busy fulfilling my needs (wants).
But why did taking you off the wall hurt? Why did I care so much?
Eventually, anything I do will lead me here. That eventually I will confront the weak spot within my confidence, it is bound to happen. Where the blind spot gets the spot light, that’s the trigger moment. Eventually an idea will turn out to be a distraction, a dreamy fantasy, an unfinished agreement. It takes a different Adam to translate idea to reality, and that Adam, who’s dependable to go from thought to creation, isn’t around enough. What good is the dreamer if nothing changes? If nothing is created, and the dreamer doesn’t experience his dream, just thinks about it. Maybe I’d have fewer ideas if I had spent more of that time actually working on them.
My idea felt like a gold rush and ended up like a ghost town. A theme park during its golden age, now it’s just a collector’s item, a different era, a memory of those good old days. It’s the senior over looked for the youth, for speed, for these sort of times.
I wanted better scenery. Staying in this room and finishing my project while it’s a sunny day and there are plenty of options, it’s that force that’s hard. This revelation is a strange adrenaline rush. Going off the beaten path and finding a huge long wonky bridge to a new land, but the bridge is ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Do you cross it? Is there a certain desperation that I feel I HAVE to cross the bridge, even if I’m depended on by others. Is it worth the risk? There are safer curiosities to explore, why do this one? Just cause its infront of me? Do I just rationalize, say the universe sent it for me and now I can feel justified to get away with anything?
What sort of reaction response exists within me when I loose my cool over something like this?
Well, the windstorm is winding down. The project is peeling off the wall. The stardom and closure of wishing I did it, self-actualization, settled and decomposed into – a half finish project – such a hopeful beginning and a fruitless ending. I had so much hope, and now I’m mourning you. I feel ashamed, I couldn’t raise you. I couldn’t commit to showing up when the buzz was gone. And now I wonder is this a calling? This feels illogically scary, I feel strong just sitting with this huge waft of confusion, weakness, and loss of momentum. Why is what’s meaningful and personal to me going so low on my priority list? What will it take for me to not let burnout rule my life?
I represent the hoarder, accepting I have too much shit, so it’s time to sacrifice, to downsize my freedom. What an ironic thing to sacrifice. What could possibly be more truthful than freedom, who in their right mind sacrifices it? But the freedom to do anything isn’t real if I don’t have the will to keep a promise. Sacrificing the fact that I have to say ‘no’ to something to say ‘yes’ something. That truth is so big.
I remember being at a festival and seeing a snake eat a frog. There was a moment of mourning for the frog’s death, and also a strong feeling of compassion to imagine somehow saving the frog. Yet what does the snake eat? Let it starve? Saving one kills the other. Some moments are that black and white. To save the frog now kills the part of the food chain below it that the frog eats. The snake eating the frog saved something below the frog from being eaten.
Clearly a lot of my self-worth and confidence was invested in this project. And when I admitted it was half done, I felt my confidence reduced to half as well. I was parallel to that project. I over attached myself to my creative results, to my accomplishments. I feel really windless in my sails at a moment like that. Like all I’ve said was a lie. But really I’ve just made too many commitments to other things. A few less ‘yes’, a couple more ‘no’, and maybe that’s all the scale needs to be in balance. In its simplest form that probably is true.
We play that programming cause in that moment we were lost. We’re weak, and felt like it was more meaningful to not resist and let things happen then it was to step up my energy and let that solve the situation. This project feels difficult to edit because it’s so victimized. It’s has a lot of shame, regret, and pity. It feels very un-empowering at times and I wonder what its value is. I start a new commitment when I’m weak and now strong me has to sit with it, own it, and deal with it. It is a challenge to not abandon this too, and to not add this to the growing list of half-finished projects. This is my dilemma. How can I transform to an attitude where I can accomplish my goal, rather than a place where I feel justified to quit everything. I don’t think quitting is right, but I also don’t think doing things mindlessly, aimlessly, robotically is right. Where is the right?
Saying ill do my project tomorrow is a false sense of completion, and an excellent camouflaged procrastination. Consider this next time something feels good enough to start – to sign up, and say will it be good enough to finish. Assessing a follow through may solve this from reoccurring.
I find this admission is a very empowering form of weakness. The failure of distracting myself from my promise a month ago, and the failure of following through on my plans of today. Now I’ve failed twice, last months and todays, ouch. Atleast I’m witnessing it.
When it feels like dominoes. When one thing comes down and suddenly it feels like it all is coming down. Why let this all in. Why not protect ourselves. We are a ying and yang, dominance and vulnerability, breakdowns and soaring highs. Finished and never beginning.
I feel like I’ve broken a promise to the divine. I’ll still go out and this was all a purge just to show I knew something but didn’t change something. After all this do I have to follow through, or am I jumping right back into the stream that shook me. Maybe I like how it feels superficial. All my reasons for delaying, yet, I’m so desperate for some sense of accomplishment. I feel inadequate compared to others at times and that can fuel a lot of the ambition, but it must be self-driven, not in attempt to be better than others focused.
Looking for a conclusion when you are still on the introduction. This wasn’t a contract of change, a demolishing of the last plan. Just a lovely isolating woah moment. We feel like nothing without the perfect job, perfect partner, perfect vacation. Well for me it was the perfect project. The goal is not to transform things from a half finished project, to a finished half loved project. Feeling like we never write a blog post cause we never think it’s perfect. Well, I hope this teaches me something and shows me to focus on less projects so I can have more follow through.
These days, when I get the time I delve back into my history, of my trip to Europe, and remember what I learned and what I experienced. It was an amazing time, but also confusing. I’m trying to be transparent sharing both sides of the coin, not just the side that embraces the fantasy and fulfillment of travel. The fun is a big piece, but the story is so dense when you embrace it all.
I am going through my journals and finding things to post and share. There iss a lot, so going slowly piece by piece is the way.
Here is a random excerpt, with a few edits which I put inside these things […]
Its vulnerable to reread it, and it was a time of when I was questioning, why I was in an amazing place but feeling confused, incomplete. Feel free to read and see if it inspires anything in you. Thanks..
It just was a new setting to feel the old thing.
[ The story takes place in Almunecar, a small beach town in the south of Spain where I volunteered with a family for a week. The family let me stay in their townhouse in the city afterwords for a few nights to myself. Really lucky and generous of them!]
I journal my life. Here I an on the water, just had a great coffee eggs and bread. [Wandered around that day and found a cute breakfast place right on the water, which was empty. Had a table right on the sand, looked very photogenic] What a lucky soul I carry. So much abundance within me.
To feel like a child doesn’t need toys but needs love. [Oh Adam, always seeking these love injected moments. Right after them a sense of incompleteness…what’s next feeling!]
How to make sense of my life. I get this and I’m not fully happy, and even here I feel slightly incomplete. As if it’s beautiful, but something is still missing. Maybe I do go back home and write. Or I write here. [My Europe trip was supposed to be intertwined with a writing of my experience, but I found it really easy to ‘forget’ that and just travel. That tended to rumble in my subconscious every now and then, such as moments like this!] Who knows. I’m blessed, I feel, to experience those outer luxuries. This is an outer luxury. I look at those working out or sitting on the beach. I question if that should be me, or if that would make this moment better, something else before it, as oppose to just this. [Something more then being a tourist]
[I didnt have the discipline, courage, or confidence to just sit in one city and write. I was always chasing inspiration, and never addressing the fact that there were days or weeks going by without results. I couldent own up and stop the fruitless momentum, I kept looking for new places and new ideas. Hopefully to inspire me. To ‘channel’ itself through me. It was all nice ideas, but looking back, they resulted in nothing in those moments. Just journals which took years to get reread. Was I settling for less? Or doing the best I could at the time? It was a guilt trip in someways, “I should be writing, doing this or that…”]
I too am trying to understand my life. Feeling close, [Close to understanding what I was going through, I guess?] not there, not complete, but closer. It wasn’t this restaurants duty to complete me, but to sit with me, and say, we can be here Adam, who says we can’t. [How delicate I was at times, being emotional and putting my happiness into eggs and toast, and wondering why I still wanted more. Yet also, the scenery, context, and story was magical. Funny thing.] We can sit and adore this moment. It’s splendor. It’s uniqueness. I am here for myself. But others, I do miss them. I can atleast say, gees, I enjoyed this. I gave myself this and felt the outcome , I didn’t say it was bad or good. I guess I feel like I didn’t even eat, like I could eat it again…I didn’t eat for the feeling, as much as for a checklist [That’s a funny feeling, when you eat and barely remember or feel like you did]. It’s odd, this feeling. It’s a feeling of saying this is building a life, but it’s not in a way. This seems like something I let go of when I move to my next place. I no longer am dying for this. I have it, this is that. Spain, sun, beach, I have all that. Again; what was it? Different then I imagined. Wasn’t the life saver?
[This moment was a cycle. I many times in this trip chased someplace or something, had it, and was caught offgaurd at how I felt afterwords. It dumbfounded me at times…What was missing? I was so set that the place and thing, the material experience of being there, that that was what I was seeking. But it wasn’t what I was finding…]
But it’s magnificent. My favourite breakfast, the wide open ocean. So what’s missing? Idunno…a sense of deserving it. I can say just wanting it is deserving it. But I feel like I’m missing out the social aspect of life. Someone to share? A sense of accomplishment? I am journaling this. [But not owning it. I am renting this experience. It will be gone. The illusion that the setting creates the story. I (or humanity) overfocus on the setting, where the story takes place, not seeing that the storyline is always the same peaks and valleys, in a different location. I think it would have been social had I transformed that moment into sharable writing, but I journaled it, lived it, and never shared it. It didn’t even rise to the surface and make its way to humanity. And that was the challenge. The inner desire to share but on the outside it was invisible to humanity. It was purposeless to others. It was just there for me. The inner conflict of having a mission, and then finding yourself suddenly forgetting what it was…]
The setting is apart of the story, but is not the story. And many dream of this setting, or speak of this setting, but the setting isn’t the story. The setting is just where we experience emotions. Chasing pretty settings. The problem is not lack of setting, but a loss of meaning, of purpose…a search for a story. [A world of pretty settings and no stories, that is the tragedy.] It’s better then where I was, but again those were setting problems, chasing settings. Chasing sun. Chasing new. Chasing highs. Chasing a different life then the security of my past life. Perhaps both are right, and people are upset they arnt in balance…wishing they had more of mine, and me wishing I had a bit more of there’s. Community, stability, friends, a job, accomplishment…
I don’t do this to have a better life, as if traveling is a magic pill for that, or cause I was a victim for delaying or postponing this for so long.
I do this to follow my path, see my ideas, test my theories about life.
[I don’t write this cause I think its something everyone faces, but because it really illusioned and surprised me. Its my admission. If others relate great]
[Below is a photo I took of this place. Funny to be here now, in 2019 in a café, rereading all this as a story, a distant past experience. In the moment, it was so real, heavy, light, lucky, strange, everything, and slight nothings. A big ying and yang moment. Incredible how it was so momentary. A lasting experience which faded so quick. Its ironic. And I think a theme I will see and uncover more in my searching through my old journals! I hope you enjoyed this post, and I look forward to more about my trip being shared!]
Ive sat in the window seat of so many planes, and so many trains, one place will never feel like home again/
And I miss my grandpa, one day ill call and he wont answer, and they say times moving faster/
Ive sat there on the edge of the ocean, and looked out to the open, and realized there that beauty was an emotion/
Even after I, have done it a hundreds of times, I still have no idea how to say goodbye/
I have began taking the scenic way more, then I ever have before, because whats saving time if during that time you feel much older/
When my moment comes, and instead I run, its telling you long before age you decide if your old or young/
Roadtrips through the country side, that could of been my life, the only difference was how someone rolled the dice/
And sometimes everything went right, and it made my night, and those put together are what make a life/
Cleaning out the closet of my old writing. Enjoy something I wrote about Melbourne awhile ago when I was traveling there…Excited for other new adventures ahead!
The Romance of The Most Livable City
People go to Hollywood to become movie stars, to Wall Street to become stock brokers, so now the question is what do people go to Melbourne for? This city which struts its little title worthy of a standing ovation – The most livable city, is still a mystery to many. No city is so well rounded, yet, its hard to predict it could at the same time become the centre of the wheel. Its not what Melbourne people do that’s so enticing, but more-so how they make a daily life so captivating and memorable. These small aspects compile to build the wonder that is Melbourne. The saying goes ‘you don’t know what you got till its gone’, yet it can just as well be ‘you don’t know what you got till you worked for it’. Melbourne has not always been the number one city, it became it.
Tour da food empire begins here. I recollect hearing that to understand people of this city one must know ‘the code’. People are either on their way to eating, just leaving from eating, or eating right now. A culture revolving around dining. You will find the rare breed foods you swore you could only find in timbuktu, you will find those everyday staple meals but made to be unforgettable, you will find creme de la cafes with neer celebrity appeal and magnetism, its all here. Follow the alcove back alleys or dreary warehouse entrances, and you will be blown away that these ‘thriller’ like entrance ways hold the key to some of the best examples of Australian hospitality. ‘After Open’ has some of the most delicious muffins and ‘After Hours’ has locals bars with unheard of beer recipes you have never knew existed. Deciding what to eat, how to eat it, and where, makes Melbourne more cluttered with options then sometimes necessary. In some parts, you can’t even decide on the restaurants by food quality anymore, since so many have upped their standards to compete with the likes of everyone else. Its a very satisfying feeling to simply just eat based on appetite and rarely on quality. Seriously, if I didn’t know any better, I would have figured the “Eat” of Elizabeths Gilberts “Eat, Pray Love”, was surely here and not ‘Eat-ily’.
A partner in crime does exist, and his name is sports. You will loose count of how many arenas there are in Melbourne, but it sure feels like more then actual sports leagues. This brings a sense of tranquility knowing at any time of year you set foot here you can consider sports an unseasonal affair. The great advantage of having this variety of different leagues and games means so many different people from different teams ride on the same train to the same parts of the city. Fans of completely unconnected sports, wearing different coloured jerseys and logos, riding the train all together is like the Great Barrier Reef of Melbourne.
Spellbinding describes this cities art perfectly. The entourage includes the city walls, the buildings, the civil structures, the clothes, the museums, the side streets. Its viral. No surprise, after all, this city decor is built by hungry artists, who due to high minimum wage or just the demand for shows and concerts, can afford plenty of tattoos, will buy organic, and even travels. Its a full time job trying to keep up with new bands and concerts, and the truth sets in that we can only see so many shows a week, and the more good acts that exists, the more they will conflict with your tight schedule. What an unforeseen fiasco. One of the biggest aspects of the art scene here is the graffiti culture. In most areas of Canada, graffiti is practically inexistent. Infact, the last time I drew and showed it to people was probably finger-painting in art class. To witness so many little aspects of a city combined together make such an artistic ambiance and brings countless intoxicating enjoyment. Even the spontaneities of people are there. Maybe you’ll see a party tonight somehow taking place on the corner of the main intersection, perhaps you’ll see corporate dad sitting next to comeup artists on the tram, or fine dining mixed with elegant dancing taking place in buildings which are pealing away and deteriorating. An array of anomalies taking place. Leave 15 minutes early and still arrive 15 minutes late would be a proper rule to galavant by. Even the store signs are handmade, the menus hand written, and the decor hand me downs. Above all else, Melbourne’s has one bizarre craze and that is its obsession with milk crates. These can be found in peoples gardens, at house parties, outside plenty of pubs, and most surprisingly, the best rated cafes may have milk crates for seats and tables. What a contradiction since in other parts of the world, this would be seen as completely unpresentable. Thats Melbourne, walking the fine line between being rough around the edges, but also, being at the edge of innovation and originality.
The motherland of multiculturalism is here. If you take a trip to Rome, you experience Italy, but, if you come to Melbourne, you really feel you experience everywhere. The talk of the town will be of a Latin festival this week, then the anticipation awaits for mexican wrestling the following week, meanwhile your still finding time to attend your salsa classes. Maybe its Greek easter, which has traffic at a standstill and you can feel the emotion in the air. Also in the air is the sound of never ending yelling, a weather like forecast for cigarette smoke, and that trailing scent of barbeque souvlaki and homemade balaclava. French Film Festivals, a thousand miles away from France. This vast landscape of traditions and ethnicities, all being enjoyed by the everyday Melbourne people. What a new world way to experience a quality first hands education on cultures. We all remember the conventional way of travel. We would go to Amsterdam to see graffiti, travel all the way to London to see Victorian architecture, and having to stand in the heart of Florence to find streets of nothing else other then Italian restaurants. This no longer exists. The Romance of Melbourne, this is it. If the livable city assessments say anything, its that this is what the world wants – everything in one. Melbourne’s done just that, and better then any city to date. Why do you come to Melbourne? You come to here to experience the new world.