Anniversary - October 10th, 2009

Four years ago, a twenty-two year old version of me strapped on an overweight and brand-new backpack, and started hitchhiking down the QE2 towards what he hoped was a better life.

The years that have stretched since that day have passed as zephyrs, bloated with experience, passed by now as slow symphonies, which remain above, curling, silently portraying the life lived within.

I have lived on different continents, upon islands ringed in sand, others born from frozen seas, some adorned with green, have found peace atop ponderous mountains, above forlorn storms, have pressed among crowds a million colors and more. Slept amongst predators and prey, in the smoldering ashes of northern fires and under the perfect clarity of the southern stars, upon the floors of countless bathrooms, countless couches, countless hearts with countless dreams. I have passed through the fingers that held danger, with luck and with scars, have seen a final reflection of myself in the eyes of another, the days which hold promise and the nights which forgive, the passing of friends unto their deaths, the passing of deaths into their memories, the passing of days, and hours, and breaths.

It is difficult to believe that so much has been lived in so few years, that when looked upon in remembrance it brings such a great pain, such a deepening sadness of memory, for the dearest ones who now live so far.

For the beginnings, the innocence, the shorn and somber boy of Vancouver that first winter, who was the first time away, and yet overwhelmed with the daily joy of living. The first winter in the far north, frozen and vulnerable, a summer without darkness, and the heart bent to burst upon the rocks of the east coast. A house of dreams, with friends whose eyes held poorly-hid fires of beauty, when the heart burns so bright, and the flames lick the walls.

And then one day for the forever, a choice to pursue the only choice there ever was, and suddenly a country so far away that even the sunrise spoke time zones. The movement on a city of tracks, a culture of coins, the nights of buildings within buildings, a city of secrets. And then and forever, finally and with invitation, a cause for crusade and sacrifice and poetry: love.

And then the peaks and the shock and the height, a place without breathing and without compromise, where the people spoke foreign volumes and blew dynamited holes in convention. A place with deep jungles wherein lay deep madness, a place for the roof of the world, and then upon that, the attic of the sky. And finally, something of peace.

And on, and on, and on, upon the white cliffs I have found to dash myself, upon the emerald hills, the ancient city, the lonely deserts of the arab winds, and on, and on, towards everything and nothing, towards promise and fatique, from and back again, a circle, where I live spinning, chasing, fleeing, haunted and haunting, alive and asleep, a man on fire, the future made bright.

I was writing the names of you. But they are in all the same, but one name, the same strike of longing within my chest. How I miss you all, how I wish you the best, how I shall see you again.


-nicholas

Montana - August 21st, 2009

Why howdy folks,

Been a long summer without much word, especially now that I've filled my days from sunup to sundown with work. I'm leaving Edmonton at the end of September, and heading down to Mexico for a few months with the indomitable Ian French, but until then, here's a quick video of the trip my brother and I recently took to the Kertesz cabin in Belt, Montana. (pop. 600 + trucks)

The way of the west - May 10th, 2009

Hello all,

I'm off to Ireland in a couple hours, bound over on the tin carcass of Ryan Air, with a planned descent into Knock airport in the west of Ireland. My farm that I'm working on is somewhere hereish:

On the north-west coast of Ireland in the "mountains". The folk I'm staying with sound incredibly nice, and if my luck holds out they'll need acres and acres of bushland cleared, probably the kind of bush that only really respects skinny white kids, if I'm really lucky.

I don't know much about the couple who own the farm, save that they have a sense of humour I really appreciate, and that they have made several obscure references to fairies, which could go either way I think.

It'll be a wonderful two weeks of Guiness and wandering, and if the internet rears it's head you'll hear from me often. If anything else rears it's head though, it'll probably kill me.

Anyways, I'll talk to you all soon, and if you live in Canada, I'll see you in a few weeks.

Nick

Make it show - May 9th, 2009

Well, looks like my ancient, recently twenty-six body is still able to type, so hopefully I'll stay out of the rest home this year, although from the swelling in my knees I can tell it's going to rain tomorrow.

Had an explosively wonderful birthday yesterday, and as I begin this year (and this morning), sipping on some amaretto and orange juice, I can't help feeling everything will continue as such.

We had acquired tickets to a performance of Beckett's "Waiting For Godot", as the current cast included Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan, and I also some of the script tattooed on my body.


It was a fantastic experience, although I hadn't remembered any Klingons or Hobbits in the original script, I'm sure that's just my aging mind starting to slip.

In another bit about artistic genius, I'm on BBC2 today in a reality show, most properly described as Visual Torture, where upon an excruciatingly unfunny comedian attempts to do some sort of fake space briefing to a panel of mollified, hideously embarrassed young people. I unfortunately count myself amongst the latter, and the whole thing turned out to be unpaid. Bollocks.

Anyways, that's on at noon, London-time, so anyone with a satellite subscription so superfluous that they receive BBC2, see you then.

I'm off to Ireland tomorrow afternoon for a couple of weeks of farm work on the west coast, but I'll talk about that tomorrow, after the glorious shame of today has worn off.

Thanks for all the birthday love everybody, it was stellar.

Nick

broadcasting - May 1st, 2009

It's been such a while since I've been pushed enough to write, and while my life is less for the sharing, the wants to alchemize the moments of my days into an internet script have waxed and waned these few years of travel, and I have no reason to expect they have not again.

As the days of winter drew on, and this steadfast mire of London became ossified and comfortable, I thought often of the grand plans of spring and the news from which I would draw. But as the days have softened, and the gardens of London, that is, the wide greens that form the gaps in it's grays, have boiled over with blossoms, those great plans have indeed come to be, and I have still left their wake unnoticed. In the last month, we have jaunted to Amsterdam for a quick visit with our friend Natalja, and the past week we rode a rickety tandem bicycle all the way to Paris, a feat to say the least. In so doing I expected a more thorough spark to ignite in my typing, I was hoping to skim off the top of this simmering recipe and hold it out for my dear ones to taste, but the act of broadcasting seems somehow repugnant. Like a summer day when the clouds suddenly eat the sun, and you're left feeling topless and a fool. Ach, this is what happens when you don't feed the metaphors...

Alrighty, here is a picture of Amsterdam, taken from the top of a huge carnival ride (made of swings and devilish intentions) that was situated right in the middle of the city.
But as you can see, this photo really doesn't explain anything, like all the photos of this marvelous city I tried to shoot. I would like to spin a spiraling anecdote about how Amsterdam cannot be captured on film, because of it's vibrant life, or something, but really it is such an upfront and spectacular city that I can't imagine that my excuses would be in any way true. The truth is, if I wanted to explain our time in Holland with our friend, it would look as simple as this:

Actually, it looks more like Jess is yawning than screaming in delight, but you get the point.

Anyways, Holland was fun, we took a boat, I realized the sea really isn't that romantic, more kind of there. And flatty.

Then a week later we took our crazy English tandem bicycle, I left all my self-respect at home, and we rode off south towards Paris. I have some shots I wouldn't mind putting up, but for now I'll embed a video of the trip I made shortly afterwards.

WARNING, This video is as sappy as a Matchbox 20 Kittens For Africa promo, and I really must strongly advice those with any normalacy to skip it, unless you like vomity bonding at a level of Armaggedon. (The movie, not the biblical end of times, which I imagine is not actually that mushy.)



Hopefully talk to you soon,
Nick

p.s. Here you are Natalja, now you're famous...

From Holland to Paris - April 19th, 2009

We're off to Paris tomorrow via this monster:
If it doesn't explode on the way, I'll tell you all about it on Sunday.

Istanbul - March 16th, 2009

Hey, it's warmer today in London than in Turkey.

I guess spring has riz, all the wild flowers have invaded our primply manicured parks and threaten to overthrow all the careful planning.

Anywho, just a quick note for all ye out there in Edmonton, I'll be home for the summer, and I would love to have the job thing sorted out before July. Anyone with a connection that is just sitting around rusty, and thinks they somehow need much, much more Nick in their daily lives, let me know, I'm all in.

Found out yesterday there are 60 applicants for every single job in my burough. You want to bag groceries? Get in line my friend...

N.