While there is very little to actually speak of, a few things do come to mind. Maybe just a post to update for my own sake as well as yours, and then I should have some more to speak of in the coming weeks: a new place, an ice-fishing trip planned, maybe a new vehicle soon, and who knows, maybe a jaunt to Yellowknife or a surrounding hamlet for fun.
First, a quick job update must be in order by now, and in fact, I do not think I have spoken much on the subject at all. I took over the Assistant Manager role at this property, and I have to say, I enjoy the job. Some days are slow; like the painful slow of watching paint dry, but not quite as trying as listening to grass grow. I take care of the front office staff, housekeeping, and I look after all the group bookings and banquets, so usually I have enough on my plate as long as business is booming. Seems obvious, but truth be told, a full house does not equal a full plate.
Next, and while we’re on the subject of full plates, it appears that I must love them. The other night I sat back with a tall rye after a shower, and took to resting after about 10kms of tramping on the river with Carter. Freshened up and feeling the need to get sucked into both the couch and mindless television, I opted for my long underwear, socks, and nothing else. Feet up, glass in hand, I felt as though I was trying to look past a guy with thinning hair just in front of me. I gave his head a quick swipe, and I myself muttered the “Ouch, hey!”... turns out he was my stomach.
For every cold, wind-bitten, beautiful walk I have endured, it appeared my winter coat was determined to take shape. I wondered over and over that night how I could possibly gain about 8 pounds given all the time spent outdoors traipsing through the woods or along the river. Then, it came to me: food. Granted, this is not exactly the same as Archimedes figuring out what displacement is, but I failed to consider that almost every meal I had eaten was nothing but fatty, deep fried goodness tended to by a sympathy salad. Living and working in the hotel has limited my culinary delights because I have no proper kitchen in my room. Where I am moving into an apartment next week, I have pledged a week of thin soups and exercise. The only balding guy watching TV in my solitary confinement should be me, not myself and I.
Another point worth noting is my evening playing bass with a local pop/country band at the Legion here in Hay River. I got a call on a Wednesday from a fellow named Dan, and he said through the grapevine he had heard I could play bass. When I told him I in fact did, he asked if I would like to sit in and accompany his group for a dance the coming Saturday. Having sat in unannounced a few times on bass I was confident, so I said yes and asked what time they started. My second live stint in the north would begin at 9pm.
I showed up around 8:30pm, ready to rock. Dan asked why I was not around for sound check, a few runs through of a couple of songs, and to make sure I knew what I was in for. I was unaware that we were launching into a exact replication of RUSH’s 2112 in its entirety, but assured him I would be able to follow along. Three songs in, he turned to me and said, “well, now I feel like an ass... you should have just said you were better than the music itself”. Not much for that sort of self promotion, I told him I was uncomfortable just saying something like “oh yeah, I’m awesome”, and figured I would just let my fingers do the talking. It is pretty much the same as my approach to courting women.
The night was a lot of fun, filled with music, drinks, a few new faces, and a few familiar faces that were unaware that I could even hold an instrument, let alone play one. After the gig was over, a few folks I knew invited me to a party close by. It passed without excitement, and I enjoyed a few beers quietly, and then slipped away as the crowd was either dying down or relocating to another spot.
I was fairly uninterested in going “just to go”, and upon arriving back at the hotel I grabbed Carter and my flask and headed to the river for a 3am constitutional. The sky was so wide, the air so crisp, and the stars and moon so amazingly bright I wondered why anyone would want to be inside. I suppose that it all comes with time and territory, the old “you’re new here, you love it, and we can’t wait to leave” kind of mentality. To me, for some reason, this opposing feeling has the same ring as some people having nice parents when company is coming.
Lately, Carter and I have had some ridiculous walks, both together and solo on my own (he has yet to earn my trust to be let out the door to return, a common practice for dog owners here in town). Early morning when I cannot for the life of me get back to sleep after awaking at 4am, I will hitch him up and hit the river with a traveler of coffee. One morning, we walked up past the ice crossing to the Reserve in town and under the bridge to “Old Town”, winding in behind the airport, then hopped off the ice and made our way home on the roads. Carter was off leash the whole time, even through the town, which was of no mind for me as most residents were still deep in slumber when we made it to the hotel around 5:30am. Few cars announced themselves in the deep silence that morning, and I felt like we had the whole town to ourselves.
Another night, I could not get to sleep. It was a Friday and very little was happening so I opted to stay in, watch a movie, and catch up on some sleep. Around 1am I turned in, and nearing 3am I had tried to no avail to read myself tired, write myself tired, and tea myself tired. I threw off the covers and pillows, put my feet on the floor, and cradled my head in my hands. I knew why I could not sleep, what with certain stresses making themselves quite apparent the preceding days, but I was not about to give into them. Carter had already been out for the afternoon with a local woman whose dog could damn near be his twin sister, and the two played in her yard for several hours. He was still sleeping off his fun, and no doubt his anger at my having him fixed some years back, so I left him to rest while I packed up a few things and headed into the night.
It is worth noting that heading on to a river at night and straying even 100 meters into the brush is not advisable, but for whatever reason, I thought it was fine. Granted, you would not be reading this had I gotten lost, and I was never even close to such a disaster, but remember, safety first. Always.
I was sufficiently bundled in my winter gear, stocked up with a sandwich and chocolate bar, and had acquired some kindling from the renovation dumpster behind the hotel. I went back in the direction of the town bridge and ended up on a small delta-like island on the shore of Great Slave Lake. I sat and lit a fire, boiled some tea in a tin can I had been using on several walks, and enjoyed a sandwich. The night would have been perfect for viewing the (to me) illusive Aurora Borealis, but sadly it was not cold enough at a meager -17C. Instead, I was treated to the largest expanse of sky I had ever witnessed; a plethora of constellations, shooting stars, and satellites all poised and performing, surely just for me.
On the walk back that morning, I realized I had left the hotel around 3:30am and was not even near the hill behind the property at almost 6am. It was such an amazing time on that little piece of land, stoking the fire and sipping tea, alone with my thoughts and sorting through the stresses as of late.
I felt good, and I mean really good, waking up that Saturday, and have tried to keep that positive attitude throughout the days and weeks that have followed. However, I liken my move here to sort through my problems to moving an alcoholic into a liquor store to dry out. I wanted to escape certain things, but I find myself face to face with them all too often because of my immense capacity of free time. Not knowing too many people who I can just call up, and not having the necessary tools to escape the little town, I am hit head on some days by the issues I struggle to forget. The loneliness sinks in, the isolation steeping me; the pains of certain yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows all to present in my stomach and heart.
Forgetting what should be forgotten, I do feel as though this is a good move on my part. I am not sure I would take such measures to improve or amend my situation at home if I was still happy with everything outside of said situation. What I mean is: would I change myself if I was still in the company of those who did not think I needed to change; would I lose some extra pounds if I figured I will only be single anyway; would I look to nature and the stars for relief if I was not completely new to the area in which I found them? The questions are all relative, and mostly rhetorical. I feel they have no actual bearing and really have no answers.
As much as I like it here, and for all I appreciate my own attempts to change or better myself, I have to wonder if I would be doing this at home.
Here’s to wonder, here’s to home... here’s to hanging in there.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
"One likes to believe in the freedom of music..."
Everyone has a crutch, and some of us lean harder on those crutches than others. Be it religion, friends, alcohol, or what have you, a person sometimes requires that “something” to get them through. I have a number of good friends who rely heavily on their faith, others who look to intoxicants for personal strength, and many who believe family is all you need to get you past any of life’s troubles.
Since a very young age, one thing has always had the power to sway or suit any situation. The varieties available with this factor make its effects limitless, and the speed with which it works rival the instantaneous rise or fall of any injection. When I get to a point where I need to feel something different, feel stronger, or not feel at all, I turn to one thing and one thing only: music.
In the past month or more, I have come to realize that certain songs, albums, and bands mean more to me than I would ever have thought. My relationship with certain artists and selections has gone beyond the issue of just liking or appreciating what I am hearing, and evolved into a true love and necessity. I refuse to leave my dwelling without headphones and I will not entertain 20 minutes without pushing play or playing, and this has been a bright light in my darkened world here up North. Sometimes, I just need a song.
One particular group that has made an impact on me is RUSH. Now, I know this is not news, nor would it be a huge surprise to anyone who knows me, but taking something like music and applying it to a new environment can completely change your perspective on what you are seeing and hearing. I would listen to RUSH on average for about 25 percent of my waking day, and that amount has only increased since moving to Hay River. Be it walking on the frozen river, traipsing through the woods, or wandering the streets, the Canadian power-trio has a song for it all.
One night well into dark (oh... 5pm), I decided to leave the dog at home and go for a walk on my own, heading onto the river and walking up to one of many vehicle ice crossings in the area, then turning around. “Mystic Rhythms” came to on the shuffle, and I soon fell into step with the pounding of the drums, upping my tempo and warming me in turn. The song really seemed to speak to the area, especially the mention of the Northern Lights in the chorus, and one low synth growl in particular almost seems to represent the sound the aurora would make were they not silent, and some of the imagery presented in the song played out right before my eyes. Neil Peart mentioned “a canopy of stars”, the city lights and northern lights, but also focused a lot on recollection and distant thoughts, something I often have time for up here.
Another instance where RUSH really hit me was walking across a 2km clearing on a bright, clear morning just after the new year broke. The crossing took me close to 20 minutes in the deep snow, and upon hitting the dead center of the expanse the song “Bravado” bled from my headphones, which were resting on my shoulders. The song did not really gel with the surroundings on a theme level, but the opening riff has always felt bright and kind of like sunrise. With Carter off leash and running everywhere but near me, I was watching day break and listening to what I had always thought it sounded like.
Moments like this have been many and often, where I would find myself in a situation accented perfectly by a selection from my playlist, almost always random. Other times, a song will come on and ignite my thoughts, reminding me of home or certain people, places or times, and have nothing to do with a situation or accent. The artist or song just has a connection with a recent or deeply buried memory, and without the tune I think I would rarely bring the thought to light on my own.
Since I was a child, and I mean two or three years old, I have been a huge KISS fan. Over the last few years, while still a loyal member of the KISS Army, my fanboy-esque devotion has waned, and I find myself a little disappointed in the band. They still rock and still kick serious ass live, but it is not the same anymore. This is all fodder for a completely separate discussion, but the fact remains that this band is a part of my being, and it is no wonder that the catalogue spanning more than 35 years touches parts of my soul nothing else even grazes.
Many nights in the pub here, I have enjoyed that one drink that accompanies the previous 7 so well, and I get into DJ mode. I will log several credits on the jukebox and pick through about 10 KISS songs, and it makes me feel at home. I pay no mind to the glares of other patrons and tap along to the tunes, thinking of home, of my childhood, and always of my brother. I would give my left arm to split a case of beer with him, and pick and choose one song from disc after disc, resulting in about an hour of music versus two hours of switching DVDs.
Sometimes, I just find myself in need of having my mood suited. The fact that a person has the ability to draw up nearly any song they wish at any time is amazing. It is obvious that, yes, people can do this in this day and age, but perhaps the action is not as deserving of the adulation as the result. I am allowed to marvel at whatever I wish, and if I choose to laud simplicity, my appreciation of the greater things in life will only be more. Having the option of instant aural satisfaction to me is no small wonder, and I find myself taking advantage of it often.
Other bands and artists that have become part of my days have mainly been out of just this act, suiting my mood in the moment. Anger is paired with Misery Signals, sadness with Alison Krauss and Union Station, happiness with bands like Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam, and modes of relaxation tended to by satellite radio stations offering music with more “space”. More over, I have been trying to take the method of listening in the mood further, and getting into playing in the mood.
Having been writing songs for about 10 years now, I am no stranger to letting out my emotions on guitar and through singing. Within the past year I have written about 10 songs, 4 of which I would keep or play live. That said, every song is to be written and none to go unfinished. I have labored 6 months over songs I will never play, but the idea of ditching the effort does not sit well with me. If I do not give due diligence to something I do not care for, what is that saying for the attempts made on something I like?
Here in the North, so many emotions have run wild through me: fear, doubt, hopefulness, sadness, loneliness, nessnessness, etc. More and more, I find myself just sitting with either JoAnne or Jenna (my guitars, 6 and 12 string respectively), just strumming away on nothing in particular. I try to stay away from structure or songs I know and let my learning curve take a break, electing to try and submit to my feelings and let my fingers do the talking. My only regret is that I do not record any of this stuff yet, but after acquiring some gear in the near future, I should have hours and hours of crap to sift through.
No matter where I go or what I find myself doing, music continues to be the biggest part of my life outside of family. I can not imagine situations music could not enhance any more than I can picture a day that I would neglect its merits.
Speaking of which, it’s been nearly 3 hours since I heard a good song...
Since a very young age, one thing has always had the power to sway or suit any situation. The varieties available with this factor make its effects limitless, and the speed with which it works rival the instantaneous rise or fall of any injection. When I get to a point where I need to feel something different, feel stronger, or not feel at all, I turn to one thing and one thing only: music.
In the past month or more, I have come to realize that certain songs, albums, and bands mean more to me than I would ever have thought. My relationship with certain artists and selections has gone beyond the issue of just liking or appreciating what I am hearing, and evolved into a true love and necessity. I refuse to leave my dwelling without headphones and I will not entertain 20 minutes without pushing play or playing, and this has been a bright light in my darkened world here up North. Sometimes, I just need a song.
One particular group that has made an impact on me is RUSH. Now, I know this is not news, nor would it be a huge surprise to anyone who knows me, but taking something like music and applying it to a new environment can completely change your perspective on what you are seeing and hearing. I would listen to RUSH on average for about 25 percent of my waking day, and that amount has only increased since moving to Hay River. Be it walking on the frozen river, traipsing through the woods, or wandering the streets, the Canadian power-trio has a song for it all.
One night well into dark (oh... 5pm), I decided to leave the dog at home and go for a walk on my own, heading onto the river and walking up to one of many vehicle ice crossings in the area, then turning around. “Mystic Rhythms” came to on the shuffle, and I soon fell into step with the pounding of the drums, upping my tempo and warming me in turn. The song really seemed to speak to the area, especially the mention of the Northern Lights in the chorus, and one low synth growl in particular almost seems to represent the sound the aurora would make were they not silent, and some of the imagery presented in the song played out right before my eyes. Neil Peart mentioned “a canopy of stars”, the city lights and northern lights, but also focused a lot on recollection and distant thoughts, something I often have time for up here.
Another instance where RUSH really hit me was walking across a 2km clearing on a bright, clear morning just after the new year broke. The crossing took me close to 20 minutes in the deep snow, and upon hitting the dead center of the expanse the song “Bravado” bled from my headphones, which were resting on my shoulders. The song did not really gel with the surroundings on a theme level, but the opening riff has always felt bright and kind of like sunrise. With Carter off leash and running everywhere but near me, I was watching day break and listening to what I had always thought it sounded like.
Moments like this have been many and often, where I would find myself in a situation accented perfectly by a selection from my playlist, almost always random. Other times, a song will come on and ignite my thoughts, reminding me of home or certain people, places or times, and have nothing to do with a situation or accent. The artist or song just has a connection with a recent or deeply buried memory, and without the tune I think I would rarely bring the thought to light on my own.
Since I was a child, and I mean two or three years old, I have been a huge KISS fan. Over the last few years, while still a loyal member of the KISS Army, my fanboy-esque devotion has waned, and I find myself a little disappointed in the band. They still rock and still kick serious ass live, but it is not the same anymore. This is all fodder for a completely separate discussion, but the fact remains that this band is a part of my being, and it is no wonder that the catalogue spanning more than 35 years touches parts of my soul nothing else even grazes.
Many nights in the pub here, I have enjoyed that one drink that accompanies the previous 7 so well, and I get into DJ mode. I will log several credits on the jukebox and pick through about 10 KISS songs, and it makes me feel at home. I pay no mind to the glares of other patrons and tap along to the tunes, thinking of home, of my childhood, and always of my brother. I would give my left arm to split a case of beer with him, and pick and choose one song from disc after disc, resulting in about an hour of music versus two hours of switching DVDs.
Sometimes, I just find myself in need of having my mood suited. The fact that a person has the ability to draw up nearly any song they wish at any time is amazing. It is obvious that, yes, people can do this in this day and age, but perhaps the action is not as deserving of the adulation as the result. I am allowed to marvel at whatever I wish, and if I choose to laud simplicity, my appreciation of the greater things in life will only be more. Having the option of instant aural satisfaction to me is no small wonder, and I find myself taking advantage of it often.
Other bands and artists that have become part of my days have mainly been out of just this act, suiting my mood in the moment. Anger is paired with Misery Signals, sadness with Alison Krauss and Union Station, happiness with bands like Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam, and modes of relaxation tended to by satellite radio stations offering music with more “space”. More over, I have been trying to take the method of listening in the mood further, and getting into playing in the mood.
Having been writing songs for about 10 years now, I am no stranger to letting out my emotions on guitar and through singing. Within the past year I have written about 10 songs, 4 of which I would keep or play live. That said, every song is to be written and none to go unfinished. I have labored 6 months over songs I will never play, but the idea of ditching the effort does not sit well with me. If I do not give due diligence to something I do not care for, what is that saying for the attempts made on something I like?
Here in the North, so many emotions have run wild through me: fear, doubt, hopefulness, sadness, loneliness, nessnessness, etc. More and more, I find myself just sitting with either JoAnne or Jenna (my guitars, 6 and 12 string respectively), just strumming away on nothing in particular. I try to stay away from structure or songs I know and let my learning curve take a break, electing to try and submit to my feelings and let my fingers do the talking. My only regret is that I do not record any of this stuff yet, but after acquiring some gear in the near future, I should have hours and hours of crap to sift through.
No matter where I go or what I find myself doing, music continues to be the biggest part of my life outside of family. I can not imagine situations music could not enhance any more than I can picture a day that I would neglect its merits.
Speaking of which, it’s been nearly 3 hours since I heard a good song...
Friday, January 15, 2010
One Month Anniversary Post!
The word “niche” is defined as:
- a place or position suitable or appropriate for a person or thing.
Over the past week and a half, this term has been stamped to my frontal lobe. Every time I take a walk on the frozen Hay River, it is there. Every time I wake up, it is there. Every time I think of home... well... not so much anymore.
Some days, I pine for the family, friends, sights, and sounds of any place I’ve lived in New Brunswick. Saint John for the location of many of my best friends and family, Fredericton for the beautiful landscape and ease of the town, and the family and last love I had experienced there. Last, but certainly not least, St. Andrews for the relaxed pace, the seaside lifestyle, and the many friends and memories I had made there.
Recently, I have taken on the mission to immerse myself in all that is Hay River. My walks on the river and in the wild have started to become more “at ease”. Shedding the smile that one has for any new or exciting experience, likened to a 6 year old boy’s first ride in a transport truck, I have turned that page and found that these moments are becoming more normal. Seemingly, I am starting to feel somewhat at home. My niche must be where I am, not where I have been, nor where I'll be.
The biggest part of a niche for anyone or anything is the sensation of belonging, whether actual or perceived. Lately, the strides have been taken to get out more with people, instead of making my trails away from them.
On the month anniversary of my moving to the Great White North, I have found that I don’t actually know anyone beyond the confines of my staff, and that can be rather taxing. In my attempts to “get out there”, I’ve still stuck mainly to invites from coworkers, and found that the situations in which those invitations find me have brought very little in the way of extended interactions. I feel some days I am mainly asked along to a party or night out simply because I am new; or further, because they feel sorry for me and want to get me out of my room... or shell.
I have never had a problem making friends, fitting in, or being introduced, but up here I’ve become alarmingly shy. I’ve never encountered the experience of being totally new, where even a transfer to a new city for grade 12 year was eased by the fact I’d spent many weekends in Fredericton, and Saint John was only an hour away. I knew some people in Fredericton, and home was a quick trip down the road if I ever got homesick.
In Hay River, I know absolutely nobody. I moved here on a whim, and landing in town mid-December, there was only one name, and even then it had no face until I touched down. Taking on that sense of loneliness, of space and distance, put me in an introverted state. For the first time in my life, I was shy, scared, and feeling the pangs of isolation. After nearly a month here, I felt I had had enough... I needed to get out there.
This change of heart and mind has been brought on from the opposite end of the spectrum. I was so reserved that I was raising questions amongst others at the pubs and few house parties I had attended. With the locals being comfortable in their environment, they began asking for answers. A few would ask those with whom I had arrived, which did little for my sense of security, but others would walk up, extend a hand, and seek the information from the source.
Once I found out that I was becoming somewhat accepted, and that these folks are not much different than most of my group from home, I asked myself why I had been so worried. The simple answer was nerves, but the bigger issue I had uncovered after some deep soul searching was that I had an immense fear of who I was in relation to who they were. These feelings were based on nothing but the fact that I was completely and utterly new. I didn’t have anyone to say “oh, this is Butler” with the confidence that I would hit it off immediately. Up here, it is more “this is the new guy from work”. That introduction does not do much for the other person’s perception of me, and therefore, I decided to open up a bit, make my own acquaintances, and let the other hand I am shaking form its own opinion based on the source, not the messenger.
***
At the local bar a week or so back, I was sitting with some folks from work, enjoying a rather stiff rye and ginger. A guy at the next table had been talking about this “crazy band” called The Mars Volta. I went to the bar, procured two shots of Jager, and set one in front him of and lifted my snifter for a cheers. He followed suit, though confused. I joined the idle chat by telling him I had indeed been to a Mars Volta concert, and we carried on for an hour dissecting songs and praising their musicianship.
I’d made a friend...
About a day later, while walking Carter on the river, I saw another person about 300 yards ahead of me walking their dog. I hitched Carter to his leash to avoid any surprise to her or her pup, and was soon in step with a woman of about 35. I asked if I could let Carter off his lead to go run and play with her dog, and she replied with a hearty “fuck yeah, let ‘em go... saves us from doing any of the work”. As Carter and Molly ran off along the freeze, diving into deep snow and wrestling on the frost, we walked for about 40 minutes together, just talking about nothing much. I explained why I was here, what I was doing, and what I was hoping for in the end. She told me a lot about the town, the area, and things I should look for and see.
I’d made an acquaintance...
Last Saturday (January 9th, 2010), I was feeling a little more confident in my recent push to meet people, and decided that this night would finally put the cap on my shyness. I met up with a girl from work at her shift’s end in the pub. We went for a quick drive and found ourselves at another local bar. Having warmed up nicely in the room with a few ryes on ice, I asked the server for a double, sat with a few folks who knew my coworker, and began the act known formally as “getting shitfaced”. We drank and laughed until closing, and made our way to a house party, but not before retrieving my stock of beer from the room. As we got to the address on the other side of town, Sally (we’ll call her Sally, ok?) looked at me and said “now don’t be shy this time... meet some people”. I offered my stash of Kokanee to any and all, talked hockey and music over many a cigarette, and left around 5am with an added 10 contacts on my cell phone.
I was getting out there...
***
With a little added spring in my step, other areas of my life up here started improving over the last few weeks. I had gotten back to writing, on and off the page, with and without the guitar. I had started to distance myself from thoughts that had been plaguing me as of late, mostly concerning my past relationship. The biggest achievement found itself in the improvement of my living situation, as I had found an apartment. All of these things were starting to bring me around, and one by one, I was exploring their merits and awaiting the next round of changes.
More than anything, writing has always been therapeutic for me. I usually stick to poetry, if that is what writing on one half of the page would be deemed, using it mostly to vent frustration. However, there were many periods where I would try my hand at more descriptive or narrative poetry, always feeling that urge to branch out a bit. I do not recall ever having that "I'm going to write a novel" moment, though I've had a few ideas and have sketched out some plot lines for fun. I guess my imagination has never lent itself to the creation of a story. Whether for reading or writing, my subject choices have centered on real experiences.
Some of my experiences have caused me a great deal of personal distress. What I find most disheartening about my recent past is that I had made such obvious strides and statements to be accepted into a relationship again, and was for an evening or three until I left. Now I feel the sentiments expressed from the opposite end of the situation were merely formalities: a few words and hours of putting up with me, telling me what I wanted to hear for many months, and all done for the means of a personal end. There are moments it feels like spite, like a last ditch effort to hurt me as I had hurt her; a kind of “give him hope and take it all away” deal. But with a word like "forgiveness" not lightly tossed around, I would assume that is not the case. More than anything I think she just needed the distance in order to have her sense of closure. I had to be somewhere she was not, somewhere further than an hour's reach, and her idea of a goodbye felt to me like another shot somewhere down the line.
Getting my mind off this fact has not been easy. The old "get over one woman by getting under another" does not present itself as an attractive option to me, especially in a small town in the North. Mainly, the instances in which she has bid me first contact since I left could be counted on one half of a hand. I do not mention this in a manner of "see, she's horrible as well". She isn't, I was. In stating that, and considering my theory on distance in relation to closure, I think she has just let me go and washed her hands of me.
The idea of just being “done” kills me, and only adds to the pain I already feel. I can in no way speak for her, and do not intend to present my assumptions of her motives or mission as verified accounts. However, I am allowed my thoughts as well as my pains. The two and a half years we spent together, the year and a half following, and all of the future possibilities play endlessly in my mind; a torture beyond torture. I stick to nature and the page to help rid myself of these thoughts, and little by little, I do feel I am making some progress.
Of the many things I have to deal with, the idea that love is truly lost is not something I had hoped to face, surely not just a month into my rebuilding. Either way, I guess what is done is done, and I must make the best of it. I have usually been a “bad news first” kind of guy, so perhaps having this happen early in this period of transition will make the recuperation easier over a long haul.
My intentions up here do not include a love life, but just a new life. Some aspects of my life must change: physically, mentally, and emotionally. I think I would do well to keep the necessities of my person (sense of humor, outgoing ways, fingers and toes), but other things need fixing. I need more drive, more personal pride, and I need to feel needed somewhere, or at least wanted. I have found an apartment here in Hay River, a decent one bedroom spot with a view overlooking the river and an endless expanse of forest. Hopefully, this will help to get my sense of self in a better place, and kick start the proverbial wheels into motion.
A new niche is all I want, and with all the walls that have fallen, four new ones is a good start.
- a place or position suitable or appropriate for a person or thing.
Over the past week and a half, this term has been stamped to my frontal lobe. Every time I take a walk on the frozen Hay River, it is there. Every time I wake up, it is there. Every time I think of home... well... not so much anymore.
Some days, I pine for the family, friends, sights, and sounds of any place I’ve lived in New Brunswick. Saint John for the location of many of my best friends and family, Fredericton for the beautiful landscape and ease of the town, and the family and last love I had experienced there. Last, but certainly not least, St. Andrews for the relaxed pace, the seaside lifestyle, and the many friends and memories I had made there.
Recently, I have taken on the mission to immerse myself in all that is Hay River. My walks on the river and in the wild have started to become more “at ease”. Shedding the smile that one has for any new or exciting experience, likened to a 6 year old boy’s first ride in a transport truck, I have turned that page and found that these moments are becoming more normal. Seemingly, I am starting to feel somewhat at home. My niche must be where I am, not where I have been, nor where I'll be.
The biggest part of a niche for anyone or anything is the sensation of belonging, whether actual or perceived. Lately, the strides have been taken to get out more with people, instead of making my trails away from them.
On the month anniversary of my moving to the Great White North, I have found that I don’t actually know anyone beyond the confines of my staff, and that can be rather taxing. In my attempts to “get out there”, I’ve still stuck mainly to invites from coworkers, and found that the situations in which those invitations find me have brought very little in the way of extended interactions. I feel some days I am mainly asked along to a party or night out simply because I am new; or further, because they feel sorry for me and want to get me out of my room... or shell.
I have never had a problem making friends, fitting in, or being introduced, but up here I’ve become alarmingly shy. I’ve never encountered the experience of being totally new, where even a transfer to a new city for grade 12 year was eased by the fact I’d spent many weekends in Fredericton, and Saint John was only an hour away. I knew some people in Fredericton, and home was a quick trip down the road if I ever got homesick.
In Hay River, I know absolutely nobody. I moved here on a whim, and landing in town mid-December, there was only one name, and even then it had no face until I touched down. Taking on that sense of loneliness, of space and distance, put me in an introverted state. For the first time in my life, I was shy, scared, and feeling the pangs of isolation. After nearly a month here, I felt I had had enough... I needed to get out there.
This change of heart and mind has been brought on from the opposite end of the spectrum. I was so reserved that I was raising questions amongst others at the pubs and few house parties I had attended. With the locals being comfortable in their environment, they began asking for answers. A few would ask those with whom I had arrived, which did little for my sense of security, but others would walk up, extend a hand, and seek the information from the source.
Once I found out that I was becoming somewhat accepted, and that these folks are not much different than most of my group from home, I asked myself why I had been so worried. The simple answer was nerves, but the bigger issue I had uncovered after some deep soul searching was that I had an immense fear of who I was in relation to who they were. These feelings were based on nothing but the fact that I was completely and utterly new. I didn’t have anyone to say “oh, this is Butler” with the confidence that I would hit it off immediately. Up here, it is more “this is the new guy from work”. That introduction does not do much for the other person’s perception of me, and therefore, I decided to open up a bit, make my own acquaintances, and let the other hand I am shaking form its own opinion based on the source, not the messenger.
***
At the local bar a week or so back, I was sitting with some folks from work, enjoying a rather stiff rye and ginger. A guy at the next table had been talking about this “crazy band” called The Mars Volta. I went to the bar, procured two shots of Jager, and set one in front him of and lifted my snifter for a cheers. He followed suit, though confused. I joined the idle chat by telling him I had indeed been to a Mars Volta concert, and we carried on for an hour dissecting songs and praising their musicianship.
I’d made a friend...
About a day later, while walking Carter on the river, I saw another person about 300 yards ahead of me walking their dog. I hitched Carter to his leash to avoid any surprise to her or her pup, and was soon in step with a woman of about 35. I asked if I could let Carter off his lead to go run and play with her dog, and she replied with a hearty “fuck yeah, let ‘em go... saves us from doing any of the work”. As Carter and Molly ran off along the freeze, diving into deep snow and wrestling on the frost, we walked for about 40 minutes together, just talking about nothing much. I explained why I was here, what I was doing, and what I was hoping for in the end. She told me a lot about the town, the area, and things I should look for and see.
I’d made an acquaintance...
Last Saturday (January 9th, 2010), I was feeling a little more confident in my recent push to meet people, and decided that this night would finally put the cap on my shyness. I met up with a girl from work at her shift’s end in the pub. We went for a quick drive and found ourselves at another local bar. Having warmed up nicely in the room with a few ryes on ice, I asked the server for a double, sat with a few folks who knew my coworker, and began the act known formally as “getting shitfaced”. We drank and laughed until closing, and made our way to a house party, but not before retrieving my stock of beer from the room. As we got to the address on the other side of town, Sally (we’ll call her Sally, ok?) looked at me and said “now don’t be shy this time... meet some people”. I offered my stash of Kokanee to any and all, talked hockey and music over many a cigarette, and left around 5am with an added 10 contacts on my cell phone.
I was getting out there...
***
With a little added spring in my step, other areas of my life up here started improving over the last few weeks. I had gotten back to writing, on and off the page, with and without the guitar. I had started to distance myself from thoughts that had been plaguing me as of late, mostly concerning my past relationship. The biggest achievement found itself in the improvement of my living situation, as I had found an apartment. All of these things were starting to bring me around, and one by one, I was exploring their merits and awaiting the next round of changes.
More than anything, writing has always been therapeutic for me. I usually stick to poetry, if that is what writing on one half of the page would be deemed, using it mostly to vent frustration. However, there were many periods where I would try my hand at more descriptive or narrative poetry, always feeling that urge to branch out a bit. I do not recall ever having that "I'm going to write a novel" moment, though I've had a few ideas and have sketched out some plot lines for fun. I guess my imagination has never lent itself to the creation of a story. Whether for reading or writing, my subject choices have centered on real experiences.
Some of my experiences have caused me a great deal of personal distress. What I find most disheartening about my recent past is that I had made such obvious strides and statements to be accepted into a relationship again, and was for an evening or three until I left. Now I feel the sentiments expressed from the opposite end of the situation were merely formalities: a few words and hours of putting up with me, telling me what I wanted to hear for many months, and all done for the means of a personal end. There are moments it feels like spite, like a last ditch effort to hurt me as I had hurt her; a kind of “give him hope and take it all away” deal. But with a word like "forgiveness" not lightly tossed around, I would assume that is not the case. More than anything I think she just needed the distance in order to have her sense of closure. I had to be somewhere she was not, somewhere further than an hour's reach, and her idea of a goodbye felt to me like another shot somewhere down the line.
Getting my mind off this fact has not been easy. The old "get over one woman by getting under another" does not present itself as an attractive option to me, especially in a small town in the North. Mainly, the instances in which she has bid me first contact since I left could be counted on one half of a hand. I do not mention this in a manner of "see, she's horrible as well". She isn't, I was. In stating that, and considering my theory on distance in relation to closure, I think she has just let me go and washed her hands of me.
The idea of just being “done” kills me, and only adds to the pain I already feel. I can in no way speak for her, and do not intend to present my assumptions of her motives or mission as verified accounts. However, I am allowed my thoughts as well as my pains. The two and a half years we spent together, the year and a half following, and all of the future possibilities play endlessly in my mind; a torture beyond torture. I stick to nature and the page to help rid myself of these thoughts, and little by little, I do feel I am making some progress.
Of the many things I have to deal with, the idea that love is truly lost is not something I had hoped to face, surely not just a month into my rebuilding. Either way, I guess what is done is done, and I must make the best of it. I have usually been a “bad news first” kind of guy, so perhaps having this happen early in this period of transition will make the recuperation easier over a long haul.
My intentions up here do not include a love life, but just a new life. Some aspects of my life must change: physically, mentally, and emotionally. I think I would do well to keep the necessities of my person (sense of humor, outgoing ways, fingers and toes), but other things need fixing. I need more drive, more personal pride, and I need to feel needed somewhere, or at least wanted. I have found an apartment here in Hay River, a decent one bedroom spot with a view overlooking the river and an endless expanse of forest. Hopefully, this will help to get my sense of self in a better place, and kick start the proverbial wheels into motion.
A new niche is all I want, and with all the walls that have fallen, four new ones is a good start.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Through to 2010
My Christmas in Hay River was actually more eventful than I figured it would be. Being new to town, I had not expected to do much, if anything at all. However, Curt invited me over to his place for some drinks, music, and another armload of introductions on December 24. I kept mainly to myself, injecting some comments into conversations here and there, explaining many times over who I was and what I was doing here. Most of them thought I was crazy to move to Hay River one minute, welcoming me warmly the next, and filling my head with potential plans for excitement well into the night.
After knocking off half my quart of Crown Royal, I bid farewell just after midnight and walked back to the hotel to get Carter out for a quick bathroom break, planning to retire shortly after. I retrieved him from the room, and leash on, we took a mild stroll around the block. Once we got back to the room, I peeled off my gay apparel and slipped into something more comfortable, poured a stiff drink, and watched 20 minutes of TV. The king size bed looked much more inviting than the couch, so I hit the off button on all things electronic and living.
Christmas Day was spent mostly in lounge mode. I had no hint of a hangover, so it was out of choice that I took to the couch and bored myself to death with horrible marathons on each TV station, periods of playing guitar, and quite a few calls to and from back home. It was nice to hear all the voices in the background at dinners, but it did make me feel a little down. The distance was all too apparent that day, and instead of taking to the trails for my planned hike, I stuck to the river and tossed the stick around for Carter. (I say “the” stick because he swiftly locates the same one, day after day, sorting through the 20 or so that litter the freeze... the world’s first dog with OCD) I was not much in the mood to explore, and thought perhaps putting my planned hike off until Boxing Day would be a better idea.
Waking up refreshed on December 26, I had a much lighter perspective on things. My mood was more upbeat, my energy was back, and I had none of those emotional pains related to missing, wanting, or needing anyone. Around 10am, I hitched up Carter and headed to the River, turned up some RUSH in my headphones, and he fetched the stick for a good 45 minutes. We were both sufficiently cold, and he was showing signs of being tired out, so we headed back to the room. He would laze away the afternoon, and I would prepare for a hike by warming up, making some sandwiches, and packing a few items to take with me.
Now of course, I would forget the one thing I truly wanted to bring: my camera. I curse myself still for failing to include that in my pack, though there will be other days and other hikes. What killed me was that this particular tramp through the surrounding area had gripped me. I had felt a great sense of happiness and an awe at the nature I was seeing for the first time, and outside a few words to describe it, I would not have that day captured for posterity. Even my new phone’s camera was useless, as the GPS application I had downloaded would lose its bearing if closed. I was happy to have found this out on marked streets a few days earlier, rather than out in the bush, no matter how close or remote.
I suited up with many layers, as it is better to take them off than not have enough to begin with. I had thermal socks, -100 proof boots, long and short underwear, a good set of winter hiking pants, long undershirt and sweater, balaclava, thick hat, and a down-filled jacket. In my pack I had about 2 liters of water, some granola bars, two tuna sandwiches, an empty tin can, two tea bags, and toilet paper. Feeling this would suit me for a few hours out, I set off rather excited.
I had done some mild mapping on the internet and had a general path in mind. Figuring I would stick to main trails, I drew a rough map, taped it to the arm of my jacket, and entered the spots on my GPS. Having never seen the area, I was better safe than frozen and dead on my first time out.
Onto the freeze, I headed downriver and took in the views along the shore. Quite a few houses lined the lip to my right on the town side, while the left was quite empty. Dogs barked as I passed, and a few folks waved, positive I was someone they knew. After about 2km, I spotted the snowmobile trail I had picked out, verified by my map and the GPS, and tramped through some heavy crust and started into the woods.
The trail was like any you would see used by ATVs or seasonal recreation vehicles, but to me it was so much different. It was new and exciting; it was fresh and untouched; it offered challenge and reward. I had a spot picked out a kilometer and a half down the trail that I planned to stop and turn around, a road that the trail cut across. I was maybe about 200 meters from the road when an offshoot footpath took a turn into the woods, and not a footprint to be seen. My plans changed immediately, and I told myself not to get too brazen on this first effort, and no more turns were to be taken. On this trail, I could follow my own tracks back to my mainline. There was no wind or snow that day, and the -25 temperature was enough to ensure I would not get too far.
About 25 minutes down, the trail opened up into what I believe was the end of the tree line for that section of woods. I could see other patches of thicket, brush, and further off another patch of forest could be identified. However, in all directions but behind me, there was no significant vegetation or life for at least 3 kilometers. I took off my pack and set it down, and went looking for some branches and any suitable tinder with which to start a fire.
I collected an armful of kindling cleared out a spot in the snow. Setting the first helping up tepee-style I packed the inside with toilet paper and some tinder, and then set fire to it with my lighter. I let the flames take to the wood while gathering some more, and soon had a decent fire on the go. I found a crotched branch and settled the tin can into its arms, filling it water to boil for tea. I sat on my pack and enjoyed a sandwich, taking in the scenery and feeling rather happy.
I dropped a tea bag in to the boiling water, ate another sandwich and a granola bar, and finished off my small lunch. The fire was doing well to keep me warm, but the 1pm sun was already lilting down toward the horizon. In another few hours it would be dark, and although I could have rested there through those hours and more, I figured I should make my way. I stood and made sure I had everything, snuffed the fire out old school (peed on it) and covered the ash with snow, and then secured all possible seams from the cold.
Looking around the massive clearing, I was hit with feelings of pride. I had brought myself all the way to the North for work and personal development, and was indeed getting that, but much more. Simply finding this slice of nature, enjoying it for a swift half hour, and settling myself ever so gently into this way of life made me feel as though I was capable of getting through this next year... maybe more.
I made my way back to town by retracing my steps, and arrived at a relaxed pace just past 3pm. I had been making sure to reserve my energy and take my time, not only to be sure I would survive my first trip into the very near wild, but to not miss a thing. I crested the bank of the river behind the hotel and looked back at the footprints I could see, taking in my mild journey with a smile.
I ate a hearty supper, roused Carter awake for a quick trot around the block, and then we both slept heavily through until sunrise the next day. Up until New Year’s Eve, I spent most days walking the River with my dog at my side, relaxing, and enjoying many, many servings of coffee with Baileys. Until that time, I was not aware you could actually drown a liquid, but a combination of tipsy and energetic proved otherwise. All the rest served little purpose, and I needed no reserve energy for the evening of December 31, 2009.
I began by having a few beers in my room, over-anticipating what was surely to be an uneventful evening. At about 11pm, I headed to the local Legion, and watched the worst cover band in history. While on a cigarette break, they were huddled near me and talking about their sets as though they were deconstructing “Dark Side of the Moon”. I mean, as a musician, I know it is important to take your job seriously, but when “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” merits a 15 minute break down, you may have exceeded the necessity of the discussion.
I stood alone for the countdown, and watched sadly as couples kissed and friends shook hands. I had nobody with which to share the moment, and could not help but think of those who I would have loved to be with. I knew the lips I wished to lock with had been long on the maw of another since some 3 hours before, and that some of the friends I was missing had likely already dropped off to bed. Not having the heart to deal with the moment, I promptly exited and made my way back to the hotel, lumps of snow on the ground, and another prominent in my throat.
Having had a few drinks, I avoided the lobby and stole away to my room. I grabbed two bottles of beer, Carter, and headed across the street to the New Year’s Fire the town lit for those watching the fireworks. It was now deserted but still blazing full force, and I took a seat on a stump near the heat. Carter sniffed around, while I merely sniffled.
Christmas had not broken me, but one minute into 2010 I had lost my heart of stone. I took my seat at the fire around 12:30am, and was back in my room by 1:00, picking frozen tears from my cheek. The building of the loneliness had finally reached its apex, and I was beginning a two-day depression, marked here and there by momentary lapses of sadness, and painted thick with a pulled mope, stuck to the couch.
To end the sinking, I decided to pull myself up as opposed to just treading to distant shores for relief or comfort. I was thinking those two days of my ex, my family, my friends, and realized that not one of them was going to walk through the door and make things better. My family could not drop everything as I had, and my friends could not afford the trip. I had also began to feel the obvious drift my ex was imposing, though I was to think at one point that some contact would have remained. I can’t hold any of it against any of them: I was the one who left. This in mind, I left again, this time from my room, and did the only thing someone can do to fix a battered mind. I enjoyed drinks in the hotel bar, moved on with staff to the other local watering hole, and then partied the rest of the evening away at a patron’s house.
Returning to my room around 6am on January 3, I enjoyed a full rock glass of rye, straight up, and felt better. I could not rely on anyone else to make this adventure work for me, and I was not going to sink back into those states of depression again. If my family could not visit, so be it; if my friends could not be here, I would have to make more; if my attempts to rekindle anything at any time were being snuffed, then so be it. I had no control anymore over the events taking place at home, and I had to focus on being happy here, in Hay River, very much alone.
And you know what? That’s fine.
I guess it has to be.
After knocking off half my quart of Crown Royal, I bid farewell just after midnight and walked back to the hotel to get Carter out for a quick bathroom break, planning to retire shortly after. I retrieved him from the room, and leash on, we took a mild stroll around the block. Once we got back to the room, I peeled off my gay apparel and slipped into something more comfortable, poured a stiff drink, and watched 20 minutes of TV. The king size bed looked much more inviting than the couch, so I hit the off button on all things electronic and living.
Christmas Day was spent mostly in lounge mode. I had no hint of a hangover, so it was out of choice that I took to the couch and bored myself to death with horrible marathons on each TV station, periods of playing guitar, and quite a few calls to and from back home. It was nice to hear all the voices in the background at dinners, but it did make me feel a little down. The distance was all too apparent that day, and instead of taking to the trails for my planned hike, I stuck to the river and tossed the stick around for Carter. (I say “the” stick because he swiftly locates the same one, day after day, sorting through the 20 or so that litter the freeze... the world’s first dog with OCD) I was not much in the mood to explore, and thought perhaps putting my planned hike off until Boxing Day would be a better idea.
Waking up refreshed on December 26, I had a much lighter perspective on things. My mood was more upbeat, my energy was back, and I had none of those emotional pains related to missing, wanting, or needing anyone. Around 10am, I hitched up Carter and headed to the River, turned up some RUSH in my headphones, and he fetched the stick for a good 45 minutes. We were both sufficiently cold, and he was showing signs of being tired out, so we headed back to the room. He would laze away the afternoon, and I would prepare for a hike by warming up, making some sandwiches, and packing a few items to take with me.
Now of course, I would forget the one thing I truly wanted to bring: my camera. I curse myself still for failing to include that in my pack, though there will be other days and other hikes. What killed me was that this particular tramp through the surrounding area had gripped me. I had felt a great sense of happiness and an awe at the nature I was seeing for the first time, and outside a few words to describe it, I would not have that day captured for posterity. Even my new phone’s camera was useless, as the GPS application I had downloaded would lose its bearing if closed. I was happy to have found this out on marked streets a few days earlier, rather than out in the bush, no matter how close or remote.
I suited up with many layers, as it is better to take them off than not have enough to begin with. I had thermal socks, -100 proof boots, long and short underwear, a good set of winter hiking pants, long undershirt and sweater, balaclava, thick hat, and a down-filled jacket. In my pack I had about 2 liters of water, some granola bars, two tuna sandwiches, an empty tin can, two tea bags, and toilet paper. Feeling this would suit me for a few hours out, I set off rather excited.
I had done some mild mapping on the internet and had a general path in mind. Figuring I would stick to main trails, I drew a rough map, taped it to the arm of my jacket, and entered the spots on my GPS. Having never seen the area, I was better safe than frozen and dead on my first time out.
Onto the freeze, I headed downriver and took in the views along the shore. Quite a few houses lined the lip to my right on the town side, while the left was quite empty. Dogs barked as I passed, and a few folks waved, positive I was someone they knew. After about 2km, I spotted the snowmobile trail I had picked out, verified by my map and the GPS, and tramped through some heavy crust and started into the woods.
The trail was like any you would see used by ATVs or seasonal recreation vehicles, but to me it was so much different. It was new and exciting; it was fresh and untouched; it offered challenge and reward. I had a spot picked out a kilometer and a half down the trail that I planned to stop and turn around, a road that the trail cut across. I was maybe about 200 meters from the road when an offshoot footpath took a turn into the woods, and not a footprint to be seen. My plans changed immediately, and I told myself not to get too brazen on this first effort, and no more turns were to be taken. On this trail, I could follow my own tracks back to my mainline. There was no wind or snow that day, and the -25 temperature was enough to ensure I would not get too far.
About 25 minutes down, the trail opened up into what I believe was the end of the tree line for that section of woods. I could see other patches of thicket, brush, and further off another patch of forest could be identified. However, in all directions but behind me, there was no significant vegetation or life for at least 3 kilometers. I took off my pack and set it down, and went looking for some branches and any suitable tinder with which to start a fire.
I collected an armful of kindling cleared out a spot in the snow. Setting the first helping up tepee-style I packed the inside with toilet paper and some tinder, and then set fire to it with my lighter. I let the flames take to the wood while gathering some more, and soon had a decent fire on the go. I found a crotched branch and settled the tin can into its arms, filling it water to boil for tea. I sat on my pack and enjoyed a sandwich, taking in the scenery and feeling rather happy.
I dropped a tea bag in to the boiling water, ate another sandwich and a granola bar, and finished off my small lunch. The fire was doing well to keep me warm, but the 1pm sun was already lilting down toward the horizon. In another few hours it would be dark, and although I could have rested there through those hours and more, I figured I should make my way. I stood and made sure I had everything, snuffed the fire out old school (peed on it) and covered the ash with snow, and then secured all possible seams from the cold.
Looking around the massive clearing, I was hit with feelings of pride. I had brought myself all the way to the North for work and personal development, and was indeed getting that, but much more. Simply finding this slice of nature, enjoying it for a swift half hour, and settling myself ever so gently into this way of life made me feel as though I was capable of getting through this next year... maybe more.
I made my way back to town by retracing my steps, and arrived at a relaxed pace just past 3pm. I had been making sure to reserve my energy and take my time, not only to be sure I would survive my first trip into the very near wild, but to not miss a thing. I crested the bank of the river behind the hotel and looked back at the footprints I could see, taking in my mild journey with a smile.
I ate a hearty supper, roused Carter awake for a quick trot around the block, and then we both slept heavily through until sunrise the next day. Up until New Year’s Eve, I spent most days walking the River with my dog at my side, relaxing, and enjoying many, many servings of coffee with Baileys. Until that time, I was not aware you could actually drown a liquid, but a combination of tipsy and energetic proved otherwise. All the rest served little purpose, and I needed no reserve energy for the evening of December 31, 2009.
I began by having a few beers in my room, over-anticipating what was surely to be an uneventful evening. At about 11pm, I headed to the local Legion, and watched the worst cover band in history. While on a cigarette break, they were huddled near me and talking about their sets as though they were deconstructing “Dark Side of the Moon”. I mean, as a musician, I know it is important to take your job seriously, but when “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” merits a 15 minute break down, you may have exceeded the necessity of the discussion.
I stood alone for the countdown, and watched sadly as couples kissed and friends shook hands. I had nobody with which to share the moment, and could not help but think of those who I would have loved to be with. I knew the lips I wished to lock with had been long on the maw of another since some 3 hours before, and that some of the friends I was missing had likely already dropped off to bed. Not having the heart to deal with the moment, I promptly exited and made my way back to the hotel, lumps of snow on the ground, and another prominent in my throat.
Having had a few drinks, I avoided the lobby and stole away to my room. I grabbed two bottles of beer, Carter, and headed across the street to the New Year’s Fire the town lit for those watching the fireworks. It was now deserted but still blazing full force, and I took a seat on a stump near the heat. Carter sniffed around, while I merely sniffled.
Christmas had not broken me, but one minute into 2010 I had lost my heart of stone. I took my seat at the fire around 12:30am, and was back in my room by 1:00, picking frozen tears from my cheek. The building of the loneliness had finally reached its apex, and I was beginning a two-day depression, marked here and there by momentary lapses of sadness, and painted thick with a pulled mope, stuck to the couch.
To end the sinking, I decided to pull myself up as opposed to just treading to distant shores for relief or comfort. I was thinking those two days of my ex, my family, my friends, and realized that not one of them was going to walk through the door and make things better. My family could not drop everything as I had, and my friends could not afford the trip. I had also began to feel the obvious drift my ex was imposing, though I was to think at one point that some contact would have remained. I can’t hold any of it against any of them: I was the one who left. This in mind, I left again, this time from my room, and did the only thing someone can do to fix a battered mind. I enjoyed drinks in the hotel bar, moved on with staff to the other local watering hole, and then partied the rest of the evening away at a patron’s house.
Returning to my room around 6am on January 3, I enjoyed a full rock glass of rye, straight up, and felt better. I could not rely on anyone else to make this adventure work for me, and I was not going to sink back into those states of depression again. If my family could not visit, so be it; if my friends could not be here, I would have to make more; if my attempts to rekindle anything at any time were being snuffed, then so be it. I had no control anymore over the events taking place at home, and I had to focus on being happy here, in Hay River, very much alone.
And you know what? That’s fine.
I guess it has to be.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The First Ten Days
Flying over the barren landscape toward Hay River, I felt a sense of tension. The butterflies had long left my stomach, and were replaced by something more local: elk, caribou, bison, and magpies, all trampling and flying about with vigor. The wrack of the move had left me somewhat tired and anxious, and now the excitement had begun to well up, bringing me to a state of readiness I equated to “waking up at gunpoint”. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I would soon find out.
To conclude a previous post, I had said upon flying over the town proper, it “looked like home already”. To be honest, it did. It shone with the beauty of the North, ever powerful in its hue, and even before touching ground in Hay River, it spoke to me like a small town. Clusters of small neighborhoods dotted the area, an industrial zone perched upon the banks of Great Slave Lake, and the town district thrust its mighty 6 block heft an awe inspiring 3 stories into the sky (save for one rather out of place 17 story high-rise). It truly seemed like a place in which I would enjoy my time, if not for the people I had yet to meet, than for the new job that waited and the land I was already surveying.
As the plane touched tarmac at YHY (let’s see Neil Peart tap that out), I felt a pang of sorrow deep within me. A few instances on the trip had presented themselves as aforementioned “Holy Fuck” moments, and I was again in the thick of another. I thought of family and friends, a former lover, and even some people I didn’t care if I saw again. It all hurt.
But this was it: this was the end of the trip and the beginning of the journey. December 15, 2009 was a day that will remain vivid in my memory for many years to come.
In the small airport, I collected my baggage and Carter, and thought of my options for getting to town. Having never been here, my first inclination was to rent a car and treat myself to a drive around the area. This was declined by the fact that nobody was working the rental counter because they didn’t have any appointments booked; the small town life begins. My second option was a cab into my new place of work and temporary home, The Ptarmigan Inn.
As soon as I lifted the receiver on the direct line I overheard my own name being spoken, something that catches you quite off guard over 5,000kms from home. My new boss had come to pick me up unannounced. I introduced myself, looking rather well-traveled with a fresh beard of 4 days, a checkered jacket, and a firm handshake. Thankfully, he returned the shake in form, something I always look for in meeting new people. We hoisted the luggage into the back of his F-150, Carter took a spot ever-obediently on the floor of the cab, and we rode into town.
Now, shock and amazement are not words I toss around casually, so I won’t use them here, either. The place didn’t do much outside make me smile and think “well, here I am”. The main street was a cluster of a few department and hardware stores, a grocer, a sportsplex, and a few other scattered offices, and government and town detachments. I thought momentarily that this was an outskirt, than remembered where I was.
As we pulled up to the doors of the Ptarmigan, I was excited. I was going to see my new digs, both professionally and in terms of living. Though I should only be living there until mid-February, it was like moving into a new place all around as the sense of home was out of the hat mere seconds through the door. I met some of the friendly and welcoming staff that I would be working with, shaking hands and wowing them with my charm, took a quick look around the immediate vicinity, then made way to my room.
I realized I needed a few necessities for the suite, so I made my way to the grocery store, The Northmart (creativity stops with the Aboriginal Arts up here), and picked up provisions. After loading up a basket with some bread, milk, treats, and dog food, I lined up for my first purchase in the North. As the dog food slid through the register, the young girl working bet I’d just gotten a puppy, and I noted that I in fact had just moved here.
“Where from?”
“New Brunwick”, I noted, pointing in a direction suggesting my inner compass was more than just moral.
“Wow, I’m from Prince Edward Island, and she’s from Nova Scotia!”
Small world, I thought. I took this as another of my signs that things would be alright: I’d found prospective drinking buddies who survived after moving here.
After settling in with Carter, watching some television and doing a light run of unpacking, I met with the General Manager and my new boss, Curt, for supper and a few drinks. We kept conversation strictly out of shop, as the next day would be the beginning of my foray into management, and heavy on discussions of hospitality. A few rye and gingers (of course), a helping of steak, potatoes and vegetables, and some lengthy debates on the merits of growing my beard back, and it was time to turn in. After two fairly solid days of travel from Saint John to Hay River, I was ready to turn in for my first night in the Great White North.
**
The following morning, I awoke with a start. I had no clue where I was, what was going on, and not a damn thing looked vaguely familiar, save for Carter at the edge of the bed. I was not entirely sure that I wasn’t dreaming as the clock read 8:30am, the curtains in my suite were open, and it was alarmingly dark out.
As I snapped out if it, I rubbed infinite amounts of sleep from my eyes, sat up, and swung my legs over the bed. I sat there a minute, feeling the well of emotions again, and bucked up. I showered, shaved, and suited up for my first day at work.
After a brief meeting in his office, Curt showed me around the property. I was trying to remember some twists and turns in the property, as well as the numerous names I was being handed of the staff that passed by. A lot of this new information would escape me by day’s end, this much was certain, but I was intrigued and therefore retaining most of it, something which surprised me over the next few days.
Those days went by, and it was the usual routine of settling into a new job: getting my desk in order, reviewing files left by the previous person who held my position, and making nice with the attractive girls at work. I hadn’t considered much of my time to come outside the job, but figured it would be a lot of hiking and time with Carter, but the end of my first week provided something I didn’t figure I would see for my entire year away, which was me hosting an open mic night.
Not even 5 days in, I had a second job. I was doing a service here, not only for the offering of my prowess, but because the idea of this open mic night before I showed up was to rent a PA system and a guitar, and leave it under a light for whoever wanted to play. Being schooled in the art of hosting by such teachers as Sean Roach and Brent Mason, I felt it was my rock and roll duty to step up and swing. And so I did. For hours. And loved it.
It was on.
**
I made very little of my time until Christmas outside of getting along to my job. I worked, I hiked, and I took Carter out for several walks along the town trail and on the freeze of the Hay River. There was still a sense of loss within my gait, a shuffle that likely suggested to any passersby that I was new to town, alone, and thinking about the cost of airfare.
Truth be told, I was starting to become somewhat enamored with Hay River. The people were nice, the scenery was amazing, and I was not too dissuaded by the cold. Between Christmas Eve and January 3, 2010, I would find a slice of nature to call my own, meet some great people, and start coming out of my shell just that much more.
To conclude a previous post, I had said upon flying over the town proper, it “looked like home already”. To be honest, it did. It shone with the beauty of the North, ever powerful in its hue, and even before touching ground in Hay River, it spoke to me like a small town. Clusters of small neighborhoods dotted the area, an industrial zone perched upon the banks of Great Slave Lake, and the town district thrust its mighty 6 block heft an awe inspiring 3 stories into the sky (save for one rather out of place 17 story high-rise). It truly seemed like a place in which I would enjoy my time, if not for the people I had yet to meet, than for the new job that waited and the land I was already surveying.
As the plane touched tarmac at YHY (let’s see Neil Peart tap that out), I felt a pang of sorrow deep within me. A few instances on the trip had presented themselves as aforementioned “Holy Fuck” moments, and I was again in the thick of another. I thought of family and friends, a former lover, and even some people I didn’t care if I saw again. It all hurt.
But this was it: this was the end of the trip and the beginning of the journey. December 15, 2009 was a day that will remain vivid in my memory for many years to come.
In the small airport, I collected my baggage and Carter, and thought of my options for getting to town. Having never been here, my first inclination was to rent a car and treat myself to a drive around the area. This was declined by the fact that nobody was working the rental counter because they didn’t have any appointments booked; the small town life begins. My second option was a cab into my new place of work and temporary home, The Ptarmigan Inn.
As soon as I lifted the receiver on the direct line I overheard my own name being spoken, something that catches you quite off guard over 5,000kms from home. My new boss had come to pick me up unannounced. I introduced myself, looking rather well-traveled with a fresh beard of 4 days, a checkered jacket, and a firm handshake. Thankfully, he returned the shake in form, something I always look for in meeting new people. We hoisted the luggage into the back of his F-150, Carter took a spot ever-obediently on the floor of the cab, and we rode into town.
Now, shock and amazement are not words I toss around casually, so I won’t use them here, either. The place didn’t do much outside make me smile and think “well, here I am”. The main street was a cluster of a few department and hardware stores, a grocer, a sportsplex, and a few other scattered offices, and government and town detachments. I thought momentarily that this was an outskirt, than remembered where I was.
As we pulled up to the doors of the Ptarmigan, I was excited. I was going to see my new digs, both professionally and in terms of living. Though I should only be living there until mid-February, it was like moving into a new place all around as the sense of home was out of the hat mere seconds through the door. I met some of the friendly and welcoming staff that I would be working with, shaking hands and wowing them with my charm, took a quick look around the immediate vicinity, then made way to my room.
I realized I needed a few necessities for the suite, so I made my way to the grocery store, The Northmart (creativity stops with the Aboriginal Arts up here), and picked up provisions. After loading up a basket with some bread, milk, treats, and dog food, I lined up for my first purchase in the North. As the dog food slid through the register, the young girl working bet I’d just gotten a puppy, and I noted that I in fact had just moved here.
“Where from?”
“New Brunwick”, I noted, pointing in a direction suggesting my inner compass was more than just moral.
“Wow, I’m from Prince Edward Island, and she’s from Nova Scotia!”
Small world, I thought. I took this as another of my signs that things would be alright: I’d found prospective drinking buddies who survived after moving here.
After settling in with Carter, watching some television and doing a light run of unpacking, I met with the General Manager and my new boss, Curt, for supper and a few drinks. We kept conversation strictly out of shop, as the next day would be the beginning of my foray into management, and heavy on discussions of hospitality. A few rye and gingers (of course), a helping of steak, potatoes and vegetables, and some lengthy debates on the merits of growing my beard back, and it was time to turn in. After two fairly solid days of travel from Saint John to Hay River, I was ready to turn in for my first night in the Great White North.
**
The following morning, I awoke with a start. I had no clue where I was, what was going on, and not a damn thing looked vaguely familiar, save for Carter at the edge of the bed. I was not entirely sure that I wasn’t dreaming as the clock read 8:30am, the curtains in my suite were open, and it was alarmingly dark out.
As I snapped out if it, I rubbed infinite amounts of sleep from my eyes, sat up, and swung my legs over the bed. I sat there a minute, feeling the well of emotions again, and bucked up. I showered, shaved, and suited up for my first day at work.
After a brief meeting in his office, Curt showed me around the property. I was trying to remember some twists and turns in the property, as well as the numerous names I was being handed of the staff that passed by. A lot of this new information would escape me by day’s end, this much was certain, but I was intrigued and therefore retaining most of it, something which surprised me over the next few days.
Those days went by, and it was the usual routine of settling into a new job: getting my desk in order, reviewing files left by the previous person who held my position, and making nice with the attractive girls at work. I hadn’t considered much of my time to come outside the job, but figured it would be a lot of hiking and time with Carter, but the end of my first week provided something I didn’t figure I would see for my entire year away, which was me hosting an open mic night.
Not even 5 days in, I had a second job. I was doing a service here, not only for the offering of my prowess, but because the idea of this open mic night before I showed up was to rent a PA system and a guitar, and leave it under a light for whoever wanted to play. Being schooled in the art of hosting by such teachers as Sean Roach and Brent Mason, I felt it was my rock and roll duty to step up and swing. And so I did. For hours. And loved it.
It was on.
**
I made very little of my time until Christmas outside of getting along to my job. I worked, I hiked, and I took Carter out for several walks along the town trail and on the freeze of the Hay River. There was still a sense of loss within my gait, a shuffle that likely suggested to any passersby that I was new to town, alone, and thinking about the cost of airfare.
Truth be told, I was starting to become somewhat enamored with Hay River. The people were nice, the scenery was amazing, and I was not too dissuaded by the cold. Between Christmas Eve and January 3, 2010, I would find a slice of nature to call my own, meet some great people, and start coming out of my shell just that much more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
