6/20/08 - Singing in Vancouver

We finally made it to the customs agent, a dead-eyed drone that welcomed us into Canada. I must have been just as run down as the agent, because we locked eyes for a second and he gave me a small nod. He asked why we were coming into Canada. For the past hour I had been reminiscing while staring at the shadow of a large defined cloud. The shadow was in Canada, and we were stuck here in American traffic with shadowless American clouds. I wanted to say I was going to Canada for their clouds, but that would have gone out the window in a hurry.

We got in and walked around Vancouver. All big cities seem the same after a while. The downtown area is too rich, the traffic is bad, and the same shops again and again, the same people, just a different skyscraper and a different team to root for from town to town, something to keep heads from spinning. I liked Vancouver though because there were constant floating planes flying into the harbor near by. We watched for a while as the planes came in against a white and green mountain backdrop.


We met Derek's uncle, a kind bald man with a soft voice. He was in the film business, and said his career peaked when he was 18 years old and sold a script to Saturday Night Live. He asked is pasta was okay for dinner and we all laughed and nodded promptly.

We ate the pasta on the floor, sitting on cushions, with the exception of Lance, who sat on an overstuffed recliner without a care, like a king.

The lights are very orange now, with dark blue light leaking in from the windows. Talk of jazz standards between Derek and the uncle flutters and dies, and picks up again. A large collection of classic and not-so-classic films to my left, almost all on VHS. Braveheart takes up two VHS tapes, which seems appropriate. Laughter erupts from Tyler and the uncle’s daughter, a shiny-cheeked smiley girl our age, a vegetarian in love with Indian culture. The orange light seems warmer. I can't seem to scribble fast enough, and my hand is cramping up, forcing a break to join in the conversation.

Coming back to the page it seems like my hand is falling apart, other parts are following. Juggling multiple roles of big brother, friend, positive example, while trying to explore and stay upbeat, but it's not always true. It feels like a challenge from the road. My back and eyes are sore. My ears are open. Maintain.

Derek and the uncle have guitars out now, and we're singing a lazy rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Derek and his uncle combined knew most of the words, while the rest of us chipped in occasionally. We stop and the conversation turns dull, to gas prices and other safe topics we had heard so many times before. Pulling up my shirt sleeve my upper arm reveals a small galaxy of dead, peeling skin. Thoughts of San Diego rush back, it seems like a long time ago.

Their VHS collection is not alphabetized. There is a small yellow book in the bathroom titled Instant Enlightenment. And strange music from a dusty worn piano. Before long I'm laying on an impermanent mattress, staring up at the stucco ceiling next to my little brother. Looking up at the tangle of frozen drips, like frosting, I see our route planned, and a message I can't make out because my arms aren't long enough to read ceiling Braille.