The Hammer (pt. 1)

When I rented a car and went to Brantford/Onondaga to do some reminiscing and photo-taking, I knew that Hamilton was also, ultimately, on my to-do list.

The aim of these trips is not preconceived. This makes it doubly hard to explain to others (friends, strangers, and loved ones) what exactly the hell I'm planning to do. "Taking pictures and stuff." I'll say - that's certainly no lie, but of course there's more to it. The thing about Zen is this: the second you begin to describe it, it disappears. And so - Art & Zen being the same - there's always a scaffolding I build around my explanation for these trips. It's the same scaffolding I use when I go out writing, or to take photos locally: a vague (yet not untrue) reason which allows me to unspoil the inspiration (which itself needs to be vague) while preventing others from thinking I've lost my mind. I'm not uncomplicated.

Hamilton, being a place of the past for me, exists in patches of haze - this isn't to say I did a lot of drinking or drugs when it was a destination, and yet it seems that way: murky. Of course, a good chunk of that time is best forgotten now. The downtown seems more hollowed-out than it did before, with the exception of Gore Park which to this day reminds me what a good idea it is to have spacious downtown promenades.

It was a precursory destination. First, with an ill-fated relationship which spawned a series of bad decisions which I owe to naivety. I am not alone in stating that I owe many mistakes in my 20s to naivety. It all culminated in a brief tenancy at an old apartment building north of St. Joseph's hospital. In so many ways, it was one of the more excruciating periods in my life - I think the haze I mentioned previously is partially there to protect me from looking too closely at things like this.

The second identity Hamilton had for me happened a few years later when, staying with relatives in Burlington while I studied at college, it became a "big city" to escape to. Toronto was bigger, of course, but it was too far to drive to just to have kicks. Hamilton was perfect and in the early 90s had a great nighttime scene in and around Hess Village. My hang-out was the Bauhaus Café, which sadly (though not surprisingly) no longer exists.

Walking around there now, it seems as if parts of it just gave up. People don't even want to advertise on billboards. To be fair, I shouldn't make any judgments without going there again, but on a Friday night - I'm afraid however that these judgments will only skew worse if I do.

Perhaps I have a better understanding of the haze now: it's there to protect my feelings, it's there to protect the city from the cold light of an unsympathetic audience.

Photo: Stunned

Photo: The Other Oxford Street

Photo: Antwerp - Church Reflected #3

Photo: Millennium Bridge Self-Portrait

Photo: NYC #10

Photo: NYC #8

Photo: Vineland via Cellphone #1

Niagara Falls

From the Wikipedia entry "Slowly I Turned":

The routine has two performers pretending to meet for the first time, with one of them becoming highly agitated over the utterance of particular words. Names and cities (such as Niagara Falls) have been used as the trigger, which then send the unbalanced person into a state of mania; the implication is that the words have an unpleasant association in the character's past. While the other performer merely acts bewildered, the crazed actor relives the incident, uttering the words, "Slowly I turned...step by step...inch by inch...," as he approaches the stunned onlooker. Reacting as if this stranger is the object of his rage, the angry actor begins hitting or strangling him, until the screams of the victim shake him out of his delusion. The actor then apologizes, admitting his irrational reaction to the mention of those certain words. This follows with the victim innocently repeating the words, sparking the insane reaction all over again. This pattern is repeated in various forms, sometimes with the entrance of a third actor, uninformed as to the situation. This third person predictably ends up mentioning the words and setting off the manic performer, but with the twist that the second actor, not this new third person, is still the recipient of the violence.

I spent about five years, between my late-teens and early twenties, working in photo labs. It was the easiest thing for me to do, seeing as I had a natural disposition toward photography. I spent many hundreds and hundreds (I suppose I could just write "thousands", but then that seems like such an exaggeration) of hours printing other people's photographs, correcting the colour, correcting the density - even occasionally eliminating hairs or scratches on the negatives. All said, it was a thankless job, but not a job one does in the first place if one is seeking thanks.

It was while I held this position that I read (or heard - I am convinced the toxic chemicals eroded my memories from those days) that the most photographed place on the earth was not the pyramids of Egypt, not the Great Wall of China, nor was it the Grand Canyon.

It was Niagara Falls, Canada.

And you know what? That person was absolutely right, from my perspective at least. I have seen so many photographs of Niagara Falls, from so many angles, from so many different types of cameras, lenses, and film stocks that when Ingrid and I went there during the summer, it felt as if I were entering some sort of nightmare/dream world. I hadn't seen the Falls since I was a kid (with the exception of seeing them from the American side once - not impressive at all) and yet I was intimately familiar with every inch of it. It is the closest thing to recreating deja vu that one can do, I suppose.

Needless to say, I took photos. What else are you going to do? It's a giant, massively awe-inspiring natural waterfall. And when I got my slides back, I looked at them and groaned - it didn't matter how good they were, how picture-postcard they were. I'd seen them all before. From every angle, every camera, every lens, and every film stock.

I eventually found one photo which wasn't so eerily pre-reminiscent: a stranger on an observation deck, staring out (not down) philosophically, as if Camus were alive and in Niagara Falls no less. It is through this photo that I found it possible to combat the madness of my previous occupation: to find the angle no one else has bothered to capture. I do not consider it an exceptional photograph from a technical point of view, but for personal reasons it is a healthy way to re-pave my perception of a subject so totally saturated by the second-hand experience of first-hand observation.

Photo: LaSalle

Inuksuk

(Inuksuk information courtesy of Wikipedia)

Back from the Lake...

Back from Kirkland Lake (unless you thought I posted the Solzhenitsyn remembrance from afar). It was a great trip, though next time my wife and I have pledged either to do it with more days to spend/travel, or take another mode of transport. Sixteen inclusive hours of door-to-destination driving do not wear well on you when you've only got one day off in-between to enjoy. The reason for our trip was to pay respects at a memorial service for my wife's uncle who passed away earlier in the year, in case you were wondering why we attempted such a feat within such a short period of stay. We aren't masochists.

It was great to meet more of my extended family, see more of the province, and get a better sense of the geography. No wildlife to note, unfortunately, save for crows, mosquitoes, and the odd call of a loon in the night. Photos were taken and I hope to post them when the slides are developed. I still have photos from July that I need to sort through so, pending quality, you may or may not be in for a bonanza of visuals. I wish that "bonanza" didn't imply a lack of aesthetics.

Some facts about the trip:

1. Minimum total distance travelled: 1160km (721 miles)


2. Population of Kirkland Lake: 8248


3. Speeding tickets: 1


4. Bug bites: 2


5. Hours that a not-fully-charged iPod Mini managed to last: 8


6. Photos taken: 56


7. Name of town outside of Kirkland Lake: Swastika

More writerly concerns to post about in the near future. Hope all is well with everyone.

Off to Kirkland Lake...

Apologies for the lack of postings this week (I know, just a lame Twain quote is all you got). Work is finally catching up to me and, until the day this blog pays, then you, dear reader, will have to suffer the odd "outage" from time to time.

This weekend, my wife and I are driving up to meet her relatives in Kirkland Lake [there should be much more fiction written about this town, btw - ed]. To the average person, one who doesn't live near Ontario, this doesn't sound like much. So, let me put it into perspective for you:

View Larger Map

It's about a 7.5 hour drive from Toronto. That's a long trek in my books, especially considering that it's just for the weekend (thankfully a long weekend up here). However, I've always wanted to see Northern Ontario - I mean the real Northern Ontario, not driving 3 hours to a cottage in Haliburton, but waaay the hell up north. I'm sure it will be a beautiful drive (after the first hour of anonymous suburban/industrial wasteland). I look forward to fresh air, clear skies (particularly at night), rocky terrain, and - my favourite - wildlife.

Going to northerly parts of Canada (in particular the real real North: Yukon, Nuvavut) is truly the only way to get a strong sense of how characteristic (and, plainly, how rough) our environment is. In cities like Toronto it's hard to get a perspective on the greater (arguably better) parts of this country. It is for this reason, driven by childhood memories of sitting in the back of my parents' car while we drove from Alberta to Vancouver BC, or from Brantford through New Brunswick, that I feel it's worth turning into a car-zombie for a short while (long drives will do that) if only to experience what Canada is truly, nakedly, like.

And yes, I will have my camera. And I promise to post more photos in general.

Have a splendid weekend.

Photo: Window View #2

May (pt. 3: Revision)

I took a train to Montréal for the second-last weekend in May.

I love the city, in particular its colour, zest, and architecture. There are also some great bands coming from there. However, to be fair, taking the train was a substantial part of the reason; four hours each way with which I could exclusively devote to reading War and Peace and, most importantly, working on the novel.

So, it was a work/reflect/relax sort of trip - the sort of thing to help tie up some loose threads in my head while occasionally practising my French. I caught a couple of bands at a cool venue called Zoo Bizarre, went to the Museum of Contemporary Art, ate, slept, drank, and mostly walked around with the aimless ambition of understanding how the city is laid-out.

As I write this, the novel is in good shape. The ending is almost complete and I'm beginning to see it more clearly in my head from beginning-to-end (as opposed to visualizing it as a bunch of sorted chapters). I also managed to get through a good chunk of War and Peace - such a good book, yet so heavy on the everyday details.

I wish I could say that I entered June with revelations and wisdom, but those are two things you can't just extract from the ether. I still have a lot of things rolling around my head that need figuring out, creatively-speaking. For me, sometimes it's better having several balls to juggle rather than one to contemplate soley. I know, from previous experience, that (to paraphrase the witches from Shakespeare's Macbeth) doors open for those who decide to knock.

Photo: Matanzas #8

Photo: Habana #9

May (pt. 1: Cuba Libre)

As previously noted, I've had a work-reprieve this month. I cannot remember (outside of a slightly scary 3-month spat of unemployment in late 2001) when I've had more than a week off. So, fittingly, I wanted to do as much as possible with May as I could.

It started with my wife and I taking a well-deserved week's trip to Cuba. I was extremely nervous leading up to it, as the film I'd completed had some last-minute snags ("What's that? The print that went to Cannes has the wrong shot in it? [pause] Oh.") and I had nightmares of me having to check my email and cellphone messages from the Caribbean. Thankfully - and I must make this clear because someone deserves it - everyone has left me alone. It's as if I had a guardian angel come down from heaven and lift someone off the floor by their shirt in some office in L.A., saying to them "You mess with Cahill, and you're messing with Jesus, pal.". Or something like that.

It was my second time in Cuba, and my second at the same resort - a place on the outskirts of Havana province, about an hour's drive from Varadero. It was my wife's first trip, however. Her first trip, as well, to a country that inherently spoke neither English nor French. Of course, on the resort they do (even German - in fact, one of our guides was fluent in Czech). I'm not necessarily a "resort" person (though I will reflexively take the free drinks and snorkeling any day of the week), however I knew that the location of the place was central enough to allow us the latitude of taking day trips to Havana city and other areas. In other words: beach, drinks, sun, snorkeling, and the freedom to escape.

Our first outing was a morning hike, led by a guide, up the hill (250 ft.) that was directly south of the resort. A steep climb that claimed many. However, at the top, we were able to walk through some local farms where they processed sugar cane, fruits, and whatever crops were possible in the bone-dry soil (it being just prior to their rainy season).

Our second outing was Havana. I love Havana. It's hard not to love it there. Yes, it's dirty, sometimes smelly, and some of the locals like to prey on turistas. That said, in many respects, it's a world frozen in time (like much of the country). Beautiful architecture, friendly people.

Our third outing was in a small port city, called Matanzas. It only recently opened itself up to tours and at times we found ourselves being stared at like aliens. As luck would have it, we were there for The World's Longest Rumba. Apparently, a group of people were going across the country, from town to town, performing live rumba. It was amazing, which brings me to another thing I love about Cuba: the music. Even the potentially corny mariachi bands are amazing. Even if you've heard Guantanamera (trans: "girl from Guantánamo") ten thousand times and feel as if you can retire it from your memory, you'll still find your foot tapping under the table when it's played there. Matanzas was a treat. Our guide - the one who was fluent in Czech - took us a local farmers' market; a narrow maze of shacks where vendors sold fresh indigenous vegetables and grains, not to mention cuts of pork. Someone there handed us "ladies fingers" bananas (or "mini bananas") - de-lish-ous.

I love Cuba. It's a country of strange proportions; slightly surreal in the fashion of Latin American "fantastic reality" fiction. There are overpasses on the highway which remain unfinished after decades, old Soviet-era electricity generators which look like rust-bitten sci-fi nuclear reactors, short street dogs which roam the cities in curious packs. Unlike other countries I've been to, I must say that there are very few which can match Cuba for national pride. The people love their country - politics right or politics wrong - and this pride is immediately noticeable, regardless that the average monthly income is 350 Cuban pesos (roughly 15 Canadian dollars).

I wasn't there to investigate politics. No one there knows what to expect from Raul Castro, short of taking his word that he requires a year to generate ideas to take Cuba forward (though tempting, I thought it pretentious to put quotes around "ideas" and "forward"; I've decided to keep it all verbatim). The Cuban people have come out of a very, very dark time. After the fall of the Soviet Union, they were essentially abandoned by their largest trading partner in the early 90s, which meant disaster for a country who's main export was sugar cane; in other words, they were left to fend for themselves - another Haiti, albeit with a better music scene.

In the last decade they've managed to get back onto their feet economically, but it wasn't without a number of years of extreme hardship. We were told stories of what people subsisted on and it reminded me of what I'd read about the siege of Leningrad: people eating leather for nourishment, cat becoming an ingredient in restaurant food...fun stuff. Canada has become a welcome trading partner since, helping with the development of their oil resources. They now trade their abundance of skilled doctors for petrol with Venezuela. Their greatest export now (aside from educated/skilled workers) is nickel, which they trade extensively with China. Running third is tourism.

I was happy to contribute, as I certainly (and always) learn much in return.

Photo: MoMa #3

Photo: MoMa #1