This is the Sea

I'm guessing everyone has at some point in their life looked around themselves and wondered, "How did I get here?" We know David Byrne has, or at least we can assume so based on the 1980 Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime.

Sidebar: That song is from 1980? Like, 45-years-ago-1980? Having spent 25 years saying, "The date is twenty-something", now, "1980" sounds more like saying, "1880". Yet, the 1980s are also ever present in my mind, especially with the current wave of conservative governments in the States and Europe. Later in the 80s, as a teen, it was very common to think Mulroney, Reagan and Thatcher were the stuff creepy European folktales were made of. They would seem sweetly naive by today’s conservative standards. Well, maybe not Thatcher (shiver). It is funny to think nostalgically of a time when we wondered if we were running out of tomorrows. These days it’s very common to believe democracy is in its death throes. Some are protesting it, some are trying to ignore it, some are fighting it, but unfortunately, quite a few are profiting from it. Is that how the mind works? Yesterdays are for nostalgia and tomorrows are for hope and fears?

This brings me back to my point (I just knew I’d get there eventually): sometimes you have to look around and wonder “How did I get here?” Sometimes in your life, a change happens and you don’t realize it. Other times a change happens and your world shakes and you know it’s important and even if it took you by surprise it feels inevitable. When Robert Frost wrote The Road Not Taken, was he thinking that his choices made his life, or that we fool ourselves by thinking that our choices make our lives as they turn out to be? Do we even have free will? Does it even matter?

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A Lost Landscape

A landscape to explore.

One day I had a terrible headache and back pain. I spent most of the day sleeping with a heating pad across my forehead and ibuprofen in my gut. Finally, by late evening, my headache had subsided and, after another pill, my back was manageable. Now the only problem was that after a day of sleep, I hardly felt the need for it. It’s not uncommon for our cat Nero to bother us at night, either to feed him or just to get our attention. This particular night he was particularly bothersome, as he lurked around the bedroom trying to wake us. I wasn’t asleep, and I felt a kinship then with our nocturnal friend. At some point, Nero sat at the foot of the bed and stared at me. I looked up from my book and thought, “Hey bud, it’s you and me against the night.”

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The Geography of Man 

The year was 1624 when John Donne wrote, “No man is an island, entire of it self; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.” Yet, some think as Hugh Grant’s character says in About a Boy, “I am an island. I am bloody Ibiza!” While I’m no island, I’m a pretty good peninsula, joined to the mainland by a thin isthmus with a narrow two-way road. You are welcome to join me, though the trip may sometimes be foggy, stormy and difficult. Have no worries though, I often make the trip to the mainland, usually daily (or so). More often in the summer than winter when I prefer to be undisturbed, asleep in my cave.

It can be quite pleasant out on the Peninsula of Peter (if we have to give it a name). There are seasonal berries, light winds that can sometimes be quite strong. The peninsula can often be shrouded in fog, to be honest, and the sun rises later there. This thin strip of land is unassuming and is overlooked by many. The thing is the soil is good and fertile and the small verdant landscape is varied but predictable. It’s hard to get lost on the Peninsula of Peter. It is close to the water which some say is why the mornings and full moon nights last longer here. Sometimes affected by ill weather, this temperate place stays mostly hospitable throughout the year.
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I Lost More Than I Gained 

“I could tell you the temperature and wind speed by feel. I knew the humidity index by my sweat. I knew the date by the moon.”

I use to have a bad habit of coming home from work, lying down and having a solid nap. I’d wake up, weigh myself, then feel guilty and go for a run. By the time I got home and showered I’d be eating supper sometimes as late as 10 PM. Then I’d go to bed and sleep like a baby. Sleeping well was the first thing I lost when I stopped exercising but it wasn’t the only thing. It’s been ages since I’ve run regularly and in the meantime I gained weight and got doughy. Like 20 lbs doughy. I’ve since realized I've lost more than I gained.

When you run all the time you get to know your neighbourhood. I knew every pothole, every stage of every construction project. I recognized other runners who were regulars. I knew if I was ahead or behind schedule by who was sitting on their porch. I knew when the SPCA volunteers would walk the dogs in their care. I even knew those dogs. I knew cats that prowled and scurried from shrubs or beneath cars. I knew what flowers bloomed when. What trees budded and for how long. Because I often ran at dusk, I had a sense of how the moon was waxing or waning. I knew the mix of smells, mostly sour and urban, but some sweet and floral. I knew which neighbourhoods smoked more pot than others from the pungent acrid smoke that followed the men on their evening walk. I knew the sounds of kids and the names that would be yelled across the park. I knew which birds to avoid in the Common - trust me, do not turn your back on a redwing blackbird. I knew when the raspberries beneath a public art piece were ripe or that there were berries there at all. I knew which water fountains worked and where new ones were installed (the new ones have a spout for pets near the ground and a taller faucet for refilling water bottles). I knew when ball games were played or when local teams practised. I knew which sidewalks had heaved in the spring and which had crumbled in the fall. I knew which street lamps were faulty and which alleyways were lit. I knew when streetlights would change and could count the seconds accurately in my head (“1 Jeremy Irons, 2 Jeremy Irons, 3 Jeremy Irons, go). I knew when garbage trucks took which street’s waste. I knew which houses had well kept gardens and which apartments ordered a lot of fast food. I knew where the cabbies gathered to break and talk their native language.

I could tell you the temperature and wind speed by feel. I knew the humidity index by my sweat. I knew the date by the moon. I could tell you the next day’s weather by the clouds. I could sense who won the big game by the traffic on the Gardiner. I knew people’s private moments when they thought no one was near. I startled more than a few couples canoodling (poodle faking as a friend’s father would say).

I knew my pace by counting in my head. I knew how far I’d gone by my steps. I knew how to add 500m more, 1 km more, 2.5 km more by lampposts and stop signs. I knew my heart rate from touch. I knew my body fat from a pinch. I knew my weight to the gram by my lightness. I knew every street name, stop sign, no parking zone and house number. I knew where raccoons gathered, where rats were plentiful, where rabbits hid, where foxes, deer or raptors might be seen. I knew the time of night by the stillness. I knew the darkness because I ran within it. I knew where crackheads smoked, vomited and pissed. I knew where the prostitutes stood, bored and anxious. I knew where the cops slept. I knew when the seasons changed by taste. I knew when the skateboarders would land their jump or stumble from their boards. I knew when grass was cut, where drugs were sold, where dogs crapped and where drunks passed out. I knew the city better than the back of my hand because, honestly, the back of my hand isn’t that interesting.

But that’s all lost to me now.

Green Back 

Lately I’ve resumed running. Not from anything in particular. Well, that’s not true. I suppose I’m running from myself - my future self. A future self who can’t take the stairs without groaning or can’t walk a block without suffering. For the last few months through a combination of numerous minor medical procedures, injuries, illness, travel and the absence of caring, I have let myself slowly slip back in time to when there was decidedly more of me. Now I want there to be less of me, so I’m running again. I’ve discovered that the motivation to slip on running shoes has to be greater than the fear of my future self’s health or my current self’s weight. I’ve discovered the need to escape from the clamour of streetcars and garbage trucks, the confines of my street and my house. Luckily, about 2 Km from my place is a most necessary green space.

Between a new huddle of modest height condos and the stagnant Don River is Corktown Common, which is essentially a berm disguised as a 17 acre park built as flood mitigation against the possibility of an overflowing Don River. In some respects it almost feels like a mini-putt theme park with a tiny wetland here, exposed rock there, a small pasture and a playground over there. Heading south through the park you run on a bridge over a marsh while to your right, the city flickers in the dusk light. As you round the southern end of the common you pass the not-so-secret raspberry patch at the base of a contemporary sculpture and find yourself facing another future Toronto neighbourhood, a former Unilever industrial site which is part of larger area called the Port Lands. Another part of the flood mitigation strategy for the area will be to correct a historical wrong by re-straightening the mouth of the Don River as it empties into Lake Ontario. As part of the industrialization of the past the river was diverted to a hard right turn which has led to problems ever since. From here I can either continue north back through the residential streets of Corktown or duck under a rail line to run along the Don River. This year the path has been wet and the bushes and plants have been pushing to overtake everything. The ground on either side of the path is muddy and the fecund undergrowth is alive with bugs like mosquitos and midges. This is what a wetland looks like and this is what Governor Simcoe found when he was stationed here in the 18th century. Toronto is as mushy as any marshland because, at the southern part near the Lake that’s what it was.
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Old Growth 

What is it about these low-rise brick buildings that is so appealing?

Walking to work is like being in a slow tracking shot of the city. It gives you time to think and notice things. One thing I noticed was the inhumanity of some large older apartment blocks. I thought: did the people who designed these things hate people? Did they not understand people? Did they not “get” people? Why would you want to encase people in steel, entomb them in concrete or imprison people in what is supposed to be their home?


This is the type of photo I would classify as, Toronto not looking like Toronto.

Walking through St. Lawrence Market* I wondered why these older more ornate buildings were so much more appealing and comfortable? I don’t even like old things. I’m certainly no fan of antiques and old furniture and the fussiness of ornamentation. I’m a fan of contemporary and Modernist architecture, furniture and design. What I realized was I’m not a fan of the scale. It’s the inhuman scale of those ugly apartment buildings that makes them so unappealing. And not just the inhuman scale of the overall envelope but that everything is out of proportion. This is what I don’t like in Brutalist Architecture of a certain period too. Columns are too big, setbacks are too small, railings are too heavy and high and windows are like tiny archer slots or just cheap little vinyl or aluminum frames. Which is generally a problem I find with Toronto. We jumped from four to ten story buildings to 20,30 and now 70 storey buildings with nothing in between. It’s one of the main criticisms of Le Corbusier’s version of modernity. He got the scale all wrong. The taller a building is, the more space it needs around it, so it doesn't feel like it’s falling down on you, but the more space you add around it, the less humane, the more isolating the space becomes and the less like a community that space feels. Yet, proportions and ratios are what someone like Mies van der Rohe got so right and while the TD Towers may be considered stark and austere, they feel still feel comfortable and even inviting. The scale of the older city is appealing because the buildings and sidewalks and streets all feel proportionately right.
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Holy Jaysus 

Strange & Familiar: Architecture on Fogo Island from Site Media inc.

Last week I had choices to make. I could go to a Toronto volunteer night, a ward advocacy meeting, a public presentation about the plans for a park beneath the Gardiner Expressway, or a see a film documenting the Fogo Island project designed by Newfoundland born, but Norway based architect, Todd Saunders. I went with my heart and the heart wanted to go home.
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The Sound Underneath 

Gardiner Expressway seen at night. Image via Daily Dose of Imagery

I hate washing the dishes. Especially now that I do them by hand, in the sink, like a neanderthal or a neanderthal's less evolved neighbour who still cleans his china on rocks down by the river. The heat of the water irritates my hands. I have Cholinergic urticaria; I know, right? Just add it to the list of "what won't kill you but you wish it would." Basically I get hives or a heat rash when I get too hot. It used to be much worse and I dreaded the summer. In the past it was diagnosed as exzema, which is seemingly a convenient word for "You have a rash" or food allergy or "stress" – which is a convenient word for "I don't know why you have a rash." Then it sort of went away. Then one awful smog and heat-waved summer, it came back. This time the diagnosis was "Cholinergic Urticaria" which is a really an inconvenient way to say "heat rash". Anyway, I control it now with refreshing showers, antihistamines and the occasional ice pack. It's not a big thing, and apparently heat is the most common trigger. For some people it's triggered by loud noises or vibrations. Imagine being at a concert, near the stage and when you get home you have a rash, or you're a construction worker and you spent the whole day on a heavy equipment and after work you have a rash. Everywhere.
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Let's Go to New York 

image via Flickr

Since planning a get-away/escape/vacation a few weeks ago, this is all I can think about. Escaping to New York. Not the shiny, glowing, sparkling, dirty, glassy, grimy, heavily populated city of New York but the green, brown, rivered, open road, heavily treed upper New York bit. The bit that goes through towns with names like Watertown (is it underwater or just near water?) or Syracuse (excuse the Syracuse, as the saying goes, right?) or Potsdam (damn the pots, and their holders!) and winds beyond Lake Placid (young men aren't so fond of Lake Flaccid; even less so young ladies) to Lake Champlain and Burlington until finally you sneak up on Montreal like a marauding army sulking in the underbrush waiting to pounce.


View Bicycling Directions, Generally in a larger map

This is the general plan and route as expressed by one Glenn Gobuyan, who, by dares and taunts has concocted his idea of jolly easy-as-she-goes route. Pish-posh. It's not quite 800 KM, averaging only about 100 KM per day.

"It's not really that much. Should be easy." said Mr. Gobuyan via video chat last Saturday. "I might change my bearings in my touring bike before I head out." he added casually while looking around for his tent like it was a misplaced pillow.

Meanwhile, I've been madly buying all the stock of energy bars, sleeping bags, tents, tarps and inner tubes the city has to offer in a frantic rush of fear. "You're really going to do this?" said my legs to my brain. "You don't go out on Saturday night for fear of being too far from the toilet!" said my stomach. "Not to mention your fondness for the couch, television and heating pads." my back chimed in. Screw all of you, I say. Shut up, Legs. Shut up, Stomach. Shut up, Back. We're going and you had better get used to the idea before you find yourself heading Eastward with only a bit of fabric and chamois cream between you and an aerodynamically shaped bicycle seat.

Yes Please

Image via ArchDaily

Dear HM White Site Architects and Cornelia Oberlander Architects,
please build me a quietly beautiful slice of forest within a courtyard in my house for me, exactly like you did for The New York Times Building Lobby Garden. Of course, my house is only fifteen feet wide but I'm confident you could find a solution.

Thank You,
Mr. P. Rogers

Petty Thoughts

I don't have a lot of memories of Petty Harbour but the ones I had, I thought were my own. I recall getting juice from Herbie’s, in those little plastic bottles with the foil lids and when you were done drinking them, you could pick blueberries near the house and fill them right up to the top. I remember the blueberry bushes weren't big but grew on a rock face that was almost vertical - I had to reach up to get to some, not bend over like you normally would do. I remember swatting dragonflies with sticks and picking them up by their wings and putting them on the steps of the school. Yet, somehow, my sister-in-law was familiar with all of this because my brother, Chris had related the same stories. This bothered me for some time. I told myself that maybe I was just thinking of one afternoon in particular and we were there together on that day and did the same things. I doubt that. Did Chris memorize my telling of these things? More likely, Chris told them to me and I filed them away as my own. I can even remember walking on the large water conduit (a large pipeline following the road down into the harbour - it may actually have been what is known as a wood stave penstock and have been part of the small hydro electric generating station) and, though I remember it leaking and providing misty sprays, what I really recall is tripping on the ridges and even hurting my hand on one occasion after falling on a joint or a seam and landing clumsily - I even remember Dave yelling at me to go home because if Mom found out I was up there, he would be in trouble. Now here I assume this to be fantasy, after all there was no way a three-year-old could get on top of that thing and walk on it, so that must obviously be an assimilated memory from Mike, Dave or Chris.

Strange isn't it?

Another thing I recall is driving home, sitting on Mom's lap, while Dad drove (the Nova? Dodge Dart? Some kind of Dodge?) and I was crying. Mom was trying to console me and I stopped. Not because of Mom bouncing me, but because I just remember staring at that same wooden flume as we drove down to Petty Harbour and being kind of mesmerized by the effect of watching its ribbed ridges rolling by (like the wagon wheel effect, where something moving quickly can appear to strobe). It was winter or late spring because there were little patches of snow everywhere. Not only do I remember that, but I remember I had a cast on my arm, which wasn't itchy or anything, but my coat sleeve was tightly pulled on over it. The coat was like a little trench coat and it was a funny green, and it had a matching hat. I liked the hat because it looked like Robin Hood's cap. But all of that would've happened when I was two years old (and a bit). Is it possible I remembered all of that? Or is it more likely, that I've been told I had my arm in a cast, and I'd seen a picture of myself in that coat, and that the drive down to Petty Harbour took place much later on some return errand with Dad, when I was 5 or 7 or 8 or something? Or did I dream the whole thing? Was it an amalgam of scraps that my mind pasted together from a photo, a story, a drive on a Sunday?

I guess you never know. The image in my mind of the rectory where we lived is mostly from the photo we used to have at the bottom of the stairs. That and the view out from the porch. Another memory I may or may not have is of sitting on the front step with the door open, and Mom coming out to say, "In or out? You can't sit there with the door open. Flies and buzzy things will get in." then she made a sort of buzzing noise like a bee as I got up and went inside.

I guess it doesn't matter if it's real or not. It's not like I'm sitting in court being cross examined on the accuracy of my mother's insect impersonations. It's a nice memory or thought and I'm glad to have it.

Updated with corrections November 28, 2016. An earlier version referred to the wooden pipeline as supplying water to the fish plant rather than actually being the flume providing water to the hydro-electric station.