For now, Home

Ok, so here's the story I promised I'd post when I was finished it. I can't enter it for Grant MacEwan because I missed the deadline by a week, but in turn this has given me more freedom with it, and I don't have to kiss Alberta's ass anymore. Thank god for that. Anyway, here it is. You'll notice it has a lot of my own personal feelings of living here, which I thought was important to get across in the story. I'd appreciate any comments whatsoever.


For now, Home
By Liam Volke

I’m sitting, quietly on the bus, as I have been for what seems like hours, uninterested in my surroundings. Everything goes by and my mind passively accepts it: the sharpie-pen graffiti etched on the seats, the ads riddling the top; “poetry in motion” for the city to boast of its culture, condom and newspaper ads; you could find everything there, just under your nose or above your head. It’s so hard not to nod off; the world is frozen beyond these moving walls, but inside, the heater dries me like a prune. I see little old Chinese women in floral-pattern smocks scuttling to the door, asking the bus to wait with their hoary smiles and waving hands: in their age, the world turns for them. A girl sporting a Louis Vutton leather bag, painted with indifference sits at the back, two seats behind me. She is quiet, almost dead to the world, but you know that once she is with her friends she is the loudest one. She isn’t right now though, and somehow that’s ok with me. Downtown hangs above us, sagging under snow. We are at ground zero, moving senselessly in the dark.

This is a ghost world. Phantoms coming and going. Some of their faces are so full of delight and compassion I’m almost tempted to reach out and talk to them. But I always retreat into myself. Everybody does. In a three-person seat, rarely will someone be found in the middle. We all desire our own space. In this ghost world contact becomes deplorable. Strangers shuffle past each other, brushing up against each others arms and both parties utter a feable “sorry”, almost inaudible to all but the ears of these phantoms. Each stranger sits, waiting to get off, just to be free of this silence that grips the bus.
They file on, so reserved, so un-human. They’re so afraid, they just want to make it from A to B undisturbed, for fear that they might not make it; if, god forbid, they made human contact. That would mean to have to commit to a conversation, to open up to some stranger you’ll never see again.

I didn’t live here all my life. My parents left Iran just before the ’79 revolution, and settled in Ottawa. My family has generally been very secular. Not rich, but well off enough. My parents, little sister and I moved to Alberta when I was seven; my dad got a new job as an engineer out here. We were totally uprooted from our home, strangers in a strange land. It was even hard for me, a seven year old, to leave the life I knew. It was hard for my father, but it was his doing that we should leave, so he could take it better. It was harder for my mom, but she plunged herself into activity, volunteering constantly at our church and pouring every ounce of herself into this new life and her new job as a social worker. It was hard, but she supported my dad in his ventures regardless. She kept assuring us that it was good, that we needed a “fresh start”. I hated it. And for a long time I couldn’t forgive my parents. I felt like they were betraying me, punishing me. I resented my father for wrenching us away, and my mother for doing nothing to prevent it. Every now and then I would burst into tears and pray to God I could go back to my old home. At some point I realised God had little to do with me. I wouldn’t tell me parents how I felt though.
We moved to Calgary, and I had to go to an entirely new school and make new friends. I was distrustful of other kids, and I refused to believe that I was actually staying here for good, so I closed off myself from others. They picked on me. I never knew why; they had no direct motives, but I convinced myself it was because of my skin colour, which made me distrust them even more. Part of it was true though. When I was nine I got in a fight with an eleven year old who wouldn’t invite me to his birthday because I was too dark. I gave him a broken nose and he gave me a bloody lip and four stitches on my left eyebrow. My parents were contacted and intervention was made. I later realised the boy wasn’t well-like by anyone really, but either way I eventually switched schools and never heard from that little bigot-in-the-making ever again. My parents were ashamed, and so was I, but even to this day I don’t regret it. Had I a little more wisdom at that age I would’ve said that I was just as Canadian as he was, but instead, not knowing any better, I punched him. I wasn’t raised to behave like that at alI, so even I was surprised. I blamed it on this new city, this new life I hated, and I kept telling myself that soon enough I would leave this place and go back home.

Eleven years later, it doesn’t seem like that’s happened yet. I’m still here. I accepted that I wasn’t going anywhere else soon, and I warmed up to my Calgary life eventually, or at least learned to hate it less. When I was sixteen I realized I no longer even desired to go back to Ottawa, a place which seemed so far away, buried in dreams. We hadn’t visited it for years. My father and mother wanted me so badly to be an engineer like him, to work for a big oil company. To be honest, I couldn’t care less for that sort of thing. I hated to disappoint them, but I was stubborn and couldn’t live with myself working in that field. I wasn’t of that lot. My ambitions were not of these people, including my father, and this only made me feel even more like a constant stranger. I did not want to be here nor did I wish to go back to Ottawa, so my heart became homeless, and now I’m looking, waiting to get off at my stop and reach my own destination.

That seems to take forever. The bus is getting stuffy, and I can barely remember where it is I have to get off. I take another look at the “Poetry in Motion” ad, contemplating why all towns, cities, countries always brag of their culture, a culture which has bloomed in spite of the suppression that these towns, cities, and countries have imposed upon such culture-pioneers. To keep my mind from staying focused I play a little game, I do a little people-watching, to give some history to these phantoms.

There’s a big man in front of me, wearing a toque and a leather jacket. I can’t see his face but I can pretend to know what he’s thinking: the frazzled looking woman two seats in front on his left looks tauntingly familiar, but he can’t pinpoint how and from where. This very same woman is a lunchlady in a life other than this one, making a meager profit for her and her only daughter. Ten years ago her husband left her for another woman half his age and was never seen again, although on occasion he will send money to the casualties of his old life in hopes of making some paltry compensation.
Next to her is a clean-shaven man with a nice new jacket, thick-framed specs and a fashionable new haircut, who obviously looks uncomfortable sitting beside this woman, but won’t move for fear that she will take offense to this, so he continues lying to himself, thinking he is a true cosmopolitan. He just looks like a fool, really.

Across him is a couple in their mid-twenties. The man is a dirty blond with a pointy nose, while the woman is red-headed with a nose-piercing and dark eyes: To him, she is the most beautiful creature on earth. I like seeing people like this, people you know have been together for a long time, who probably rent out the same place together, and are still deeply, (but cautiously) in love. She keeps looking through the window, while he cannot keep his eyes off of her. Perhaps this kind of moment is rare in their life together, and once they get off and reach their destination whatever placidity existed on the bus will be destroyed. But that does not matter, for them or for myself, the undeserving witness. Whatever kind of people they are, this image of them, frozen in love, is what I will hold on to and remember of them for the rest of my life, should I choose to remember them at all.

I’m starting to get bored of this game, when I wonder if there’s someone else doing the same thing as I am, right now. Maybe I’m the only one to make a game of it. But to make assumptions of people? Surely not. I peer over and right across from me sits a girl my age, her eyes on me. It startles me, but she only smiles when we both realise that we’ve made contact. It’s one of those tiny events that happen in public places: actual human contact. It can easilyg o unnoticed, but it’s as intimate as blood. For a moment you feel less undead, you feel more real: She’s pretty, from what I see. Dirty blonde, curly hair. Freckles all over her arms and face. She has the eyes of a child who’s up to something, like she knows something that nobody else does and she’s all mum’s the word about it. I think I’d like to talk to her in another life, where we‘re living people. Much to my surprise I realise I’ve been smiling right back, and she reaches out her pale hand. Not knowing what else to do, I smile politely, lean over and shake her hand.
‘I’m Kate.’
‘I’m Daoud.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Daoud.’ She pronounces my name with crude North American-ness, but I’ll let it slide. I’ve let it slide all my life, how these people get me wrong.
‘Uhh, pleased to meet you too.’
Silence. She smiles at me, and then looks around, still smiling. I can’t tell if our meeting is over or not. I lean back into my seat and look forward.
‘I saw you looking around at everybody.’ She said.
‘Oh, I was just…bored, I guess.’ What does she want?
‘I do it too. I like the scenery of a bus. I like looking at people.’
‘Yup.’
‘You know when people exchange glances and then quickly look away? What’s with that? If I exchange glances with someone, I try to keep looking at them for a moment. Just to see them. Well you know, I can see them, but actually see them, you know?’ Is she trying to guilt me?
All I say is ‘yeah…I do.’
‘I think we all need to remember we’re human beings. Sometimes I feel like a goddamn zombie and I wanna shout I get so mad. You know what I’m saying?’
I really do. I smile. Not just to be polite, but a true smile.
‘Am I talking too much?’ She’d ask.
‘Oh no, not at all…’ I was talking too little. This is my chance to feel again, and here I am, muttering this and that, as if I had forgotten how to really speak. Sparing so few words, as if she was someone I couldn’t trust. Yet just then I wanted to tell her my life story, not as if it were really interesting, just to open up. I then realise neither of us has said anything for another moment. I turn to her and we laugh, I more nervously. More silence. Then she just chuckles to herself.
‘God, You must think I’m crazy, just talking to a stranger like this. I’ll stop.’
‘No no, please don’t!’ Oh lord, that sounded desparate. ‘Uh, yeah, go on.’
‘Ok. ‘Cause sometimes people just don’t like to talk, and then when I start talking to them they feel obliged to talk, but when they have nothing to say they get uncomfortable.’ I hope she keeps going. ‘But I’m telling you now, I don’t believe in awkward silences. Not a bit. Silences don’t have to be awkward. Only if you make them.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yeah. I believe new acquaintances are just as entitled to silence between each other as old friends or family. Makes it more intimate, more welcoming.
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘Yeah.’ She smiles again. We don’t talk for a moment, but I don’t feel as nervous now. We laugh.
‘Well now we’re trying too hard.’ She says. ‘Here, I feel rude. It’s your turn.’
‘Oh, uhh…..sorry, I’m not very interesting...’
‘Oh, I believe you are, Daoud. Don’t worry. If you don’t want to talk, that’s cool with me.’
‘No, it’s not that… I just don’t know what to say.’
‘It could be anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything.’
‘You know, Kate, you’re probably the smartest person I’ve met in a long time.’
‘That’s good, that’s good. You flirting with me?’
‘Oh, no, I’m just saying something…’
‘I know, I know. I’m just teasing. And for the record I wouldn’t mind if you were flirting with me.’
God, am I blushing? ‘Oh, well…. it is true though. I feel like I’m the only person here, sometimes.’
‘Now you’re getting somewhere.’ I felt like she was coaching me. A little condescending, but to be honest it was doing me good. More silence. Seeing me struggling with this, she keeps talking.
‘How about we go over the basics.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where are you from, Daoud?’
‘What? just because I’m not white, you think I’m from another—
‘Oh no! God, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just wondering where you live—‘
‘I know. I was just kidding, I know what you mean.’ Call me a bastard, but that amused me, and if nothing else, it’s loosened me up. ‘I live in the southwest. In case you were wondering where I am from, I’m Iranian. Well my parents are. I was born here, in Canada, but over in Ottawa.’
‘Very nice.’
‘I’m twenty.’
‘Alright.’
‘And I have no idea what I want to do with my life.’
She puts a hand on my shoulder, as if that would make me less afraid, as if that would make me certain. Strangely enough, it did, somehow. Despite all my mistrust and misjudgements I’ve had of her, she seems like she really knows me, or she really wants to know me. She seems genuine.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out.’
‘Well, I guess I know something.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t want to be like my dad.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, that’s a start. What does he do…if you don’t mind me asking?
‘Naw, it’s fine. He works for Talisman.’
‘I can’t say I’d wanna do that either.’
‘There’s so many people I know who do. All my friends are going into it. And if they’re not engineers, they’re doctors, if they’re not doctors, they’re lawyers. My father isn’t going to help me get through university unless I do what he wants. So I left home and am trying to make it on my own until I can figure out what I want.’
‘I know how you feel.’
‘Do you?’
‘Well, when I was younger, my parents really wanted me to be a dentist. I guess I don’t have it like you do, since I at least managed to convince them that I didn’t want to do that. It took a long time though, and not until we fought about it for ages.’ She pauses, and looks at the ceiling, trying to excavate her thoughts from the hot, dry air. She looks truly radiant when she thinks. And then: ‘I guess I don’t really know what I want to do either, which made it harder to argue against them, but I did it, and you know what?’ She gets up and moves over to sit beside me. She looks me straight in the eye. ‘I’m graduating this year, I don’t know what I want in life, and I’m alright with that.’ I thought about this. ‘I guess you and I aren’t so different, are we?
‘I guess not.’ I smile.
‘I’ll be honest. I hate this place. But I’m not ready to go. Sometimes I feel most at home when I’m on the move. Like when I’m on the bus, even. Couldn’t you say a bus is like life?’ she’d muse in an exaggerated, Socratic voice. I give her a doubtful look. ‘Okay, sorry. That was pretty bad. Kinda true though. All these people coming and going….ok, I’ll stop. So where do you think you’ll go, Daoud?
‘I don’t know.’ I really don’t know. There are times when I also hate this place, and anywhere but here would be fine with me. But then I think of all the people I would never meet. After all, it’s not such a bad place to live. It’s really the indifference, the detachment of people that kills me. And who’s to say it’s any better anywhere else? If only I would just start talking to people, I might be less miserable. I might feel more. It’s people like Kate that make me want to stay just a little longer. Perhaps there are plenty of charming people out there, who hate it here just as much as I do, and yet they make it worth living in this squabble all the same, worth taking the bus every day, into the dark, cold evening like today. I can no longer overlook these serendipitous pockets in life, however small they may seem at the time.

I look out the window. We’re out of downtown now, and snaking through a neighbourhood I can’t recognise. We both wander in our own heads, until finally I say ‘I was thinking I’d like to visit Iran some day. But for now, I guess this is home.’ It really is. I wish the city would burn to the ground sometimes I’m so sick of it. But for better or worse, through all the good, bad and grey areas of life, this really is my home for the time being.

We don’t say much more for a while, and I begin to think the bus is actually never going to end. Somehow, I’m okay with that.
I feel almost guilty to be inventing lives for the people I watch. To label them as much as I have been labeled, by my father, other people, and myself. Thankfully, it’s all in good fun. It’s also comforting to know I’m not the only person who does it. Kate and I would talk for a few more minutes; we’d do more people-watching, and we’d become less and less like phantoms. The spell is broken.
I suddenly hear my own voice, sober with acceptance: ‘My stop is coming up.’ I ring the bell. ‘And I was just starting to get to know you.’
‘Don’t worry. We may meet again.’ She smiles her same warm smile. I nod my head and smile like an idiot. I know I can’t control the course of life. It will ebb and flow, and people will come into it and part whenever they do. I couldn’t tell you if I’ll miss Kate in a couple days time. I definitely won’t forget her.
I get up from my seat, turn around and look at her. She stands, putting on a (playful) formal air.
‘Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, sir.’
‘And you.’
‘See ya’round, Daoud.’
I turn, and the bus stops. I am constantly leaving and forever arriving. I don’t know where I belong, but for now, this is my stop. I take a deep breath and open the back door.

R.I.P. James Brown.

Happy belated Christmas to you and yours!

Alright, so down to business. Yesterday was our first holiday rehearsal and it was more or less good. Again, we weren't successful in getting through the entire play. But at least we managed to do Act I, thoroughly. It pretty much consisted of doing line run after line run over and over again for each of the four scenes of Act I, and we also finally choreographed the Lester murder scene. Near the end of this part, people had to take their leave, and everyone was lacking energy, so it kind of fizzed out. But at least we can say we accomplished something after walking away.

Now, I know Johanna and Peter understand their lines very well, but I'm not quite getting the feel that they do. As a semi-ignorant audience member (and I mean ignorant as in had never seen the play before, not as a bash), I wouldn't believe them. I'm not quite getting the feeling of urgency, which I need constantly throughout the play. Mind you, perhaps if we got a chance to run through it entirely without interruptions then it might pick up some speed. This is meant to be a very intense show, even if most of the intensity is negative. I gotta get a whole run in at least once before the 11th. And to be fair, we were just doing line runs, and it's so much easier to get into character and into your lines when you're actually doing the play. I hope the Theatre gods smile upon me...

Next rehearsal, we'll work on the cues, with lighting, scene change and music.

Anyway, Kylian, you've successfully managed to get me hooked on Heroes. That show is damn good! I really like the concepts behind it, like evolution as a way of explaining the extraordinary powers that certain individuals acquire, Although that's pretty much directly from X-Men, Heroes still does an awesome job of presenting those concepts. Not to mention they always end with such cliffhangers! Holy crap! So yes, Kylian and Heroes, hats off to you.

Charlie Chaplin was probably one of the most brilliant performers ever. The Great Dictator is a beautiful, almost sad, comedy, and I strongly recommend everybody see it. And Little Miss Sunshine. See them. Both. NOW! That is all.

God, I miss Joelle. I reeeeallly miss her, and it's killing me. Just a few more days, just a few more days, just a few more days.....

So This is Christmas...

And what have I done?

Well, I'm finished Christmas shopping, thankfully. And I'm finally on holidays, which is good, because I was on the verge of keeling over and dying. Now although this will be a Joelle-less Christmas, it can still be fun, and with any luck I'll be so busy it'll just fly by.

I'm alone at home right now, not bored to tears, thankfully. I spent the last while trying to sing Reverend Shaw's part, which hasn't been too bad, except for the final note, which I REALLY have to strain my voice to reach, that is, if I don't want to cut my balls off to make it easier. But I think if I practice enough I could get it. I've been helping out with auditions this week. I read as Shaw for both Joelle and Rielle's Vi auditions. In so doing, I got a feel of what Shaw was like. I couldn't see myself as Shaw, and even now I'd still have to wonder why I'm auditioning for him. But all the same, I'm starting to like him, and I'm excited to audition, now. Even if I don't get it, it'll still be sweet.

We have to start holiday rehearsals for At Bellafonte's. It's been going fairly well, in the past couple of weeks. I mean, it's still been slow progress, but I solved the Aamar question: he's cut. him, Jim and I sat down and talked about it, and decided it would be best for him to not do this. He is, however, going to do tech. This means that I was faced with the task of re-casting Lester. I had a few people in mind: Jessie, Aleem perhaps, and Kylian. Kylian was the most accessible, and probably the most suited: he knows and is friends with the actors, which would make for good onstage chemistry, and I bet he could make a good creepy and sinister scum o' the earth (I mean that in the best of way, of course!). And quite frankly, I don't have that much time to look very far for another Lester. In short, Kylian is my man.

We hadn't had many rehearsals, certainly not as many as I had hoped, so these rehearsals are gonna be uber intense, but I also think they're gonna be so much fun as well. Last week we had our first rehearsal with Kylian, and right off the bat it was already a lot easier to work with than Aamar. That's not to say I didn't think Aamar couldn't do it, but he has no experience in theatre whatsoever, and Kylian has a few years of theatre firmly under his belt.

Next up, I'm gonna try to get a rehearsal for Boxing Day.

Until next time,
god bless, and merry Christmas

Liam

KEEP THE BEAT!

Since Stock is cancelled, you should all come to Keep The Beat tomorrow. It'll only be 8$ at the door for good music and other stuff. Maybe we can do something after too, but still come!

Hello

Sorry guys, I've neglected this blog like an illegitimate child. I assure you though, I will be posting on here.

Today was my valedictorian interview. It was rather nerve racking, as I sat in front of five female magistrates, Brandie, Mrs. Waters, Ms. Hunter, Mrs. Faulkner, and Samantha Bellamy. I knew them all, and they were all very friendly and keen on hearing what I had to say, but in some ways that didn't make it less nerve racking. They'd look at me with such hopeful eyes that said "yeah? And then what?" They'd ask me things like 'How do you feel about Westmount?' and 'why do you want to be valedictorian?' I'd pause for a while, trying my best to impress, trying my best not to disappoint those intentful eyes. I'd answer a question and as I spoke there was a flurry of pencil etching, and when I'd stop they'd stop, which made it kind of creepy and humourous. Some of my answers were very generic, but I think overall the interview went well. They seemed to have confidence in me regardless of what I said. But who knows? Maybe they do that to fill you up with hope before they crush your petty dreams. But for now, it's out of my hands, and I'm still feeling pretty confident about myself. Honestly, I think it'll come down to Scott and I. I don't know, perhaps Chanda and maybe Aamar, but to me it seems like Scott is a main contender to look out for. Or at least he's the person I'd want to be valeditorian the most, if I didn't make the cut. So, next is to see who made the first cut. Until then, I'll go on living my life as usual. But I do REALLY want to get this.

Man, if I could keep the newspaper going, start up Students For a Free Tibet, get valedictorian, get accepted into UVic get a couple scholarships, have At Bellafonte's performed relatively well, and make a couple movies on the way, I will be SO happy. The best part is, it's ALL within reason! It's possible! It CAN BE DONE! I shall have to bide my time...

So, I'm working on a submission for the Grant MacEwan Young Writer's Award, and I have to do it on something related to Alberta. It pains me to do it, but if I have to, I will. I was planning on doing an essay on post-Klein Albertan politics, but I knew squat about Albertan politics (except that it kinda sucks), so I decided I'd do a short story that is loosely related to Alberta, from the perspective of someone who feels like an outsider to this place, which pretty much mirrors my own personal feelings about living here, so it should fit in well. I decided to do this because I can't STAND writing about Alberta, so I'm going to try to curb it to my interests as much as possible. I just have to keep in mind: It's for money! And who knows, perhaps I'll be able to produce something I would actually be proud of. Regardless, I'll post it on here when I'm finished it.

I can't wait to start our Mr. Roboto movie, Kylian! And your Splinter Cell action flick!

love,
Liam