It's early morning as I head out into the fog. Walking down the long, tree-lined path through the lush green park to the bus stop, I'm aware of feeling like I don't want to go to work. The grind is getting to me. I could really use an adventure right about now. Something to inspire me, to get my blood pumping, to give me new things to think and dream about.
I'm thinking about Europe. I never did finish my European tour back in 2004. I always figured I'd go back. The planet felt so small and navigable back then, but since returning to Canada ten years ago, the distance to the rest of the world seems to have increased somehow.
What if I didn't catch this bus? What if I cross the street instead and go the other way, to the subway station, and then to the airport...
My fantastic scheme is interrupted by an unexpected discovery near the end of the path. It's a machine. Some kind of vehicle, I assume. Made of dull light metal, tarnished and dark, with an upright cylindrical construction, it's like a tin can on tiny wheels.
I wonder what's inside? I envision a TARDIS-like room, larger than this construction can possibly contain, serving as a futuristic control centre. Opening the door, I'm disappointed to find more tarnished metal and air that smells vaguely of beef vegetable soup. The door closes behind me, but little cracks of light are visible. It's barely tall enough for me to stand up inside, and there is no seat, so I have to stoop just the tiniest bit. What a rip off. I'm not going anywhere in this thing.
Thinking I have time to get to work, I exhale into the soupy atmosphere and try to open the door, but it's stuck. Ugh, seriously? I push and push, and then kick and kick at the door, but to no avail. Frustrated and not able to do much else, I curse, cross my arms and glare angrily in the cracklight.
Then the door opens, but just a bit, like it's been ajar all this time, like a gentle breeze has pulled on it ever so slightly. Fuck you, tin can door. You're the worst.
Exiting the soup can, I'm aware that I'm still in the same place, but everything looks different, older, ruined, falling apart. The trees are dead, the grass is sparse and brown, and there is garbage everywhere, decorating the lifeless branches, littering the park path. The sky is overcast and the clouds have the appearance of being shit stained. Come to think of it, the air smells shitty, too.
There's my bus. I run to catch it. Downtown I go. I look around at my fellow passengers. People on the bus don't usually look like they're having the time of their lives, but these people look downright sad, downtrodden, beaten. I pull out my iPhone to check the time and call work to tell them I'll be a bit late. No service. Wtf?
To pass the time, I grab the Metro paper on the seat next to me. The date on the paper makes my mouth run dry and my stomach leap up into my throat - it's today's date... but the year is 2039.
So wait... that shitty soup can on wheels is a time machine after all? And of all the places and times it could take me to, I hopped forward 25 years in exactly the same place? Lame. It could have at least been a DeLorean with a flux capacitor. I deserve at least that much.
(Amazingly, I couldn't find a video for Tin Machine anywhere on the interwebs.
So here it is on Grooveshark.)
The bus drops me off in downtown Toronto. I have a love-hate relationship with this city. Growing up in Northern Ontario, I knew I wanted to live here when I grew up. Coming to visit as a kid, it was magical to me. The size of it, the people, the shops, the streets... everything dazzled and sparkled with the hope and promise of a fantastic kind of life.
I thought I was going to be like Picasso, painting pictures all the live long day and selling them to people who would hang them on their wall, and brag about owning a Shelley Zarudenec original. And they'd have all my books, too... the complete library of my contributions to the literary world. And they'd go see my Oscar-winning films and then come to my concerts where I would sing for the delighted masses. Big dreams for a little girl. And all I had to do was move to Toronto. It was that simple.
Obviously, things didn't turn out quite like that. Toronto didn't turn out quite like that, not even in 2014. Now in 2039, I'm shocked and saddened to see a city that has achieved a stunning decrepitude. A thick film of melancholy covers the buildings, the sidewalks, and the people as they shuffle hopelessly to work, home, shopping, nowhere.
At Yonge and Dundas Square, CityPulse24 flashes on the billboard sized TV screen. The headlines appear barely long enough to read them. I learn that the newly elected mayor has published a memoir describing his sinister deeds and rise to power. Mayor Rob Ford's legacy is that in the future, we no longer expect our leaders to be better than ourselves, inevitably leading to the ruin of our cities. I look out over the empty square. Someone has scrawled the words Crack City over the old Toronto city logo on the old ticket booth.
As the headlines continue to flash, I discover that the same is true for Canada as a whole. Prime Minister Stephen Harper has long since passed the torch to his successor, and the federal Conservative party has retained power consecutively across these 25 years over which I've skipped. Always elected democratically, of course, but if you were an outsider, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a dictatorship.
Conspiracy theories abound. One popular theory is that the Liberal, NDP and Green parties are actually factions of the Conservative party, orchestrating an official Conservative win at each election. What happens to those whose ideals lean toward social policy? They defect... or go missing. Once known for our generous hospitality and welcoming nature, the nation has all but closed its borders to migrants from other lands, and has moved toward marginalizing those who weren't born Canadian. My heart is sick and sad.
A small group of people begins to form in the square. They're carrying signs and it looks like they're about to begin some kind of protest. They call themselves the Laytonist Party - obviously the deceased federal NDP leader Jack Layton is their hero. They're disorganized and a bit meek for a protest group. Their barely audible chants of worship for their working class hero are easily drowned out by the sounds of endless traffic.
In 2039, I am 63 years old. I assume that I'm still alive, and despite the paradox of meeting oneself in the future, I decide to try and find myself to see what I can learn about the last 25 years and to find out how I can make the most of them when... if... I return to 2014.
Phone books don't exist anymore, of course. I see a lot of people walking around adorned with wearable tech. Would someone be kind enough to google me on their device? Not that I expect to find an address, but maybe I can at least find out if I'm still in Toronto.
But people are keeping their heads down, and the few I try to speak to refuse my request or simply ignore me and continue on their way. Frustrated and beginning to feel hopeless, I begin walking west on Dundas Street, being rejected by citizen after citizen in the search for someone who will help me find myself.
Suddenly, a homeless man stops me in my tracks. Witnessing my pleas for help, he tells me that he has only got a few eCredits left on his watch, but I can use them if I'm desperate. I decide I'm not desperate enough to accept this man's generosity. Instead, I give him a $5 note and, a few loonies and toonies, and some other change. He chuckles at my offering, saying he hasn't seen the likes of these in years. He hopes the stores will still accept them. He wishes me well and hurries off back to the patch of sidewalk he calls home.
I'm feeling a bit aimless. Normally I'd go exploring, but I'm afraid of what I will find. So instead I follow my new friend over to his makeshift condo, and ask him if I can hang out with him for a little while. He happily obliges, and over the next couple of hours, I learn about his life, and how he came to be on the streets.
It was all because of a girl. A girl that he loved so much that he feared losing her every minute of his waking life. A girl he swore to protect from the evils of the world. A girl he couldn't leave, despite the ruin his life was becoming in trying to keep her safe. A girl named Dahlia... his daughter.
One day his wife just didn't come home, leaving him to care for little Dahlia. Then he lost his job, and began dealing drugs to earn an income. The government came and took Dahlia away from him, and he was arrested. When he finished his time, he was released into the world with no where to go, and this is where I found him.
I ask him if he tried to reconnect with Dahlia since his parole. Sadly, he tells me that he doesn't want to know. Instead, he has chosen to believe that she has gone to live with a family in a home filled with love and security and that she's forgotten all about the heartbreak she endured as a young child. He has no idea if it is true, but choosing to believe it is what keeps him alive.
It begins to rain and the man, whose name I have learned is James, moves to the bus shelter to keep dry. I thank him for talking with me and descend into Toronto's underground PATH.
I always manage to get lost in the PATH. Having no clue where I am, I decide to go back up to get my bearings. I emerge in the Eaton Centre, and make my way out to the street. The rain has stopped and the streets are slick and steamy. As I walk by City Hall, I see a young couple sitting at one of the chess tables, kissing like their lives depend on it. Normally I'd be annoyed by such a public display of affection, but in the context of this gloom, it's actually heartening to see that even in the worst of times, love finds a way.
Suddenly I'm aware that I'm gawking at them, and I turn my gaze away just as the boy puts his hand up his girl's skirt. I hurry away, head down, but smiling with the realization that some things never change. Love is a beautiful thing, but we're all here because two people had sex.
Continuing west on Queen St., I see that the shop and restaurant names have changed, but in a way it all still looks the same. The old CTV/MUCH building still has that car half hanging out of the wall as if it's crashed through, the wheel still spinning. There's a TV in the window at street level playing CTV's signature entertainment news show, eTalk. Ben Mulroney's been replaced by someone who looks the spitting image of him, only much younger, of course. I'm sure he's retired by now.
They're talking about a young new "it" girl. I didn't catch her name, but I learn that she rose to fame by banging some pop star and posting their sex tape on the Internet. Now she has a reality show in which a film crew follows her around while she goes shopping and talks on her phone. She's only 17 years old, but the clubs let her in because she's good for business. Someone on the program calls her a savvy entrepreneur. I just about throw up on the sidewalk.
Then I find out her name. Dahlia Something.
God forbid anyone becomes well known for contributing something through talent or intelligence anymore. This is how you get your 15 minutes, people.
Next up on eTalk: The story of Canada's most famous serial killer. He grew up idolizing Canadian killing stars Paul Bernardo, Luka Magnotta, and Dellen Millard. He always knew he would someday take his place among them. He knew he had what it takes: charm, good looks, street smarts, and a raging case of undiagnosed, unbridled psychopathy. At the age of 18, Carys Stewart began posting videos of his intricately planned and executed murders on his blog, The SK Chronicles, and got away with it for months by shooting his videos creatively and making the whole thing look like a fictional web series.
Sure, people were horrified to learn they'd been tuning in to watch him actually kill actual people, but he had also attracted a loyal fan base. He was eventually arrested and sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole, inciting his fans to protest and inspiring them to start copy cat blogs. Carys Stewart admits he always knew he'd get arrested someday, but he's proud of his contributions to the SK hall of fame.
The eTalk segment includes a screenshot of Stewart's blog, and it appears to be written in some kind of jibberish I can't understand - a nonsensical mishmash of letters, numbers, symbols and emoticons strung together in a way that almost looks like a code. And then I realize this is the evolution of the English language. It sounds the same, but now it looks like this:
ZOMGGG u giz,,, hav such goo d nooz 4 u 2dayyyyyy XD XD XD Nu vid 2B postd sooooon!!! Loveeee MR CARYSma =^..^=
I hate 2039. I want to go back to 2014 where things are fucked up but not as bad as this. Maybe I can do something about it, something to stop it. If only I knew where to find my 63-year-old self before heading back to my soup can time machine.
And then there I am, walking toward me from the west. I look old and a bit different, but I have no doubt. I can feel it. My own energy getting closer and closer, filling me up with... I don't know how else to describe it, but... it's like I'm filling up with my own selfness. With every step 63-year-old me takes in my direction, I know more and more about myself. I am brimming with my own light and truth. No drug in the world feels like this.
As we meet, we don't need to embrace or even talk. I know everything she's... everything I'm thinking. I didn't need to go looking for her. She knew where to find me. Of course she did. She's been waiting for this. 25 years pass just like an evening at the circus. The advice she imparts to me without uttering a word changes me forever.
I owe it myself and to the world to go out and use the brain and the talents that I have to make something, to put something new into the world, to contribute. It won't stop 2039 from happening. But the world will be 0.01% better because of it, and that's not nothing.
*****
So, Tin Machine then. I like this album. I don't love it, but I like it a lot. It's not profound or groundbreaking, but it gave me a lot to think about. Like the future. And when I think about the future, I think about what kinds of things I will have contributed to the world. Never has "making something" been more important to me than it has been in recent months.When I was a kid, I was generally involved in one of four activities: daydreaming, writing, drawing, or singing. This is a bit embarrassing, but I did sort of have this feeling like I was special, or something. Like I was destined for some kind of greatness. I don't think it was narcissism... I think that my parents just did an amazing job of telling me I was a better artist, writer, singer, etc. than I really was. I was certain that I was going to make a living doing one of those things, if not all of them, and that I was going to be famous for it.
Then I grew up and life got in the way. I stopped dreaming, essentially, and got down to the business of trying to pay rent and buy groceries, and have a bit of fun in the meantime.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about art, and creativity, and making stuff. I no longer have dreams of fame and fortune, but the need to make something, to put something out into the world, just for the sake of it, has become pervasive in my thoughts. This blog fills that need to some degree... giving myself a little creative writing assignment every couple of weeks fueled by Bowie albums has been good for me, I think.
But I have another more long-term project that I'm working on, and I'm most excited about it. Not too many people know about it, and I'm fine with that. One day I shall unleash it upon the world. It shall get no attention whatsoever, except from the people who love me. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I've made the world 0.01% better.
Because every time a piece of art is made, whether it ends up hanging in a gallery, sold on Etsy, or hanging on a fridge in a family kitchen, the world is improved. And that's why you should write a poem. Or play the guitar. Or shoot a short film on your mobile device. Or draw a picture. It doesn't matter who sees it. It doesn't matter how good it is. It doesn't matter how long it took. All that matters is that you made something.
Finally, before I sign off today, I just want to say that Tin Machine felt... Canadian to me. Isn't that weird? Some of the songs... I Can't Read, especially, remind me of the Tragically Hip. I listened to a bunch of The Hip to see if there was a particular song that I was thinking of, but I couldn't find one specifically. It's really just a Tragically Hip kind of feeling. And I think that in some way that feeling inspired this post as well.
