Landing in London

Zombie Flowers from ANTSANROM, as inspired by Charles Darwin┬┤s first impressions when he first saw a carnivorous plant in 1875.

I had zero leg room on the flight from Seattle to Reykjavik, my bag of camera lenses and hard-drives took up all the space instead, so I spent the whole time curled up in the chair, feet up, reading book after book until we landed in the cold. (Mr. Penumbra’s Bookstore made a special impression, as it had been a gift from Alexandre that we picked up at the Amazon brick & mortar in Seattle the week we took together there before I left. There’s a girl in it I somewhat identified with, though we’re not of a type.)

From the outside, landing in Iceland at night is like landing on the Canadian prairies. It is dark, flat, empty, and cold. Walking across the field into the building, I felt the bite of Edmonton’s winter. The inside, however, looks precisely what I might imagine a minimalist airport manufactured by IKEA might be like, all pale wood floors and sketches of metal furniture. The gift shop sold furs, the cafeteria had an entire refrigerator shelf for greasy fish products, but otherwise what I managed to explore (with my dreadfully heavy bags) struck me as being similar to any other small airport. Mostly I simply sat, curled up with my phone, surfing the wifi, chatting with Alexandre.

The hours were wrong for the Northern Lights, unfortunately, and the airport, also unfortunately, is an hour out of town, so I did not get a chance to see the aurora borealis or visit Reykjavik or , who lives there. No regrets, though, as I have been assured there will be other chances.

Heathrow, however, was a sprawling place. It reminded me of nothing more than a level of an old James Bond video game that I remember playing a handful of times as a teenager. Low-rez, blocky, big open spaces, lots of windows without any view, and the illusion of multiple paths that resolve only into one when you try to move forward. I would love a map of the place, a 3D rendered duplicate that I could wander at will in virtual reality. The illusion of choice was especially interesting, as if the corridors could be reformed like a labyrinth and somewhere there might be a beast, perhaps some metaphor for finance, with gold dipped bull’s horns and diamond tipped claws.

The border questions were nothing after having to handle the US/Canadian border so many times over the years. The guard dismissed me as soon as they gleaned that I own a credit card, all flags dropped and I was through. Waiting for me were Arnand and Dee, my suitcases, a little red car, and a whole new life. “Hello.”

goodbye pacific north left

I’ve been offered a ticket to London.

It leaves halfway through November. The last pieces required for my Irish passport are coming together. The utilities are now in David’s name. An ad for my room is going up on Craigslist this week. I don’t know where I’m going to live. I don’t have reliable work. There is no safety net. And, if I get this right, I’ll never be back again.

the heart’s device

Persephone Lied.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.

~ Rumi

Fuel for thought: accomplishments. I’m tearing my apartment apart, chucking as much of it out the door as possible, pulling my layered life into pieces and discarding everything that isn’t essential. I’m not certain what I’m looking for, except that I know it’s time to change.

I’m considering taking an aerialist refresher course, shredded shoulder or no, and I’m taking my learners test this week. I expect to pass. Anyone got a car they’re willing let me lurch around a parking lot? Cars don’t make the same sense as motorcycles. My ignorance on how to make an automatic go is irking me, a symptom of the far more complicated and significant impetus that’s suddenly taken me.

The last few years, I’ve been complacent, too busy keeping my head above water to do more than fight to survive – it’s time to be something other than tired. The theatre is continuing to tick along quietly, which is good, but the operative word is quietly. Right now it’s only words on paper shuffling between investors, lawyers, and their accountants. Vapourware, nothing that feels real, radio silence slowly driving me batty. Nothing that blows up the sky. I need more of that spark.

In keeping with my approach for change, if you would like some interesting life detritus which otherwise would go to Value Village or kids in a park, send me your mailing address and I’ll see what I can do about spreading the love.

(Google Ads has given a friend the following headlines to go with one of my email: “Did He Break Your Heart?” “Improv, Acting & Writing” “LifeGem Memorial Diamonds” “Heal From Your Break Up”.)

Administrative Assistant

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

The kitchen is clean. I am considering celebrating. Those of you who have visited recently know the implications of that statement. For those of you who haven’t been so unlucky, it seemed for awhile that my roommate was observing a strict regimen of experimentation, hypothetically breeding new species of super fruitfly. It was all for science. It had to be. That was too many of the little annoying gnats to be otherwise. Now that the kitchen has been cleaned, I will take on the bathroom in return. A serious exercise in scrubbing shall occur, oh yes. Time for the cool clean taste of bleach. I would still like to know where to get a carnivorous plant to placidly hunt down the remaining kamikaze insects, but for now, I am no longer living on the edge of a war zone of dishes. Insert the ticker tape parade here.

As part of making the self a home, I want to map out my new body rules, examine minutely the fresh schematic I returned with, but I think they’re still in flux, still settling and finding their edges. I don’t like people casually touching me now. Arms around my shoulder, legs against mine when we’re sitting four to a couch, I’ve been avoiding it. Instead I sit apart. Family is exempt, as they usually are. Not the blood relatives, but the clan I’ve created with empathy adoption and matching personal mythology. It’s odd and unexpected, a new layer of adaptation to paste into the mental environment. I require space now, room for my skin to breathe.