Street Life in Toronto

One of the unexpected things I loved once moving to Toronto is the street life here.

I think when I say "street life" you probably have the picture of happy, prosperous middle class young people, clad in respectable coats, doing things like kissing romantically under street lamps, drinking cappucinos or pints on sidewalk padios, and shopping. This is part of street life, but not all of it.

Street life in Toronto is made extra-spicy through the ample population of mental outpatients, recovering and relapsing drug addicts, and other various generally thought of as unsavoury characters who give new meaning to the tourist slogan Toronto Unlimited. These folks are part of the fabric of daily life here. Let me be clear that their lack of a place to live is a problem, and our society's seeming total lack of attention to finding places for these people to live, that's a problem too. That some of these people have no family, no stable group of friends: probably the biggest problem of all.

The fact that they're wandering the streets, sharing streetcars with the scarf-wearing romantic under-street-lamp kissers, latte-drinkers and shoppers, that is not a problem. Nothing could be more right. Toronto's utter randomness is what makes this city so vibrant. The fact that pedestrian life is so dominant here, helps many people who may have nowhere else to go feel a sense of belonging. It certainly gives them lots of people to talk to.

You have to keep your eyes open. There is always the potential for being spat upon, verbally abused, and though I haven't experienced it, physical violence. But if you stay emotionally open while you keep your eyes open, interactions with Toronto's street dwellers can be one of the most rewarding things about living here.

In honour of that, I'm going to write a series about some of my interactions with my favourite street people. Right after I finish my work.

Purging it a little further down the pipe

Writing self-confessional crap in a public place like this is the best incentive to get me to write more often. The logic goes like this: if I write enough, the other stuff I wrote will become comparatively less noticable.

I've been on a site called myspace.com. It has blogs and pictures and music and filmmakers and lots of youngish trendoids who make me feel old and out of it and like I don't have as many friends as them. I am not old but I break 30 this year. Yeah me! At 24 I was on track to be dead by now. Instead I've turned into a stuffy, self-important entrepreneur.

After joining myspace, I randomly clicked around on there and subscribed to a few peoples blogs, which people there take much less seriously than the blogger crowd, and thankfully so. I had no idea it told you who had subscribed to your blog, so I had been checking in on Jaymie's blog regularly without ever saying hello, even though it's highly personal and I don't have any idea who she is. I mean, her profile photo caption is "You're hot but how do I know you're not a tranny?"

Today, on the prompting of Crazy Mel, who advised me of some myspace news, I logged in and in big red flashing letters the notification was flashing that I had new messages, and new blog subscription posts, so I read and responded to my messages then clicked through to the new blogs. "Who the hell reads this?" was her last one.

"Big ups to so and so and so and so and some guy named JARED," it said.

Well, big ups to YOU, JAYMIE for calling me out.

Purging the Negative

I don't know why I committed to write in this thing once a week, but it's turned into more of a diary than anything, except that other people can read it, though fortunately for my tender ego, not many do... I read other peoples blogs and many people write about external stuff. Perhaps someday I will do that too, but right now that's not my habit. When I start editing the film again, I will write about the film, which is what this blog was supposed to be about.

For tonight, I have a need to purge some negative thoughts through a possibly misguided psychoanalysis of myself, and you, my dear reader, may absorb these negative thoughts and the therapy as well. I don't promise it will be organized or make any kind of rational sense, but I do promise it will be long winded and straight off the top of my tubular head.

I've noticed that in the company of specific people, I am sensitive to specific kinds of criticism. Despite the previous sentence having the word 'specific' in it twice, this is a general statement brought on by a specific situation which I am specifically avoiding discussing directly.

I also notice that what gets through to me varies based on who is critiquing. Person A could say "your pants look stupid" and it wouldn't bother me, but if Person B said the same thing, I might collapse in a paroxysm of shame and embarrassment. It wouldn't even have anything to do with how well Persons A and B dress or even how much I actually value their opinion. Instead, it would likely be to do with the fact that I had worn those pants specifically to impress Person B. At my worst, I might not even have liked the pants in the first place, and in this case my reaction would be anger and indignance layered over that shame and embarrassment.

I have a lot of armour. That armour is carefully disguised as other things. I use charm and a grandly projected, but moderate sense of humour, along with a very astute, and mostly subconscious grasp of what drives other people to like me. It's not so cool, but I am motivated greatly by being liked.

I love to be loved.

I have lots of other motivations that are more important, ultimately, but in my personal life, this is probably one of the biggest gears in the old clock. It's my Achilles heel. Pardon the comparison with Achilles, who I have little in common with besides the heel.

This incredible need for approval expresses itself as a strength because I am very good at winning people over, particularly if I am not trying too hard. It expresses itself as a weakness when I do try too hard, because I can and will make myself look like an ass, but more importantly, because somebody equally crafty can manipulate me via that desire for approval. Even if I'm aware of the manipulation, I will allow it to continue in exchange for continued approval. This is patently a character flaw because it means I disempower myself. If you think about that it will bend your mind a bit. I mean, you can't disempower yourself unless you were empowered to begin with.

There was an article in Adbusters at some point about "the awful distortions necessary to achieve fame" and how people who seek celebrity are expressing a kind of psychological disorder. That disorder has something in common with what I'm talking about. I don't know if I buy it, that fame-seekers are psychologically ill, but I can see how disorders, or disturbances in the life force of the individual, can make people act in ways that aren't right. And when you mix two or more people who have compatible disturbances in their life forces, you get crap like codependency, situations where victims return to abusers, or in large groups, things could happen where larger scale antisocial or criminal behaviour expresses itself in a cultural way.

I'm getting all ethereal because it's 1:40am, I haven't had a full nights sleep in days, and I've been thinking about the crazy happy culture at the candy factory.

Back to me. I am realizing gradually that this completely self-induced lack of sleep, and the perpetual state of being behind on this, that and the other; and that item as well; plus the thing I forgot about more than a year ago; also that list of things I promised to persons x, y and z, which I'm currently making excuses about: all this lateness and total irresponsibility, which is everywhere, and accompanied by a slavish work ethic, is at least in part, an expression of this insane desire for approval. By allowing this need to take over my persona, I keep myself from doing the things I say I want to do, I reduce my impact in the world, and I spend time writing self-referential crap like this instead of doing something to improve the world, which, in my heart, I really want to do. In the end, all this pandering always collapses on itself and I am forced to fall on my sword to save my honour. Well, fuck that!

Therefore, I hereby add to my series of commitments, the mother of all those other commitments I made way back when, that my number one priority is not being liked, or being approved of, but taking care of myself mentally and physically. I will do that by projecting myself honestly into the world, by cultivating and holding onto friendships with people who hold me to my commitments, by clearing issues with others, by telling the truth, and by giving of myself without expectation.

I'm not there today, but tomorrow is a new day.

Candy Factory

This week, I shot a video in a candy factory.

Everyone in the factory seemed very happy. I had forgotten what it was like to work in a place like that.

Before the layoffs started, working at the bank was like that. My office was at the far end of the floor. I remember walking to the bathroom or to lunch, a smile on my face, past rows of happy cubicle-dwellers. Everyone seemed artificially chipper, except it wasn't artificial. It was cultural. Corporations must hire people that fit a certain psychological profile. Although it's not that systematic, I think, it means that when you enter a workplace, it has a vibe, like a club or a restaurant has a vibe. The vibe in the bank was industrious, busy, and happy-happy. The vibe in the candy factory was 'efficient, safe, funny, happy.'

One day, I came into work, and we had a staff meeting. The boss gave us the tip-off that very soon, a group of people would be let go, but that our positions were safe. I believe that lots of other people on the floor got the same tip-off, because that day, the vibe changed. It was never the same. People became cynical, self-serving, and backstabbing. Basically it turned into an ad agency. 28 people on our floor were let go that afternoon, and two weeks later, another 13 vanished. I left not long after.

But in the candy factory, layoffs have happened already, and there are more in the pipeline, everyone knows about it, and the morale there is still great. Everyone seems thankful to have a job. The people we interviewed were 10, 20, or 30 year veterans at the plant. Is the difference just that they make candy? Could it be the menthol fumes?

Observations, continued

Also on the trip to Lloydminster, I observed the following:
Although the town is largely employed by a large oil upgrading facility, there is a latent concern voiced by many residents that the everpresent foul smell may be slowly killing them, and moreover that an explosion at the upgrader would level the town and kill everyone more or less instantly. Gallows humour like "at least we won't suffer," abounds. I draw no conclusion.

These observations are slowly slipping away. I hope I can recover more of them before they all vanish and I am again swallowed whole into Toronto life.

Self-Doubt Poem

I've become a bore -

a self important whore
to what's important
in reality impotent

with a sterile glance
of needle off bone
a missed chance

vision makes trouble
it dulls other senses
hearing, touch, smell
and good taste.

A Day for Observations

Today has been a day full of observations, mostly because unlike most days, I was forced to do nothing for 6 hours in the middle of the day. Normally I just kind of run myself into the ground and don't think much until I'm asleep, then I re-awaken, toss and turn and think about all the things I was too busy to properly consider during the day. It's not a healthy habit.

Anyway, today I have a video to edit and had set up this crazy deal where I can edit off an external hard drive while a passenger in a minivan. It's kind of a clever thing but kind of stupid too, and I did it half for the challenge and half because my mom moving across Alberta is coming at a really inconvenient time. The Terminal, my company, has to deliver 6 edits to our client on the 15th of this month. That's 3 days from now.

This trip, which is solely to help my mom move, has been a welcome break from all the business going on on Toronto right now. All the business is generally good business, but I feel exhausted by it all. This break is a working break: I have already edited a pair of interstitials which look way cool, wrote a script, grabbed music, all while helping my mother move and wishing my poor brother well as he heads to the farm, where they still connect via dial-up.

Fortunately my mother is very organized, and fortunately Shelley is editing the two most difficult videos right now, even as I type. However, I have a long one - 3 minutes - to get done for Wednesday, and I am not in very good shape to get it done.

I planned to edit during today's 7 hour drive using this makeshift contraption involving power inverters and homemade shock absorbing hard-drive mounts (leather gloves and thermal mittens). The contraption worked like a dream, but the Alberta sun is bright. Normally, the screen on the Powerbook seems bright. When the sun is shining on it from all angles, and that same sun is radiating through a beautiful blue sky, and that sun and the blue sky are both reflecting again in turn off the fresh, cold snow, that screen seems dim indeed through the untinted windows of my mom's Caravan.

So I squinted, threw on the sunglasses and scrubbed through four tapes - very quickly - and dug out 3 soundbites. Then a pain hit me. I can only compare it to what a ripe tomato would feel as it was being sliced with a dull knife, assuming that tomatos had feelings. You know that feeling of total muscle fatigue you get when you go skating (or do some other sport or physical activity) after a break of several years, enjoy it so much that you completely overdo it, then can't move? That feeling was inside my eyeballs. I couldn't focus on anything and the light was the dull knife scraping against my soft-tomato eyeballs. I grabbed a toque and pulled it over my eyes and kept it there for an hour.

So no editing while driving. That's a forced break. Time to observe.

For today's blog, just observation number 1.
At lunch today, we went to K's Donairs in Lloydminster. In the dining room of K's Donairs there is a fish tank. In that tank are 3 piranhas and about 9 tiny tropical fish. The tiny tropical fish hang out at the top of the tank and look scared. The owner of the restaurant tells us that the piranhas really will eat the little fish. Not long after this statement, we see the three piranhas turn in unison. Until now, they have been staring out the window on the left, watching people walk in and out of Tim Horton's. But now, their attention is fixed on the little fish. It's feeding time.

The piranhas don't even look like they are moving. They just kind of drift around, but it's clear they are in charge of where they go, because they just swivelled from facing Tim Hortons to facing the little fish in perfect synch. Now each piranha is clocking a different little fish. Their eyes are swivelling to track the little fish, but their bodies are perfectly still. Their mouths have drifted open and you can see their menacing little teeth above their cruel, fat lower lips.

The little fish know what's up. They get closer to the top of the tank and swim over behind the plants to the right. One that looks like an angel fish has obviously forgotten himself and he drifts more or less right over top of one piranha.

We are so enthralled that we've forgotten our egg salad sandwiches. Although it goes unspoken, we all want the same thing, for the piranhas to strike and eat one of those poor, hapless little fish. Will there be blood in the water and Jaws-style thrashing, or will that fat piranha suck back that little angelfish in one bite?

Neither.

The piranhas turn back around in unison, close their mouths, and go back to watching people walk in and out of Tim Horton's. No blood today. We go back to our sandwiches.

I can't see myself sitting in a popular pizza or donair shop in Little Italy, watching the restaurant owner's pets devour one another. That's one difference between Lloydminster and Toronto.

Am I wrong?

Dry Air

I was in Toronto yesterday morning, Calgary this morning, and Lloydminster tonight. I'm feeling a bit stunned.

I was sitting in the sitting room yesterday fixing my grandparents' computer. This is nothing new - after all I've been fixing everyone in my family's computers since I was fourteen - when I had a thought, "I'm in Calgary." I was so shocked by it, I had to say it out loud.

"Yes," said Grandpa. "I drink my coffee and read the paper, then I turn around and realize I'm not in Lloydminster. Everything here's the same, but not." He seemed so sad.

See, my grandparents have lived in the small city of Lloydminster since my grandpa became Postmaster here well over forty years ago. Then last year my mom was laid off in her job as a band teacher and I laid on the pressure for her to get out of dodge. I don't think much of Lloydminster. It's full of semi-transient oil workers, a rough frontier town, a good place to turn over a quick buck in the oil business. People inclined to listen to music here have more appreciation for alcohol, cocaine, and one-night stands than jazz bands.

In spite of this being a crappy town, my family has made a good life here. When I said I wanted her to move, I didn't expect her to do anything about it, since she'd been talking about moving for years and had never done anything.

So her first reaction when I told her to move was to yell at me, which she never does. I had definitely hit a nerve. She even called back to yell again.
Six months later, her house flooded. She called me and announced that grandma and grandpa were selling their condo and she was going to sell the house, and then they were going to move in together in Calgary.

Now they have a beautiful new house with a view of the mountains, sixteen foot ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows. This is one posh little bungalow.

Grandma's overjoyed. Mom seems happy. But Grandpa is not impressed. He has always been the rock in this family, the steady earner, the man who can fix anything, a guy who at the age of 78 still could slip on the stairs, do a commando roll and land feet-first on the ground. I knew though, as soon as I saw him at the airport, that something was wrong.

I think it's about Jack. Grandpa's best friend Jack lives here in Lloydminster. They were neighbours for 30 years, and when I was a kid, staying at my grandparents place while Mom taught music lessons, I could see Jack stick his nose over the fence to chat with Grandpa, then return to gardening. They chatted on both sides of the fence. They mowed their lawns together, clipped the hedges together, they golfed together every weekend, and they wintered in Arizona - in adjoining trailers.

Three years ago, Jack and his wife promptly sold their house and bought a condo downtown. Grandpa and Grandma promptly sold their house and bought a condo a block away. Then Jack's wife died suddenly.

Jack's health got worse after she died. But Grandpa and his friendship survived. They went for coffee every day, walked together, played cards. Grandpa and Jack's friendship, I think, became something even more important to Jack after his wife died.

Now Grandpa's left him for Calgary.

The first thing Grandpa said to me when he picked me up from the airport was, "I never should have let these darn girls talk me into this."

"Why, what's wrong?" I asked.

All he could do was grumble, "ah, nothing, really."

Today, after fixing their computer, I looked up the instructions for wiring a thermostat on the internet for Grandpa, and as they printed he smiled, his old self, happy to have something around the house to fix.

He'll be OK, but what about Jack?

Commitment and the Senator

I, so far,
am blogging today
am very well fed
haven't touched my taxes
made 50 calls this week
ate less cheese
told my family I loved them
drank plenty of water
exercised regularly, but not frequently
am forgiving, but have not forgiven
laugh every hour
and i don't know how to measure the progress of the world

I should add,
to pay off my debts
to foster abundance
to always put my own misfortunes in perspective
to spread joy
and to honour my commitments.

--------

Thursday I met with a Canadian Senator. When I found out this was going to happen, I was shaking in my boots. A business associate had set up the meeting, and when he said Senator I had really just assumed that he would take care of meeting with her and getting her on board for this documentary project. We are really asking a lot of her - we want her and her family to be in a documentary about their experience as refugees. It's a big commitment to open up your family to being on television.

So he's in Vancouver this week and on Tuesday he said "Can you meet with the Senator?"

By yesterday morning, I felt strangely calm about the whole thing. I went up to North York to meet her at a high school, walked into the cafeteria by accident (it smelled good), then made my way to the library. The school's students had organized an International Conference on Human rights. The gymnasium was packed with close to a thousand students from four surrounding high schools. The students were all there voluntarily. Although I'm sure some of them just went for the prospect of skipping two days of class and getting free muffins and coffee (I never got coffee in high school!), the crowd seemed very engaged. They were there to talk about how to make the world a better place.

Organized by the kids? I was astounded. Where does all this enthusiasm and energy go when you become an adult? Into your career, into your family? Do you just forget about what's on the news? Does it just become entertainment, a bother?

At 10:30, a small, unassuming 60ish woman, who I took to be the Senator's assistant, walked up to me and said, "Hi, I'm M---. Thanks for coming down."

I was taken aback. Wasn't she doing me a favour by sitting with me in her only break, after getting up at 5AM to drive 4 hours to Toronto from Ottawa, then speaking for 90 minutes straight?

We met for a full half-hour and she agreed right off the bat to be in the film. In fact, she made it clear that the meeting was just a formality. She was in as soon as she received the e-mail from my partner. I guess she just wanted to meet and make sure I'm not a scammer.

She's doing it because she wants to make the world a better place. That's why I'm doing it too. And that I want to make a film.

It's good to know that you can still want to make the world a better place when you're George Bush's age.

This is exciting news!

Back to logging and capturing, logging and capturing.