Back and back - December 30th, 2008

Alright. Time to buck up or bow out, and with this mountain of soulful spring cleaning I've got no time for reflection. Regardless, the past few months have withered (or weathered) away, and the icy breath of our London wind seems to have woken me from a graying slumber. So sorry for the time away, more I bid sorry to self, and hope that as our clock chimes two thousand and nine it is the lure of the future that pulls with greater force than the weight of these days.

For Christmas we've been house sitting for some of Jess's family, in what can best be described as your proto-typical English house: about eight feet wide and five stories tall. Fireplaces light each and every room, but seem never to hold the draft at bay. So apologies to any who called to wish me a Merry Christmas, the loss of a chance to hear your voices is grim, and I'm sorry.

But, with the introduction to my life of luxuries like towels, dishes, and walls, we we're able to christen the season with Bartholomew, the Christmas shrub:
And at a whopping, coffee-table-threatening height of three feet, he makes for a grand total of ten dollars per foot. I guess there is a tree-crunch this year.

As for the day of yule itself, I managed to scrap together and construe this little beast for Jess:
Her name is Sunny Muffins, and she's been adorned with some stallions and ponies to really get the point across. Although I will say this little bit of future advice to the curious: Don't ever, ever, EVER, get the idea to paint a bicycle. I have it on pretty good information that Marlon Brando had just finished spraying a three-speed before the final quotes in Apocalypse Now.











As for my own little slice of the Christmas Cake, Jess managed to win handedly this year, giving me a trip to Morocco.

We leave on the second, and it's been this incredible gift that's perhaps managed to wake me from my miasmic drudgery of late. I'm doing my best to memorize Arabic phrases, such as "Your camel makes delicious milk", "My, what a fine desert you have", and "Gee, now that I think about it, Allah sure is nifty". Although I'm sure no amount of studying can ever overcome my inherent tourist stupidity.

Okay, that wraps up the days around Christmas, but I haven't even touched on what's going on here in London. I mean, what people are really talking about, the reason the capital is super blurry, why you can't even let your sailors out at night...



Oh shit, there goes the liver, 'cause here comes the Sarah.

More news on organ failure to follow.

Good to be back,

Nick

Noel! Noel! - December 24th, 2008

Hello everybody!

I haven't written in so long, being glum and grey and not wanting to pass it on. But it's Christmas Eve, and Santa is coming!

I miss you all, so very much. May you all have Christmas with nothing but love. And, if you're in Canada, snow.

I'll talk to you all so very much more in the near future.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

-Nicholas.

For Let, Cardboard Box, (3 bdrm) - November 26th, 2008

Oh, I forgot to mention, we have a room for rent. Ho oh hoh do we have a deal for you.

For only $800 dollars a month, plus $100 utilities, plus one plane ticket to London, you receive all the following benefits:

A mattress.

Walls painted yellow.

Occasional Hot Water (1/2 hour heating time excluded).

A washing machine in your kitchen.

Funny lightbulbs.

and, Sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours a day, seven whole days a week, ALL-ACCESS NICK.

A steal? A deal? Can this be for real?

You betcha! Now you too can savor the flavor of a shared lifestyle with Nick Kertesz. From the basements of Vancouver, to the run-down mansions of Halifax, from the star-lit lofts of Melbourne, to the llama-lit shacks of Bolivia, lucky folk the world over are crying out:

"Yes. You. Can!" (bring your own towels)

The London job economy is (s)HOT(s)HOT(s)HOT right now, with literally dozens of jobs available in the United Kingdom. As well, you'll experience what the world has already discovered, that the British culture is as sunny as it's climate. From gastronomy to fine dentistry, this is the Britain you've been just thinking about maybe visiting!

Don't let this bedroom pass you by folks, any minute now we'll have to give it away to one of the many, many squatters eager for our tenancy rights.

Besides...

How can you live without this?

Operators are standing by.

free to air - November 24th, 2008

Well, today was the end of the streak. Damn, that made 259 days without a job. I guess I could make a visual cue, let's see...

Okay, here we go:
Sigh. It was a good run. I wouldn't really recommend it without a determined time spent in countries where a good portion of barbecued cat is only fifty cents.

After passing up the creepy pseudo bar gig, I finally just followed the time honored tradition of following one's flatmates to their places of employment, in this case, a theatre. With hope the complexity of ushering will not overwhelm me.

Anyways, more to follow, some new ink and whatnot going on around town.

We burn Tony Blair's face - November 8th, 2008

It was Guy Fawkes Night on the fifth, and our celebrating involved much less alliteration than I had hoped.

Jess, Victoria, and I began our carousel as has become normative for me, by consuming many litres of delicious alcoholic cider, found in my favorite, and most economic vessel, a two litre plastic jug. There are many forms and varietals of this verbose treat, but sliding quickly down the economic scale from such branded pillars as Strongbow (3 pounds), to White Oak (2 pounds), then Ace Lightnin' (1.50), we arrive at my stalwart companion, Dry Cider (75 pence), which has followed the naming traditions of all discount brands, proving that the best way to pass the savings on to you, the consumer, is by removing that ever-costly Call Products By Anything Other Than Their Name department.

And so, tottering my way to the usual foreign oblivion, we obtained a large and rather gorgeous effigy of Tony Blair, and began the search for a suitable bonfire. Unfortunately it appears the traditions of random and uncontrolled fires in the street have been unexpectedly curtailed, and the groups looking for any bonfire would consist of us, grumpy anarchopunks, and every police officer in London.

But the police turned out to be quite helpful, often advising any wandering passerby such wonderful advice as:
"Looking for a fire? Because I sure am positive that while you are most certainly in the wrong place right now, there is most definitely going to be one at (insert any random place that is not where you are right now). "

Which is nice, unless of course some officer has just told you that there will be a large fire in your flat late on in the evening. In which case madlibs just lets you down.

Right, anyways, we went to a friend's flat to burn ol' Lap Dog, and he went up quite beautifully. I have no photos of his face melting, as I am a dumbass, but standard behaviour prior to his flammation went like this...



There will be more photos later, I went to the British Museum of Natural History, yes that one.

Oh wait, nonono, not that one.

Anyways, see ya.

Nick.

Taggin' - November 5th, 2008

I know, I know, I should be writing about the election, which decends upon us by the minute. But you know what, as always, I live in the future. And here, five hours from any time someone in Toronto could understand, and basically eons from the west coast, I can tell you such things as electoral policies have already sunk into the setting sun. I mean, try to imagine that we were protesting when Clinton was in charge, which now, seems abit like passing out leaflets in eden.

Anyways, and not too importantly, here are some of the first stencils I've been making.
I can't draw an original image to save my life, so everything is just drawn free hand from some image someone else has done. The pony was for Jess, but somehow with the neck of a giraffe. And it ended up somewhat pregnant.

man, I suck at this.

Oh well, when one is barely employed, one is a assuredly an anarchist.

n.

p.s. Mr. Nader, it's just not the same without you.

Think positive, or J. Edgar Hoover will appear and destroy your city - November 1st, 2008

It's a Saturday morning here in London, the weather is darkening and worsening as the hours tick by, and the pale of gathering cold threatens to confine me to my linens for the day. A decent time for irreverent and unsubstantial thoughts, so I hope your days are looking the same.

At the end of this week I've finally found employment, that pub job I'd mentioned earlier turned into some sort of really sleazy promotional gig, and so I have instead crawled into the job-sphere of our flatmate, Vera, and work in a theatre. Cool? Not really, but it's a little bit of change in my pocket at the end of a long search.

Life here has been reportedly quiet. While the slow cruising pace of our time in London means I've been developing myself into lots of new areas, it does leave relatively little to prattle about online. I've been getting heavily into some stenciling and jamming around town, and will put up some photos soon. There is the usual litany of protests and parkour, but passions chill with the weather, and the urge to save the world becomes more just an urge to save the heating.

Trips to the Tate Modern, Saatchi Gallery, and numerous other free institutions of culture remain awesome, but albeit with less photographic opportunities, so I apologize for being unable to convey the experiences digitally.

To be frank, nothing quite so enthralling. A Halloween night out at the pub, and table of quickly drafted graffiti ideas, a new package of socks. For this I leave such breaths between posts, which I'm not sure is healthy or not. Flights to most places in Europe are fifty cents right now, tax included, so next week I should manage to sneak off to somewhere for a couple days, and endeavor to communicate something of interest.

Until then, let's hope we learn more about the DRC then voting machines in Virginia.

-n

Europe - October 22nd, 2008

In case I forgot to mention...



Yes, I do live in Europe.

He Giveth, He Taketh Away, He No Existeth - October 22nd, 2008

Got a phone call from my about-to-start bar job, apparently it's gotten weird, and now they want me to do some pretty gross promotion stuff. And if gross sounds too soft, I mean, desperate sleaze.

As I panic and run around trying to find another job, and I mean it's tough (I was told that the London equivalent of Safeway would be hiring sometime in January), there is always a ray of light:

Here

Hah! So good.

-n

1.21 Gigawatts - October 20th, 2008

Hello Hello,

Just a quick word on a rainy London night about something I forgot to mention this weekend.

Popped in to the British Museum on Friday for a few spare hours, which, because all museums and galleries in London are free, makes the pleasure a little cheap and whoreish, like using a coupon for a lap dance.

Anyways, visiting the Royal Collection of Pillaged, Stolen, and Looted Priceless Artifacts From Countries Who Developed Gunpowder Too Late was more or less unbelievable.

Turn left past the coat check, and...

Oh look! Priceless Assyrian monuments! And more of the same...

A more or less massive hall of Egyptian and Assyrian treasures, assembled in a sort of "God's Garage Sale" manner.

In fact, after assuming my usual jaw-on-the-floor routine perfected in Chicago, I said aloud: "Man, and to think that after they found the Rosetta Stone, they could actually read these hieroglyphics... Wait! Jess, do you think the Rosetta Stone is here?!?"

And lo and behold, not fifteen feet away:

So basically an orgy of history. There is no end to the anthropological beauty they have at the museum, there is nothing like reading the info tag to see you are actually standing in front of Cleopatra.

Anyways, tomorrow I'll talk about taking a walk in town, and more on the museum as the days go by. I'll post all the photos in the album with time.

Thanks,

Nick.

p.s. Oh! I'm employed, unsurprisingly, at an English pub. Sigh. There goes all the arts and crafts.

A Walk Through London - October 21st, 2008

Well here we are in my gloomy little London flat, the kitchen view is a little soul-crushing.

Quick, while the leaves still stand brave on the thinning elms... Let's off for a little stroll about town.

Out the door and the world looks just like you would imagine...

Happy! No no no, it's not so off, the fog will lift, as always, and give us a chance to dodge falling chestnuts and enjoy the Ye Olde streets.

Forgive the bright glare of flourescent safety apparel, but it's as universal here as in Australia. Somewhere buried in the Magna Carta is a blurb like: He That Weareth The Neon, Cupeth The Power, I'm sure of it. Right, most streets that were not blown to bits by the nazis look like this. So the city boasts some snazzy stone.

The photo above is of Regent Street, just curling off of Picadilly Circus, and it's one of the very Baron Von Munchausen structures around. This next one being the most so:

Finally, since the night is drawing dark and the post long, we see some turrets in the downtown, and let the lights come on outside the Waldorf.

That's not a big walk through London, no visiting the tower, or Big Ben, or the really crazy stuff, just an idea of what is always on your shoulder, when you stroll through this city.

Tell me a tory - October 16th, 2008

You can almost hear the collective sigh of relief across the ocean.

Like a besmirched Christmas morning, eagerly hunched over a blue-lit laptop awaiting trepidatious results, like Schrodinger's Election, the future waiting outside our London door neither concrete nor ethereal, non-existent without our consent.

I would have consented for a little less blue, I suppose, but this was sure all I could have hoped for. As well, my home riding in Edmonton made a stupendous splash of orange amongst the sinister sea of conservatives. (That's right pop, downright sinister. Grrrr.) Linda Duncan, the formentioned ndp victor, spoke with me on the phone when I was at home, about fighting the man and making the world a better place, so she had my vote.

Sad of course when we accept a darker world instead of an absolutely blackened one, like kitchen products called I Can't Believe It's Not Better. Jess said it best though, if it wasn't for our specific anti-conservative politics, one glance at the Canadian political landscape and you can't blame a single person for voting Tory, they seem the only party with an idea of what is going on. I mean, their idea is namely to kill foreigners, reduce the Canadian quality of living, and make having a general societal conscience illegal, but hey, it's a plan.

The job hunt, so deliriously dismal it has often become comic, has been reduced to begging for warehouse and call center jobs. And in this endevour I somehow am considering myself lucky, should I manage to obtain a fairly lackluster job to which I can assign my waking hours unfruitfully.

Oh! In a note of amazing, I am without even a single drag of a cigarette since the day I left Chicago, three weeks ago. I know for Team Smoke, (for whom I am a proud founder), this betrayal stings as much as breathing oxygen through our tattered lungs, but I promise it won't be permanent.

Right-0, got some culture jamming, alternative-cross stitching, and parkour to get up to. Life is just so damn Prolific when you're unemployed.

-nick

Old and older - October14th, 2008

Oh, went for a nice quick jaunt to Tower Bridge and around the Tower of London. Only one thing to make a point on about the whole affair, and that is this:

THERE IS A CASTLE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CITY.

Okay, that's really the only point. The rest is just old buildings.

The gate there is the Traitor's Gate, and it's awesome since it's only for boats. Kind of a cool "three-musketeers" sneaky river entrance kind of thing. Awesome.

And it's nice to be able to bike past these things on the way to home. I won't hide that.

N

Making plans for Nigel - October 14th, 2008

Looks like no global meltdown. Now I have to return this giant Apocalypse cake I ordered. I should not have gone with ice cream.

I heard this song playing in a restaurant in Coroico, Bolivia. No one knew what it was, but there was a chance it was Bruni, which, as you can tell from the ridiculous video, is embarassing. But very nice.

not much to report, i mean on an easily available, daily, basis. i can't even spell right now. look at me, i'm in a no-capitals phase. that's not good. next comes the dreaded usage of u as a pronoun. u know.

At a dead stop in life right now. Cannot for the life of me find work in this city, and yet to be seized by the magic somehow associated with it. I keep lowering and lowering my standards for work, soullessly, and expect tomorrow is going to be call center day, I mean it's that rough.

My foot is injured from stepping on, and fully inserting, a sewing needle into it, which Jess, in a moment of snake-bite fury, pulled out with her teeth. Crazy. Why a sewing needle? Hmmm, maybe because I've become addicted to Cross-Stitching, a hallmark of decent into Hipsterism, and it's endless avant garde of the Ironic. Frankly, I'm two-weeks unemployed, and it's hobby time. Next comes yelling at day-time tv cooking shows.

"Honey! Come quick! He's gonna sautee the duck! Yaaaahh!" (I am, of course, and perhaps most disturbingly, also home alone at these times.)

While I'm more than eager and willing to bloat my schedule with classes of every nature for a vast multitude of tasks, whatever job schedule might impose itself upon me would in fact trump those classes, so they must wait until things have solidified. I have a deep relationship with the fridge.

Okay, time to head out again into the World of Employment-Seeking, which is a lot like a planet run by a master race of Brain Slugs, I would imagine.

Love,

Nick.

p.s.

Contact

Ohho, it appears I have begun my domestic life, and have plugged myself into the grid in the following ways:

Home Phone: International dial 011-44-2089862664
Address: 43 Primrose Square, London, E9 7TS

N.

Jump - October 9th, 2008

Blast! I was constructing such a lovely rant about the End Of the World (tm), and the clever minds of Big Brother have managed to whisp it away on the ethereal internet tides. So, bereft of lengthier thought, here was the gist of it:

The UK government has announced a "plan" to bail-out the crumbling, self-devouring edifice of of the unrestrained financial markets, to the tune of 500 billion pounds, or 1 trillion dollars. This is enough money to remove starvation, cholera, malaria, and every immunizable disease from the planet Earth for decades, and the minister who has proposed such a Bold and Historic mindless idea has already admitted: "It may not be enough".

This sign seen on Wall Street, brought to attention by Ian:

Also found on the sidewalks in my borough: "All Banks Are Fuckers".

This also from British Government: All Emails and Phone Calls to Be Monitored

Not any outrage, but not any surprise either.

In the last rundown, sorry for not writing much, but my writing, as my life, is not at it's best right now. Also, can barely move my legs from finally getting into Parkour, this a video of the guys who I take classes with, I think they have a personal vendetta against every one of my muscles.

Have to run, think the cafe is about to get to robbed, dddooooodddgy.

Nick

Coming up for air - October 6th, 2008

Sorry for the rude silence all, I guess I could say I'm getting a little bit of sanity, and now seems a good time to get the wind back.

I did my first day of parkour today, and I don't think my limbs will actually carry me home for my long, (and probably eternal) night of sleep.

I will elaborate more and more tomorrow, with photos, and nonsense, and all the good stuff one good expect.

All my best all, until the morrow.

Nicholas.

My plan for global domination - October 1st, 2008

1) Buy phone.

2)Call friends and family whom have probably disowned me during the last days, weeks, and months of non-contact.

3)Maybe eat some toast or something.

4)GOLBAL DOMINATION



Working on 1), we'll see about the rest.

-N

6 switches and a fuse - September 29th, 2008

Is somehow the amount of work required within the domain of my flat to coerce hot water to expunge itself from my tap. The relationship is, at best, trying.

All right then.

So it's been about a week since I arrived in London, and so far my trans-atlantic communications have reinforced the point that no matter how lazy and free your exsistence, without a phone and internet you get to seem frantic, without any sort of pre-requisite franticisity.

Our flat is becoming more and more likeable as the days draw on, or rather as it becomes clear our distant and small abode is actually imminently affordable, neighbourly, and downright grandiose by London standards. So, like a case of chlamydia, you're not super pleased, but you realise it could be a lot worse. Like herpes worse. And no one wants to live in a herpes apartment. (No offense Bob.)

The grey blob of sky has eased the last few sunny days, and the difference in the city is obvious, even enjoyable. The word most commonly scribled on beer-stained postcards from europe is old, as in really old, derived oftenly from i mean super old, man, and the vocabulary is of course fitting. Cities with the power and size of American behemoths, but girded with gold instead of iron, pebbled, not paved, born, not forged. But not to forget the roots of this history amidst gilded towers, it is still a country built on blood, and made of riches torn from the world's coasts. In a way this city is the birthplace of our culture, and it's beauty stands still triumphant...
I suppose I'll leave it at that.

Anyways, not a lot of photos yet, as like I mentioned before I have time, lots of it, and the gray skies lead to gray photos. I'm starting the work-hunt today, and if you could see my resume you'd understand why it'll be an interesting search, my cv actually containing the following paragraph:

unrelated experience: can speak spanish poorly, have worked at super cool jungle farmd deep in the amazon, have tried to surf (unsuccessful), am immune to chicken pox, learning to cook, really good at winking.

So you can imagine how that is going.

I need to do a whole bunch of grown-up things the next few days, like get a bank account and utilities and bathe, and all that rubbish, so you can guess it'll lead to some preeetty exciting blogging!

Oh my this island gig is weird.

Nick out.

P.S. I should add, Bob Does Not Have Herpes. (Or if he does, then at least he doesn't have such a great garden of herp that his apartment could not be classified as a "herpes apartment".)

You're gonna dye lonely Bob, I will make sure of it.

The Nickish Invasion - September 25th, 2008

Hey all, just a quick note.

I landed yesterday in Grey ol' London, at the final end of a seven day cold I have held off with massive amounts of pharmaceuticals, tobacco, and nicotine. As expected, my organs are desperately attempting to flee the sinking ship, but in a last rallying cry we're trying to blow up the life rafts and toss the kids overboard and really focus the crowd on the problems at hand. Mainly phlegm, really.

So the point is that I am currently, simultaneously, insanely, cold-turkey on:

No Booze (for the lovely beer-tummy I built up at home there)
No Meat or Dairy or Sugar or Junk (for the ethics lost along the way)
No Smokes (for the last chance at restoring my poor, battered lungs to minimum capacity.)

As you can guess, I am losing my mind.

Amidst all that we're in Sunny London, wandering through ancient streets whilst a culture somewhat friendlier than Stalin's Russia pervades my every interaction. I'm not in much of a hurry to put up photos though, since they all look like garbage with the grey sky, and I'm going to be here for enough time not to rush around clipping shots of every ancient edifice. Maybe tomorrow, the only real pressure is just wanting to change up the blog to represent my European headspace. Which means, of course, there is a washing machine under the kitchen sink, and you have to hit three switches to get hot water. Apparently our flat is like a mini-kingdom by British standards.

More to come as we settle, and I get a job, or something along those lines. Maybe I'll just post a list of common prices, because frankly, that's something you will never believe.

Nick, across the pond, out.

The House of Blues - September 22nd, 2008

This one's for you pop.

To the brim, bottoms up - September 22nd, 2008

Why didn't anyone tell me to pack shorts?

Man, it's glorious weather here, or maybe just the glow and shimmer of being with my dear friend, but never the less the time here is Golden. It is rare and beautiful, and what we can grasp turns not to dust but instead solid and weightful. So I feel we are bucking the trend, and buying postcards for our own mantles.

As Mark worked today I wandered the foreign and weathered downtown of Chicago, finding amazement not in the skyscrapers, but in the overwhelmingly massive towers of brick and stone, something I had forgotten a country once has the audacity to construct. After lots of being lost and some really cool help from Chicagans, (Chicagoans? Chicites? Chiclets?) I found my goal at the Art Institute, which is their word for a gallery.

And so followed four hours of heart-filling, soul-breaking, mind-rending beauty. Paintings from the year 1300 shared endless hallways with the artifacts of humanity's birth. There lives Nighthawks, American Gothic, Rainy Day in Paris, George Slaying the Dragon, Fork by Andre Kertesz, and the thousands of breaths in between that leave you empty in the end. I ended up with a pretty dry mouth after holding it open for so long. Gasping like I shouldn't be in a public space.

It was more than anything a surprise, I wasn't ready for so much, more than ever, and to have Jessica's most upright tenant of the appreciation of beauty thrumming in my ears left me ready for the weeping lounge. In a fit of brilliance the gallery has placed a room for "touching" near the end of your by-now tactilely starved escapade, and I damn well molested some bust in an effort to cross through to all the art I'd been able to see, but not touch.

Afterwards I managed some wandering, very incorrect train rides, and now late night drinking, so all is well.

Thanks for reading all, I miss you,

Nicholas

One day at a time, sweet jesus - September 21st, 2008

No really, just one more day, I beg you my frail, fickle organs. I'm so loaded up with viruses and germs that I'm actually consuming water of my free will, but I need just a couple more days of sentient thought here in wicked Chicago until I have the time for my imminent and gruesome death. I'm like a Stay In School commercial here, wandering the bricked streets hacking up ornamental appendages out of my lungs while alcohol sweats from my pores. Mmmmm..

Anyways, had a super wonderful night here last evening with my dear friend Mark, mainly because it feels so comfortable to be here. I could move in tomorrow to this apartment (partly in a drive to reduce the "I'm going to make your skin into a lamp" vibe that Mark appears to be going with in his interior (lack of) decoration.

I'll take some photos today of what is going on in this sepulchre of American Culture, but mainly I'm just writing now to alleviate some of the intensity of the posts here as of late, and decidedly not bitch about going to London, as I need all the street cred I can can muster for the coming weeks when I start gushing endlessly about how cool that city will be, and everyone is all: "Oh really? I thought were actually a whining douche."


-Nick.

August - September 20ish, 2008

Exhausted, seeming haunted, I am drifting the paved lino of Seattle's airport, the rain beating heavily against every glass surface, a day so intent on greyness that you can see the colors bleeding into the floors and fleeing the scene.

I left home this morning, very morning, and amidst my yawns the powerful thoughts and mists of such a new departure run strong in my heart, perhaps the only strength that I can conjure between airport bench naps and drooling planes of which I remember nothing.

I am sad to leave home, so soon, and so unfinished. The words do not trumpet complexity, but perhaps I need not always the confusing method when the meaning is simple. I am sad to be here in the States, as always, and I am sad to be traveling again to places like my own, and not a million other locales more vibrant and different. Mostly I am worn out and emptied by the past month. I feel like there is nothing I can do more but offer my deepest apology to everyone for the shambled time we spent together.

I cannot think of a moment I spent with any of my loved friends and family that was not incredible, but rather the lack of time was the cruel insult. I managed to blow off Sarah, Nick, and my Oma in Toronto completely, and for what passed as time spent with everyone seems to brief to be respectful.

The truth is simply that I am a very, very, very tired young man in an airport on a grisly day, and just about everything is too much for me right now. I should write nothing to avoid whining such as this, but I have written so little in the last few weeks I wanted dearly to do something now.

I am in Chicago until Tuesday evening to see my friend Mark, and then to London, towards no matter else, the arms of my beloved.

Sorry for the ranting, I need another bench nap.

Love, and fidelity,

Nicholas

Bubblebubblebubble - September 8th, 2008

Well, a long time without word, and probably without surprise.

I've been at home here in Edmonton since the 13th or so, and the trend towards emotional intensity has most definitely not waned. My deep apologies to Denji, Matt, Eric, Michelle, Sydnie, and all the rest who have been socially left by the wayside so far during this visit, but I beg you sheath your ire as I've got oodles of time left for some dedicated hanging.

I'm off tomorrow morning to work on a friend of the family's farm for a week, some dedicated time doing some loose construction jobs entailing a very overdue attempt to exchange labor for money, a concept I've been without since April. Actually, I'm more proud than bothered, I mean really, that's a good chunk of time to skip the ol' Marxist cycle.

I'm back in town Friday evening, and then in the city until the 20th, when I aim to fly to Chicago for a couple of days to see my friend Mark, and then I'm off to London to join Jess; who, with only the slightly occupying tasks of preparing for Law School, will have hopefully found us an apartment. (or flat, if you're a Limey butt-puppet.)

So what I mean is: That's the plan, and I promise I won't bail on anyone before I leave. Oh, except Sarah and my grandmother, who, residing in Toronto, I am 100% bailing on, thereby making me an enormous asshole of titanic proportions.

Right-o, off to the farm, or what have you,

Nicholas.

Too much, and too often - August 12th, 2008

Forgive me beforehand, as I will begin, I think, too indulge perhaps too much in the following...

One week, more or less, in the arms of the West, and I am emptied.

Too tired to be a guest, dirty and worn for the show, I feel like I am nearing the end of my capacity for reunion. Every day forms the complicated and electrified bonding of wires between old friends and expectations, something universally difficult, understandable, and nevertheless painful.

I am seeing again all the walks of life from my past, especially as they have convalesced in this hub of humanity, Vancouver, feeling as if the curse of Christmas Specials have descended upon me, "No more Miracles!"

I guess I get it now. No one should have to, or opt, to walk their own past, to feel the streets not as living or faded, but vibrant and twisting, to see friends not in photos, frozen, nor alive and painted, but instead amongst the celluloid carousal of blurred emotion. I know I'm not being clear, I suppose that's the point of catharsis, but maybe it's clearer than I'm making it. It is the normal turning of the tide for us to see the past ebb away, made clearer and more potent as it pulls farther and farther to the horizon. Through this process we see our pain, and promise, draw crisp against the remaining sea, while our minds stay firm amongst the beating waves of today.

Here in this city I have reconnected with so many of my most intense friends, day after day, in a process I can only only recommend as grueling. So I have drawn up the distant waters and pulled them against the tide to this grainy beach, the fearsome fisher, petrified with what reflection I would find.

And I have seen my friendships lasting, and fierce, but in so doing, have walked the wearied paths of my past as they still live. Hence, the vibrant and furious presence of all that which is supposed to remain distant. It is the proximity which is the pain.

Yet, of course, the passion is the point, and in the rolling tide of this re-developed friendships are found the same pleasures, made anew, and with a new host of promise.

So tired...

I leave Vancouver tomorrow at 6pm, and I'll be home Thursday morning. To home.

-N

Bees, and busy like them - August 5th,2008

Greetings everybody from the usual utopic glow of Vancouver. I had somehow forgotten the myriad methods of falling in love with this city, even amongst the diatribes and palpatations of my praise.

After a week or so here of idlyic bliss it's time to go, or at least stop living as a guest for a time, and get home. I'm looking to leave here probably Wednesday, then I'll be home for a good chunk, followed by a road trip to LA early September, and then flying to Toronto for a few days before arriving in London for the fifteenth. I don't know about you guys, but I just can't wait to finally experience the famous clear skies and sunny disposition of the British People.

Alright, I'm going back to the activism and coffee shops of Van for one more day, I'll catch up with you all later.

Nick

The old and the new - August 2nd, 2008

Well,

looks like instead of some drawling and longish prose about Bolivia, heartbreak, and the end of an era, it seems life just hasn't stopped long enough for retrospection.

I flew into Los Angeles this morning, (Spanish still remaining the dominant form of expression in my mind), on a mission to meet my sister, Lisa, for the first time in my life. Lisa is my half-sister and we share the same dad, which I guess dooms us both, but she's over twenty years older than me and the curls of our lives and family have seemed to keep us apart until now. As well, with the incredible addition of her daughter, and my niece, Sierra into the world a few weeks ago, the timing was more than perfect for our first hello.

I somehow have already slipped into my long-awaited deadbeat brother role by surprising my sister with a phonecall from the airport announcing my arrival, and our subsequent rendevous resplendant with all my South American body odors. Claaassy. And now at the end of our first, and wonderful, day I'm saturated with the overwhelming Familialness of it all.

I guess that how it happens to us all, one day you're shrugging it all off, and the next, you're somehow the guy giving the advice and talking about birth weight. I dunno how, maybe nobody sees it coming.

I'm on a plane to Vancouver in the next hour, so I suppose, that's that. See you all soon.

Oh, and here's my niece:

Ciao,
Nick




p.s. Oh, and on a very non-baby note, there are peacocks in the trees here. Do you hear me? Crazy.

Closed and opened. - July 29th, 2008

And so, the end,

With ruddy feet and filthy hands I´ve come down from the mountains and back into the meliue of La Paz, packing my bags and looking for the last farewells in these crooked streets. I managed to find a bus that I thought might be heading in the direction I wanted, as I tried to discover a place I had seen only through windows. The first step, of course, involved resting my backpack in a middling river of urine at 5:30 in the morning in La Paz, and that is something I´m still trying to undo. With the celebratory mistakes out of the way, my hopeful chariot drew up and away from the city, and into that range I that had rusted into my dreams, The Cordillera Real.

After a few hours of climbing it was quite clear I had managed to retrace my steps, but the next part was somewhat more difficult. Without a car, or wall tent, I had very few options of where to stop. The bus was headed to Charazani, a beautiful pueblo among a valley, but I wanted out now, in this place:

We passed through the village of Bocabamba, and it was clear that in a place without trees, hostals would be hard to find. The next pueblo, Walicala, was considerably bigger, and throbbing with the weekly market day. I hung my gringo head out the bus and asked some gentlemen about my prospects of staying in the town, and the next thing I knew a very confused bus was dissapearing into the valley folds while dust settled around my boots at the side of the road. In what would become a tradition every time I stopped walking, a small crowd gathered to stare and question me, growing quickly to 15 or more people. The word awakward does not even begin to cover my responses to a nervous blur of questions, the sentences half-Spanish, half-Aymara. Over the next few days I would be happy to have a bed, but would begin to yearn for the up-scale comforts of a toilet, or water.

The plane around the Cordillera Real is unbelievable, the plunging valleys form a rippling edge on one side, as the hills and mountains climb on in the other direction until they plunge into Lago Titicaca. The mornings are clear, but by noon mists and clouds normally roll in, so I did all my wandering and climbing in the early hours, eventually reaching altitudes around 5000 meters.

I had come here for solitude, and it did not need my searching. The wind would press upon my ankles in the morning, coaxing my tired feet further and higher, and as the ridges would drop away, tustle my hair as an expectant father, proud to show such sheltered things to the wanting. And yet, as the stones of peaks would begin to grind beneath my boots, my ever-present companion would always transform into my juror, the gusts and breaths of force bending my knees, testing any resolve to remain at the summit. But the outline of silence would only emerge when the winds would suddenly vanish, leaving the invisible visible, and the unknowable introduced, like the deafening sound of absence.

The mountains are, with all respect, littered with Aymaran ruins. They lie silent in every valley, and powerful atop every summit: farms, villages, and cities of tumbled secrets, older than the Incas, and quieter in their sleep. Ancient pottery and carved rocks lie amongst the walls, untouched or discovered, almost waiting. I do not know if it is easy or difficult to imagine a place without people, emptied and potent, atop the roof of the world, with only the ghosted stones of ruins, and to wander their paths alone, with every second for yourself apart. The mists curl across the rocks, the sun fades from the horizon, and the empty spaces between the galaxies blast stars through the fermament.

Through it all, I managed to cool the storms within a bit, although with less of a whooshing release, and more the quieted calm.

Now I sit in La Paz, the hours counting until my departure, the time clutched too tight in my hands, too reluctant to release it all.

Palms Up - July 22nd, 2008

Whoooosh.

Well hi there, now that I´m back amongst civilization after two weeks and five days in the depths of the Amazon.

My first and overwhelming thought is that simply I did not have enough time at the farm, endulging a life style of sun and satisfaction. Somehow, (the answer actually being the amazing food), I managed to gain weight by working on a farm deep in the jungle. And that is something.

I´ve tried to write this post for two days now, and it´s just not coming out, so here are some photos to fill the space.

The Farm
The morning it was difficult to brush my teeth...





















From the top of the mountain, a view all the way to Brazil, and a photo of the jungle.












Well I guess that wsn´t very interesting... Hmmm...

Okay, I have a bit of a headache, and tomorrow I´m heading out on my last adventure before I have to leave. Once, about two months past, and through my window on a bus trip, I saw an incredible place at the top of a mountain, and I´m going to try to get back there over the next few days. I´m not sure how it´ll turn out, I don´t know where it is, and there aren´t roads, and it is a mountain top, but I´m aiming to be back in La Paz for next Wednesday, especially since my flight is Friday.

See you all soon, I´m looking forward to taking some time for my mind this week, it´s getting very hard to think of leaving, and returning to a country where it´s illegal to walk across the street or smoke outside. Sigh.

Yours,

nicholas.
See you all very soon

Chao - July 4th, 2008

Hello, and goodbye, for a while

I wanted to write about Santa Cruz, to say how strange it is here, and yet wonderful, but the time is out and ticking, and I have to get to my bus. I´ll be away for at least three weeks in the Amazon, and with luck everything will go fine.

I expect tons of bug bites and at least one parasite, but otherwise lots of time to work and study, two areas that always need my attention.

I´ll miss saying hello until then, so everyone keep safe.

Chao,
Nick

East - July 2nd, 2008

Hello all,

I´m at the La Paz terminal now awaiting my bus, and the beginning of a three day journey. Said goodbye this morning to everyone at the job site, and presents and wet eyes made an appearance.

I´m off to Santa Cruz tonight, and have a whole day there tomorrow, so I´ll write then, because after that it´s two days by bus to the amazon, and at least two weeks with no electricity.

Hokay, hasta mañana.

N.

And he means it... - June 28th, 2008

biatch.

Oy! Peru! - June 28th, 2008

Howdyhowdy,

Just a quick note from Puno, a few hours across the Peruvian-Bolivian border. I had to make a day trip to refresh my thirty day visa for Bolivia, and sigh had to do it this way. Man Peru is expensive, or rather, I guess compared to Bolivia. But when I hear people at the market paying one dollar for five bananas, I tell you that is ´effin ridiculous expensive.

Now last night I managed to find myself swept up in the tides of South America, and stayed up past midnight to boot. I´ve been organizing a trip to a farm very very much in the middle of nowhere through my contact, Claudia, for a while. And finally last night we managed to meet up in El Alto, and then I managed to wrangle myself an invitation to her cousin´s graduation fiesta.

I cannot explain how very much I have been trying to attend a typical Bolivia fiesta. I didn´t have my camera, and wouldn´t have used it anyways, so I´ll try some imagery.

It works like this, imagine a rented hall, varying in quality, with several hundred very large bottles of Huari beer piled on tables sorrounded by dozens of family members. Picture all the teenage girls in club clothes, the men in suits, and of course, all the women in the standard Aymara apparel, but the flashier fiesta version, and everyone covered in white confetti.

Now there is a big space in the middle for dancing, and somewhere a DJ with the standard play list of traditional Bolivian dances. I haven´t mentioned this before, but if you go to a bumping club in most places in Bolivia, you´re going to be in for watching every single person partner up, and form giant lines facing each other, where upon everyone proceeds to dance the correct dance for the song playing. Whether it´s wacas or tomas, it´s insane to see teenagers dancing all night long to traditional, indigenous dances. I don´t mean to push the point, but it´s enthralling and a huge indicator of how powerful the culture still is.

Okay, so, moving on, don´t forget that every first sip of your drinks you need to pour a little out for Pachamama, the earth goddess, so the lino floor of the dance hall is just soaked. And so the scene is set for the standard Bolivian mass-drunkeness, something Jess and I had seen spilled into the streets often before, but had never been in on from the start. If you will please, imagine the lovely lady above, maybe twenty years older, drunk out of her mind like a fourteen year old girl and having the time of her life.

So the night grows on, the comradery between the family and the surprise gringo grows, jealous tensions flare a little at the end as some girls play who´s my man, and eventually I get the hang of the 3/3 beat and learn a few dances pretty well. I can´t say thanks to Claudia enough for such a wild and original night, her family is frankly incredible, and her mother can dance me under the table any day.

Well, I gotta go do something cheap, I might be going to the farm a week earlier than expected, this Wednesday. Oh, in case you´re wondering the farm is a three day trip into the Amazon, somewhere like here:

Hasta pronto,

Ñick

I lift a lot of bricks during my day. - June 24th, 2008

Hey all,

Well life continues at work and here in El Alto, the main unchanging factor being my unrelenting dirtyness, which grows daily and has now found a place in my room where it breeds. There are no laundromats in all of El Alto, because it´s really an unneeded luxury, so I need to wait a good deal of time until I´m not working.

Last night I was suddenly swept off to a fiesta courtesy of the extended family I´m working with. The fiesta was San Juan, which celebrates the coldest night of the year in Bolivia, and of course, it consists mainly of sitting outside, making kites, blowing up fireworks, and cooking meat with big fires.

All in all, the entire story could be related with tourist zeal, an incredible experience of being a guest of a large, wonderful Bolivian family, the house buzzing with stories and games, all in spanish and aymara, myself ignorant for the most part, playing rampantly with the kids, and causing mischief. A guest in a country, made personal and tangible through being a guest of a family, so far from home.

And yet, as complete a moment and unique a feeling, the story itself is about as standard as one gets. There is something that caught me today as I began to relate what, for me, was such a fulfilling evening. I paused at the banality of the context, surely I have heard the same story from countless uninteresting white lips while abroad, and most of us have heard the same in turn. Why then, recount such a standard, banal tale of warm hearths and laughing children, which is quite frankly, the kind of story that makes you stare into space and think of how the teller should go find Jesus. Or something along those lines.

The nature of tourism is abhorrent to me, Jessica can attest that at times traveling with someone so judgemental can be unbearable. On a quick explanatory note, my detestment of almost every other foreigner I meet is quite clearly a reflection of anger at myself, a point that is obvious but should be made early, and although I´ve spent some crash-course moments in Bolivia trying to not be an ass, I live here in El Alto mainly because I crave the dissapearance of any reflection of myself, and the experience of being in a place completely without other travellers. It´s a clear-cut psychology case, but I haven´t been able to clear it up yet, and so with Jess gone have made a life most easy in this manner.

Anyways, my point is that to have an experience so typical, and yet so incredible, perhaps lends a different and more prudent credence to the word tourist.

Perhaps to be a tourist is to experience a litany of thoughts and moments, that while both transformative and expanding, remain neigh identical to all others. Seemingly incredible stories, that are in fact without uniqeness or interest, and reflect perhaps nothing except for the status, ignorance, and privilege of rich youth. That time you got really high with those crazy guys on the beach somewhere, and that little poor colored child who you gave your coin purse to, and finally that time you snuck into something or woke up somewhere or met someone and it really...changed you.

And yet, the point of that sameness suddenly seems to me, as I reflect upon my own growing library of likewise stories, the binding strain that serves to, maybe, underwrite and give purpose to the entire endeavour. If I have collected these moments, and can plainly see that they stand not out amongst the thousands of others, that should not in any way diminish the quality of my experience.

The story, while common, is still incredible. And the collection of those, while perhaps not for the retelling, is certainly an endeavour worth attempting, maybe for your whole life. They remain of such unique opportunity in my own pale life, and do so for all tourists, that the sameness of our experiences does not cause them to blanchen, but instead serves to reveal the quality and candor of being a tourist. The same tome that we all carry may be, in fact, some of the best stories of all.


The time I saw the most beautiful thing in the world.
How I met her under strange stars and we cried all night.
When I gave away almost everything I owned.

That time I was lost.
That time I was found.


ñ

Feliz Año Nuevo - June 22nd, 5516

Hey all.

That´s right, you may have noticed the year is 5516, at least, since yesterday was the winter soltice, it was also the first day of the new year on the Aymara calendar. The Aymara make up a great deal of Bolivia´s population, and are one of the reasons for the incredible indigenous vitality and cultural power of the country. They live mainly around Lago Titicaca and La Paz, and south into the Altiplano. The classic bowler hats and giant dresses also come from the Aymara. I´m trying to learn Aymara right now, but it´s a bit different, as you can guess.

Anyways, I should really take some time to talk a lot about the Aymara people, but for now, here is a pretty bad video of my work place.

Please ignore the greasy filthy hair. I know, I know, but there are very few showers in El Alto, and veeery few with water above freezing, and that just does not make your whites whiter and your brights brighter.

I´m not in El Alto actually, but a pueblito forty minutes south. The view is great, but I think the shot from this video makes the town seem much more developed than it is. The house is going up really quickly, I wish I had a photo from the first day to compare already, but the progress is remarkable. I have certainly had my reservations about Habitat, mainly because they´re Christian, but also standard questions about ngo efficiency and utility.

This has been a very good example of what a ngo is, and isn´t. Habitat is barely a drop in the bucket with so much poverty, but no one thinks they´re saving the world. There are 5 guys at the site with me, all very Bolivian, and no other volunteers or administration. The main office in El Alto is suitably dumpy, and yet the program is building ten houses in El Alto right now, and dozens more across the country. That is very impressive. Plus, God hasn´t been seen so far.

Anyone out there who is giving to Habitat, don´t worry about your money, it´s being used very well.

Okay, I found a new hostal in the Ceja of El Alto where people don´t try to break into my room in the middle of the night and I don´t sleep with a knife and the bathrooms aren´t filled with blood, so that´s nice. However, still incredibly poor, so no phone calls for a while. Or postcards. Or meals. No, no, kidding.

Chala, tengo que ir,

Ñick.

p.s. It took a little less time to upload the video than I thought, so I´ll upload some of the actually cool videos I have. This also just proves again that the internet in Australia is being beaten by Rural Mexico and The Slums of Bolivia. No worries.

El Alto - June 19th

Hola todo.

Let´s seeeeee. Alright, so Jess had to go home Monday, which was rather a pathetic sad day, and frankly the dinner conversation has really gone downhill.

Me: Munch munch munch

Brain: No one likes you.

Anyways.

As most know, getting even the simplest things done in a foreign country, in a different language, is far more difficult than one is used to. It gets so that the laundry list of traveling errands becomes a monthly notepad, only dented by including such items as: Write list, have pen, and, be an idiot in Spanish.

Today I finally accomplished the impossible by clearing up some banking matters in Australia, a task that normally I would allot thirty minutes, but has taken me at least three months. I know this is not interesting, but in the wood-paneled den of my life, there is a dusty bowling trophy rewarded this task.

Also, on Tuesday I had my long awaited second meeting with MSF to say hi, and learn a bit more about how exactly to get this job I want. I was somewhere close to ridiculously nervous, because the language we were to be talking in results in intelligent remarks from me about 10% of the time, stupidity bordering on galactic 20% of the time, and the rest is almost assuredly a blank face, nodding, with lots of Hmmmms and So, claro....

Anyways, it went well, and both Tom, who´d I met before, and Camilo, the head logistician, were super cool and even went so far, (I would say too far), to express surprise at how good my Spanish was. That was when I knew they were lying men who could not be trusted, but I foiled whatever plot they had constructed with another carefully placed ¨Hmmmm.¨

Today, was able to finally find the Habitat for Humanity office, which rests somewhere in the cleft of dimensions, as not one of hundreds of people would admit that the street the office was on even exists, and would, in fact vehemently deny the possibility, as if I was polling Bolivians about their feelings on capitalism. I would rate the task of finding this building, which has occured for several days, at the level of epic. But all went all, and tomorrow I should start doing a bit of work in my two favorite areas, construction and human rights.

Oh yah! And finally, I´ve moved to El Alto, the vast, sprawling city that sits on the canyon rim above La Paz. It´s the fastest growing city in South America, and that isn´t exactly a good thing, as the whole city is essentially a slum, hence, Habitat.

No photos yet, since whipping out a camera here would be testament to great insensitivity and RobMeNow vibes, but here are some from the net.

The graffiti reads, kind of, El Alto stands, never kneels.

On that note, the graffiti here is unbelievable, as far as messages. From super radical feminest messages to day-to-day political slogans, there are quite a few that hit home.

There is something very beautiful about living in a place where the government graffiti slogan´s are: ¨The Revolution Advances¨, ¨Live with Dignity¨, ¨Bolivia is Changing¨

Still, I saw a painted billboard today that struck me down. To my memory...

¨Bolivia, be proud! We have proved an Aymara man is better than the system!¨

ñ

Que Triste - June 16th, 2008

sigh

Jess had to fly home today to be with her family, there is so much going on in the Arczynski realm, including the arrival of Penelope, the newest of the growing girl horde. Thus, I am suddenly all by my lonesome in Bolivia for the next month and a half.

Truly I am without my better half at the moment, and a little love sick. Also, I just seem less respectable.

I´ve got quite a few plans on the go now, I suppose I´ll know more by Wednesday.

Nick.

Picture This - June 11th, 2008

Hey hey party people.

Rather than upload a couple of pictures to this space, I managed to get quite a few online at the photo album. There is a link on the bottom right, or just here I guess, www.viasolus.myphotoalbum.com

If you haven´t been there for a while, then I don´t think anything´s changed! All the new stuff is captioned, but there´s about a small mountain of photos left to upload. But hey, everything is mountains here.

Chala,
Nick

El Lago - June 10th, 2008

Wha? What happened, one minute it´s all calm on the La Paz front, and the next thing I know I´m chopping down jungle with a machete. Nine days as the guest of a crazed Belgian named Bruno, a midnight escape, and we managed to hook up with the excellent Haligonian Andrew Fanning, my dear friend from the east coast.

We´ve just said farewell to him to him here again in the bustling streets of La Paz, after an incredible jaunt to Coroico and Lake Titicaca. That´s right, the funny name you´ve been joking about your whole life.

As for tonight things are running pretty loud and crazy, with lots of change up in the air but little in my pockets. Here are a couple of ridiculous photos, one of the ridiculous beauty of Lago Titicaca, and one the ridiculous nature of my jungle fantasies.

Details tomorrow,

Ciao.

Ñ