Ottawa last winter

To articulate this experience I must think of a proper way of beginning, my initial inclination was to describe the feeling of being an actor, more accurately a pretender waiting to be discovered for his big lie that he's not from around here. Unable to forget, even for a moment, that this neighbourhood does not belong to me in anyway, I walk around without any sort of security or sense of confidence that I know what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing-referring to a scribbled down list of directions on a piece of paper...arrive at the bus stop, the buses don't look the same, I even have to ask the bus driver where I should put the ticket...I am not myself in these parts. I am something confused and tied in a strange sort of awkwardness about every single move I make-someone will spot me sooner or later and alert everyone else about my presence amongst them- I am a deceiver, a pretender dressed in someone else's clothes.
I arrive at the train station after having ridden the bus on a straight road without any sights other than large enclosing walls made of pale concrete, only to discover that the train costs two dollars and fifty cents to ride...I, of course only have a dollar thirty eight in my pocket...what a fool I am....I find myself confronted with a slight dilemma, for this train stop is in the middle of a wide open space and highways. I instinctively start walking towards some buildings, only to think to myself of how depressing these sights are, even embarrassing to be walking amongst, especially since I do not think I would be walking around here if I knew what I was doing or where I should be going..nothing more depressing than these wide open fields of long, yellow, dying grass with garbage blown around here and there; highways and storage spaces with advertisements for cardboard boxes....this all feels so foreign but all too familiar to me, that it is utterly depressing.. I ask a balding guy where the nearest variety store is, he seems to laugh a little bit when I smile thankfully. Even idiots have one up on me-for they at least know where the hell they are going. I can no longer be that guy who keeps to himself and feels comfortable, who arrogantly looks at no one for a lack of interest, for I am at mimimal in need of their directional assistance. I am almost wishing for someone to take me under their wing and answer the few questions I am requiring answers to, “Does anyone even pay for the ticket this bus, or just get on for free?...Is there anybody to check to make sure you've paid the fare?” But, I am timid, and no-one here looks interested in speaking to a stranger.
I walk a few blocks threw some uninteresting brown brick apartments, and a few large factory stores, (paint, boxes, car parts) get the required two fifty for the train and head back to the station, which is just a platform in the middle of nowhere, down in some burrow under a bridge. but not before passing a house that strikes my attention, all alone on a rather large greenish yellow lawn, as if cut away from the rest of the townhouses which should be pressed up against its sides, it sits skinny and perfectly squared, with fake brick panelling on the upper half of the face, with a small porch with a white plastic chair on it; a settlement resting on a lot tucked in behind a storage space and prior to a block of uniform apartments, all on its own; surely one of the last places I would wish to live on earth, despite its sort of ugly charm. I imagine what it would be like to come home to that place, or to have guests over and think to myself that at the age of twenty it would strike me as a cool place to party-but now I see no potential for excitement in such a barren lot. I wish I had taken a photo.
I return back to the train station to insert my coins into the slot to discover that the machine is jammed; how embarrassing...I find myself standing there prodding a key in to try and push the coins down in order to print off a ticket for myself; as the crowd of students grows around me; not a single one of them shows any interest in the machine itself, only in my occupation with it-this must be a sight they do not see every day; Someone who at face, resembles one of their own, but now I might as well be wearing a neon jacket or a cone on my head. As the train approaches I decide that I will aboard regardless and blindly await what process will occur in order to verify my right to ride, if any....I wait and watch as the doors open and people aboard without having to appeal to any authority. I hop on and take a seat and wait anxiously for the train to start moving...some must find it humorous that I tried so hard to get a ticket only to aboard anyways, I, surely not the only liar amongst them, but still, the only one wearing my deed on my sleeve-they most infer of my slightly worried state-while they relax in a bored state...I am something new; so unfamiliar with what useful secrets I might be missing out on. The conductors of the train exist the pit at one end of the train and I observe them on the dock as I sit; I decide to put my headphones on; the two men are talking right outside the door; when they enter I am just turning the volume up and looking away, conveying a look of non deceptive thoughts; 'just keep on walking'..the man trailing the other, looks at me for a moment and I am almost certain he contemplated asking me for some kind verification. They pass on by though, and I wait for the train to move. It eventually does, and I eventually arrive at a destination where I know even less about what to do, or where to go.
I follow the herd again; the guy I asked for change back on those ugly streets has been amongst the same group of traveller's the entire time; whatever small confines my presence occupies in his mind; it is a place I do not wish to remain within; someone who does not know where they are going, I wish to separate from any one who might quietly still be observing me from time to time out of the corner of their eye.
So here I am now, hiding in a nook typing out this little adventure, to perhaps point out a few conclusions re-iterated in these experiences. Without experience we are truly blind as to what or how we ought to act; even with regard to the simplest little subtleties that can so easily be taken for granted upon being accustomed to certain ways of functioning for years; secondly, this feeling of displacement is both oddly embarrassing and discomforting-even ordering my coffee at a new coffee shop, there is a part of me waiting to be laughed at or told discovered by the people working there....a strange sort of paranoia that only high levels of alcohol has ever been able to alleviate by providing a sense of, 'who gives a fuck'. One pint last night fails to suffice.
The streets here, thus far, are not pretty, not interesting, not filled with cool looking people. Much more wide open then I'd like them to be; and this campus does not yet strike me as some place I'd like to spend a lot of my time. I long for a place far from the spaces between highways, which can only fill themselves with long yellow grass and garbage. The smell in the air speaks of the beginning of spring, with an unexpected warmth and odour of damp grass drying under the sun. This brings me back to her-anxiousness, but appreciative; alone in a purer sense, for the lack of even the slightest of hope of not feeling this way someday. Let the snow come.
Perhaps it takes years in order to learn how to react to sights without a feeling of nausea, in order to respond to familiarity with the much more comfortable intuition of boredom.
The sights on the train however, we're at time beautiful, why do colours strike my eyes with such promises of miraculous things in the future. White bark, red grass, green pine needles, black water-that beauty was the promise of future happiness, I do not know; the will's interestedness was a promise of future happiness-I think more accurately, that looking upon beauty is happiness; when one is momentarily swept up in a sight, prior to the interruption of expression; in that moment prior, when beauty is simply beauty; is this not a state of happiness, though it may only last the duration of a few seconds.
Dec 5
Only takes a few days to realize how to place my poisonous self amongst this populace of Christmas kids and slightly overweight middle aged people who for the last twenty years, haven't needed anything more than a roast beef dinner and a cup of coffee to feel at repose. But, there are still those, who've fallen into this life of suburban routine who shows signs of ware and tare...its the look in their eyes of hopelessness, an acceptance of a fate, as dictated by principles within the good old Christian way, to live up to one's responsibilities like a sheep being herded by an invisible shepherd asking only of them, their time until quiet and final submission; offering them comfort and food and warmth and children, but nothing more; much like the life of a house cat. The wishes fulfilled, the only they've ever known to desire. Such a tricky sleight of hand is the trick which requires no sleight of hand at all; for this magician poisons by granting everything you ever thought you wanted; a new kitchen counter top and the kids at hockey practice by eight.
This is a city condemned to die at a date that might as well be tomorrow; for they are barely breathing as it appears to me presently as I sit here in this coffee shop, surrounded by screaming kids and boring looking 'politically informed' middle class types who care mostly about their families, but still have enough time to shop at Canadian tire for their car's winter needs and to take in a few Ottawa senators games at the local 'pub'. Passing the time comfortably, uniformly and predictably to insure that every PTA meeting goes smoothly...what is the flavour of this place? Like the small neighbourhood I grew up in, but the kids are much more well behaved than we were. The other day I played basketball with a few twelve year olds who left right after the game because they had to go home to finish their homework, it later occurred to me that I was that age when I first smoked pot...good for them, but for their parents I can only feel infinitely sorry, for they are stuck here, and they are happy. It was all they ever wished for. For the ones who are smitten with the size of their houses along these quiet streets which echo only the sounds of politely screaming children-I can think of nothing other than to distance myself from; to those who are beginning to feel imprisoned, who finally have begun to question the meaning of their existence, I can only wish for them to embrace the truths they've recently stumbled upon as a means of empowering themselves in to thinking of ways to escape their thought patterns; illusory escape is usually the only way to revolt against these place in the initial stages, but the imagination can illuminate an entirely new perspective to observe one's world with, and so too might it call for corporeal rebellion, one attainable in an outward sense as well.
But, there is surely, simply, something oh so sheepish about this place-but at least now I have come to be able to articulate it to myself without the fear of being completely in err-its as if I'm perpetually stuck at an easter dinner with relatives I no longer recognize or feel any sort of love for; just stuck here amongst them and completely bored. In five days here I have not seen a single female which I have found moderately attractive, and I even visited the campus here; surely in due time their would be faces to look upon, but as for the past five days, that particular compartment of my nervous system I shall now awkwardly label as my 'heart's interestedness in things' has been good only for collecting dust-in days, not a single bird to land on a branch near me; to activate even the slightest sense of interest. A few weird looking girls have gawked at me, but I can't help but feel that their looks have only expressed a certain sense of displacement with regard to my presence here; at least with this neighbourhood. There is an american apparel in this neighbourhood, and I will bet any money that within a few months it will realize the absurdity of their choice of location, and cut their losses and close up shop.
Last night, I became comfortable again with my self; with my words, for my lack of willingness to 'de-weird' myself any longer. I have a sense of a scene and suddenly again I am able to look upon my surroundings with honest eyes-things are strange and somewhat depressing for the most part around here; I feel more comfortably accepting this conclusion than I do pretending to be okay with it.
It occurs to me how terribly sick I force myself to feel upon opting for silence when forced to listen to others' shortsighted philosophies on everything as if they were the most brilliant thinkers in our times- I often sit and listen, act as if I am in agreement with what they are saying, rather than open my mouth, and allow for words to begin to pour out-and why? I think upon this day, that I would rather leave people in their veil of self approval, because the thought of changing the way they contently think about things in a way strikes me as so utterly offensive for some reason. I will be the quiet pawn to force your words upon-because you are someone I do not feel comfortable enough imposing my perspective upon; I do not impose this curse of nihilism upon people I do not believe are capable of possessing it without a judgement of me; for the way I toy with ideas is simply just that, a toying with ideas, and ideas surely shape everything...my entire body is but matter to be moulded on a daily basis by my consciousness, and my consciousness surely, but matter to be moulded against its will by the hands which clasp themselves around me without my knowledge of whats taking place, typically though, I am lucky enough to catch myself before its too late. While there is still time to recognize the presence of something foreign in my brain, usually at a glance in the mirror when I observe the unattractive dullness of colour and shape that has began to show itself upon my face.....'Woah' I say, “What force, whose thoughts, have left me looking this way?' It is then when I force myself to wake up; to lose a little bit of sleep in order to remember the mood of my thoughts in an effort to re-claim me. At all costs, I will not be lost to this mundane.