Vacillating Velocity

In journalism you’re supposed to structure your shit best-foot-forward; key information, like cream and bastards, floats to the top. Well, if you hear nothing else, hear this: Go see Serenity. Sometime in the next nine days. I know most of “you,” i.e. my known (and let’s be realistic, there probably isn’t any in the way of unknown) audience, are already planning to, but if not, even if you don’t get out to the theatres much, go see this movie (W – it opens in Spain Oct 21st). It’s not because it’s a Powerful or Important film¹, really. It’s powerful if you’ve seen its predecessor² and know and love the characters already, sure. But no, this is a favor to me. I’m asking you to support a movie with the strongest vote you can cast; that of your wallet. I want so much for it to do well so that its creator³ can get the financial backing to keep on creating. And, as far as a movie-going experience, you won’t be dissapointed.

I saw the movie this morning, in Manville, NJ. Trailers began when most of you were probably still asleep or just getting up. It was a movie born of a television series that I watched and shared and loved with some of my closest friends, and I’ve known for a while know that I’d have to go this, the culimination of a year of waiting for some sort of continuation and (possibly) closure, alone. I mean, that sort of room-full-of-people⁴-alone that has nothing to do with proximity to other human beings. I’m still that sort of alone now – I’m in New York’s East Village (specifically, here) and my friend J, who I’m staying with, isn’t quite done with work yet.

This reminds me of something I’ve been thinking about recently, about this, my travelogue. I started out all personal reflection and rumination, and then I progressed on to mostly descriptions of what I’d been doing and seeing. The cause of the shift is simple and what you’d expect – this is a brain dump, and that’s where my brain has been. At a very early point, as I think I noted at the time, I reached near-emotional boil and then . . . the pressure released and that part of me shut down. I understand the need for these mental filters. I don’t want to be all nauseous and distracted and tear-laden all the time. But sometimes, I wish my filters were not so fine. That they’d let a little more through.

Of course, sometimes, you just need to find the right trigger, and this morning was it. A film about characters I know and love that I’d hoped to see with people I know and love? Triggers don’t get hairier than that. I feel a lot of the time like some sort of unaffected android, and I’ve certainly felt this way on this trip – like, “Shit, I was so angst-ridden about leaving, why isn’t this hard every day?” It’s nice to have these reminders that, yeah, I’m human, and this ain’t easy. And of course, I’m sure that once I get settled, with an actual place and a day-to-day, I will probably have a moment of blindsided, knocked-on-my-ass WHOAH about it all.

In some perverse, emotionally masochistic way, I’m looking forward to it.

1. The last one of these I recall seeing was Crash – not the car-crash-sex-fetish one, but the newer one.
2. Firefly, another in a string of prematurely-cancelled Fox TV series.
3. Joss Whedon, who also created Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spin-off, Angel. Like Ben Folds plays the piano, Joss plays my heart-strings like Ray Charles; a master of the craft, but due as much to personal passion as to technical expertise.
4. There were about 20 people at the 10:20am showing. Four of us seemed to be the Browncoat regiment⁵ and actually stayed through the whole credits. We all eyed each other a little as we left the theatre, but nobody spoke; I’d imagine they, as I, were still digesting the film.
5. A reference to the universe of the show/movie, and the name of the ‘net denizens who populate the official message board and evangelize the film. I haven’t actually spent any real time on the boards, but I did get in early and snag the handle Badger, ’cause I’m a bastrard like that.

Spent the night just outside Scranton, PA with my mom’s brother and his wife and child. It was really nice to get the chance to catch up with them, given that I see them perhaps once a year and that happens at either Thanksgiving or Christmas, two holidays which I won’t be home for this year due to my occupation (which is a first, and weird to think about). Got in at the end of the workday, and after we managed to subdue my cousin (who I suspect was fed caffinated sugar cubes¹ on the drive home) went to a nice Italian dinner and chatted – my uncle and I bonded over both being recent suspects in criminal investigations.

Now I’m upstairs trying to pull myself away from their WiFi and take a shower so I can continue on to Jersey with clean body (and laundry!). Staying here was a dramatic change of pace – like going from foraging for nuts and berries and resting my head on particularly poofy patches of moss to staying in a five-star hotel where you’re encouraged to raid the mini-bar² and, heck, take home a monogrammed bathrobe.

Just for posterity, between here and Boston I knocked out three location-visits.

Cape Cod: I’m not sure I get it. It was fun to drive the Old King’s Highway through a bunch of quaint little villages with lovely old cottages, but man-made sights, unless they have attached history or unique architecture, don’t hold my (admittedly short) attention for very long. Also, given my fiscal situation (and general temperment) I’m not really one for shopping interesting boutiques. As for the beaches itself, well, coming from Cali – meh.

Plymouth: I had a neat time here. Did you know they built a scale replica³ of the Mayflower in the 50’s, in England, and sailed it out here to dock at Plymouth? Me neither. It was fun to walk around on, and served to emphasize and make tangible how utterly miserable life was back then. Even if their main beverage on the voyage was not water but beer. Seriously. Also got to see Fraggle Plymouth Rock. It’s a rock. It’s big, but, like Mt. Rushmore, not that big. Finally, got to check out the statue of my supposed ancestor, William Bradford. I’m so white I gotta wear shades when I look in the mirror.

Newport: There were some impressive, ornate mansions here. I didn’t actually stop inside any – Lifestyles of the Rich Because Our Ancestors Were Greedy Bastards doesn’t really captivate me – but it was neat to do a drive-by. In fact, that’s my feeling about a lot of the East Coast – I wasn’t exactly mesmerized, but there are so many locations here that I wanted to see simply because I wanted to put an experience to the name that’s been ingrained in my psyche through education or popular culture.

Speaking of pop culture, I gotta shower so I can go (re-)visit Jay & Silent Bob’s Secret Stash.

1. Hey, did I just invent a new niche market?
2. They don’t, unfortunately, stock Coke in glass harmonicas.
3. The original, was, they suspect, sold for scrap some five-ish years after it returned from Massachusets-to-be.

Today was Boston day. It came highly recommended as a city worth checking out, not that I wasn’t intending to anyhow, so I made plenty of time. Up at 6am for a coastal sunrise too cloudy to bother with – toredowncampshoweredchangedontheroadby7. It was almost 9 before I made it the, oh, 45 freeway miles to downtown Boston. Seemed like, sad to say, normal traffic¹.

Boston, once you find a parking spot, lives up to its promise. It has this delightful quirky mish-mash of old-world and modern. I was more or less instantly enamored, and for me to say that about a big city is not idle praise. I don’t think I would ever fit comfortably into a major metropolitan area², but if I was forced at gunpoint, Boston, thus far, would be my first pick.

What I spent the day doing was walking the Freedom Trail. It’s a longish path, marked by paint or red brick, that leads you around the city to a variety of historical locations. I bought a self-guided tour book and hoofed it around the city, from Boston Commons to the Bunker Hill memorial, for about six hours. I really enjoy reading about history, and Boston’s varied architecture (much of it centuries old) is a treat to look at. If you focus your eyes just right and carefully tune your ears, you can see and hear the ghosts of yesteryear, walking in and around buildings that, in many cases, still stand. “Look across the street and upstairs – they’re plotting the Boston Tea Party.” “Up there, on that balcony – they’re reading a declaration . . . something about independance.”

1. A side note here, about traffic. I’ve driven in San Francisco traffic plenty. I was warned that Boston drivers are bad. Visiting T, T, and S, they, unprompted, commented that Vegas, Phoenix, and Chicago drivers were particularly bad. Here’s the real deal: drivers in all big cities are bad³. Why? Here’s my take. The bigger the city, the faster the pace of life (as perceived, anyhow). The more you’re concerned with getting somewhere quickly, the less courteous you’re going to be. Most of the “bad” driving I see is not lack of skill, it’s just plain rude. Combine this with the fact that big cities are often poorly planned, traffic-wise⁴, and you wind up with a situation where you have to drive aggressively – in part because of the city, in part because other drivers are, and it’s the only way to get anywhere. So don’t think you’re special. I was special this morning, though – there’s something about sitting in rush hour traffic, but not going to work, that removes any tension. I just cranked up some local tunes (Dropkick Murphys) and smugly pitied those around me. Anyhow, enough about traffic. (I will save my Highway Construction Rant for another time, hopefully [for your sake] never.)
2. So so so SO excited about moving to a small ski town – with the bright lights of Denver within a reasonable drive, so I can still go to shows.
3. Canada seems to be slightly better in this regard, only because people are, on the whole, more courteous than they are in the States. It’s not what I’d call dramatic, but it’s noticeable.
4. Boston is particularly bad in this regard – at least downtown. So many one-way streets, so much construction, so little rhyme or reason . . . oi.

You know that saying, “do something every day that scares you?” Based on the number of times my healthy fear of premature death kicked in this morning, I’d say I’m good for at least a week. I just completed hiking Acadia National Park’s Precipice Trail to Champlain Summit – which pretty much involves going straight up a thousand-foot cliff¹. There are some suspiciously-stairlike rock arrangements and when it gets really fun, wrought-iron bars (welded to rocks) fashioned into ladders and handrails, but still, it’s pretty intense. The view from the top, after an hour’s ascent, is breathtaking – not just because it’s 270 degrees of Atlantic Ocean, Maine coast, and Bar Harbor, but because damnit, you earned it.

At the top while taking photos, I pleasantly refused, for the second time this trip, an unsolicited offer to take a picture of me with the scenery as a backdrop. In my mind, I’m nowhere near as interesting as the surrounding nature, and photographing it is proof enough I was here. Although, one of my favorite authors, Mark Driver, has a photo montage of his feet in several lovely locations² with the heading “every day can be vacation.” Today feels like that.

1. Not quite as sheer as El Capitan – I mean, I’m only medium-core.
2. I think it’s on the beach, on a mountaintop, and in snowshoes.

Another on my “List of things I want to do before I die that I didn’t know were on the list until I did them”: watch the sun rise over the Atlantic. When most of you were enshrouded in darkness, likely sleeping peaceful, I was sitting on a tranquil mountainside, surrounded by nature, watching skies ablaze with the dark crimson hues of dawn. As a cruise ship off in the distance slowly slunk into port, so too did those first few rays of sunlight carefully creep over headlands on my horizon. I felt special, to be one of the first few in the States to know the sun’s glow today. Someday, relatively soon, I will show you all pictures, and they won’t do it justice.

And then some. Pausing for the night in New Hampshire, after re-entering the Les États-Unis in Vermont and having far too much Ben & Jerry’s for lunch, fresh from the factory. My boss had called and left a message updating me on work gossip: just after I left, someone stole the backup tape drive (and apparently, at least one tape – containing all our data, pretty much) from our server room. Ripped it right out of the file server. It sounds like it has become a pretty huge deal – on the news and everything. I’ll have to google it the next time I have ‘net. According to my boss, I’m a suspect – since I had access to the room, I guess. Of course, as anyone who knows me would realize, I didn’t do it. (Moreover, as my boss pointed out, I would have to be patently stupid to use that method to steal data, as I could’ve silently stolen it all at any point during my four-year tenure)

Fortunately, I wasn’t arrested upon crossing the border. In fact I breezed through, relative to entering Canada – to the border guard, I was no doubt just a good ol’ American boy. “Camping,, huh? Well, be safe – there are some real kooks out here. Some serious Deliverance shit.” Side note – billboards are illegal in Vermont, at least, in the northern section. It’s really quite nice, although it makes finding off-highway businesses a little tougher.

Uhhh, that’s it.

On the last tank of gas I purchased, I got 9.79 miles to the litre. I don’t really know what it means, but I enjoy it as a statement at odds with itself. I’m a bit at odds with myself. My mind suffers from the lingering effects of cold medication, an attempt to rest during the stay of this annoying little bug that my immune system can’t quite seem to extricate. My body as well; my energy is quick to drain and slow to recharge. My hunger for both food and life is all but absent. It frustrates. I know it will soon pass and all will be well, but momentarily I am stuck in a land of apathy – without desire to steer me, I am lost.

It is this state, sadly, in which I experienced Montréal. Last night I stayed in, “in” for the moment an RV park with all the home comforts right down to the WiFi. My plan was to soak up the sleep and then head out in the morning, official tourist¹ map in hand, and see the sights. As soon as you enter Québec, all the signs switch over to Français with perhaps Anglais as an afterthought, and everyone speaks to you in French until they realize you’re a tourist. Knowing and enjoying this, and with the understanding that Montéal has an “old town” section, my plan was to experience this different culture – have coffee at a sidewalk cafe, etc. Upon arrival, though, I was unimpressed. Old town has the occasional cobblestone street, but none of the small-town, European charm I was hoping for. Mostly rows of expensive restaurants and Tourist Crap stores. After not terribly long, my energy for walking around with no compelling destination in mind abated, I gave up and came back to camp for an afternoon of laundry and leisure.

There was one thing that made the visit worthwhile, though. Le cathedral de Notre Dame² is immense and gorgeous. I snapped a few photos of the exterior, then went inside³. The massive flying buttresses took me back to high school history class, and the intricate and lovely designs everywhere made me Want To Believe. There was a cacophony of idle chatter to silence, in a handful of different languages. There were constant visual distractions – tourists milling about, countless inconsiderite imbeciles letting their flashbulbs go off uselessly, as if a tiny burst of light could illuminate the vastness of the cathedral. When I stood still, though, when I de-tuned my mind to all the background static and just let the glory of the place wash over me, then it was incredible. I lit a candle for you (and you, and you . . . ) – its physical presence is already extinguished, but its unwavering flame burns on and on in my mind’s eye.

When I was deciding to disembark the island I’d stayed around to visit, I had moments of wondering what this was all about. If none of my supposed destinations are anything but a string of excuses to keep moving, further and further away from where I was before. I don’t know – I think it’s just frustration at my illness manifesting as pessimism. Part of me, for sure, is genuinely itching for this new life of mine to start – to be on the snow-covered hill already, to live in that small ski town my heart is set on. Until that can happen, though, these travels are a damn fine way to pass the time – might as well enjoy them.

1. When I asked the nice lady at the information center where I might camp near the city, she gave me this look that suggested I’d asked where I might find the local discount brothels.
2. Since being in Quebec, I find that whenever I know the words, my mind thinks en Français.
3. Adults: $4. Children: $2. God Forbid You’re Actually Going Inside To Pray: Free.

It’s early yet. The stars have only been visible for an hour, maybe less. Still, I was in my tent, curled up in my insulated green cocoon, trying to slip off to slumber. My aim in doing so was twofold; I’m trying to shake this annoying fever thing I exported from Chicago, and more importantly, I want to get up relatively early. On the road like this, especially when camping, daylight is much more valuable than night, and I’m hoping to use some of tomorrow’s to actually explore this park I’m in before yet another departure.

It wasn’t to be, though. I didn’t try for too long, because at this point I know my body quite well and I can tell when it’s resisting sleep. Having my brain all abuzz is often one of the main obstacles, and in that regard, perhaps spending an hour reading a deeply philosophical book¹ just before bed wasn’t the wisest of moves. But it’s so good. And I do enjoy my mind’s ponderings and wanderings, for the most part – I just wish there was an easy on/off switch.

I’ve been thinking about my heartaches and why they occur. Natural beauty, be it vast gorgeous scenes or exquisite little moments, has a definite tendency to tug on those emotional strings. It’s a complex intermingling of feelings, I think, that causes this. The epic and the intimate colliding; I’m simultaneously humbled by my own insignificance, reflected in my lack of reflection cast by the scene, and at the same time, compelled to recall people significant to my life with whom I’d like to share the experience.

Or perhaps that’s not quite it. Perhaps that lack of opportunity to share the experience with a person simply reminds me of that person, and my current lack of opportunity to share experiences with them in general. I say I’m entranced by uncertainty; well, along the same lines, I am wholly enamored of potential energy. Sparks that could fly between myself and others, if only our conductors came within proximity when fully charged.

1. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

You know that Family Guy where the leaves start changing color in Rhode Island, and all of a sudden obnoxious New Yorkers show up in droves and gawk, and Lois gets all pissed off and takes Karate lessons and becomes this massive bad-ass and totally emasculates Peter? That’s what Ontario’s Algonquin Provincial Park reminds me of. Not the emasculating thing – I am all that is man, and Canada has done nothing to change that. And not really the obnoxious tourist thing either – it’s post Labor Day and anything that isn’t world famous like GC or NF is relatively uninhabited.

No, I pretty much just mean that the leaves here are gorgeous. They’re in the process of changing colors, and it’s like a large-scale, slow-mo fireworks display courtesy of ma nature. Every earth tone you can think of and some you might not is represented on branches in every direction, extending far, far beyond my range of sight.

Oh, sweet, spunky, sarcastic and sexy Jaye Tyler, why have you forsaken me? I searched the several gift shops within a quarter’s throw of Niagra Falls, but there was nary an attractive young twenty-something waiting to greet me with poor customer service. There also, to my perhaps greater dismay, was no Wonderfalls-branded merchandise of any sort to be found. Come on now, marketers! I know Fox cancelled it after about fifteen minutes, but its legacy lives on in the land of DVD. Surely there is some market for a hip Wonderfalls employee vest, or at least a commemorative plate. Sigh. Maybe I should’ve searched on the American side, but doubtful – it looked far less developed than its Canadian counterpart, and even over here in the land of maple syrup, there was no shopping area resembling that of the show at all. Fantasy once again trumps reality.

Oh, right, the falls themselves. They’re¹ short. Impressive, pretty, but short.

1. There are actually two separate falls right near each other. Horseshoe Falls is the one that is shaped like, you guessed it, equestrian footwear, and it’s the one you’re thinking of.