* * * *

We arrived early enough to pick up a lunch from a sandwich place down the block, and grab a parking spot right in the lot. Neither of us had been to this particular park before, and we were slightly confused by the name of its centerpiece. Trout Lake, to us, appeared to be more of a pond or slough than a lake, and we were more than doubtful on the probability of actual Trout living in such a stagnant, muddy mess. Did that stop us? It sure didn’t. After touring around a corner of the lake, we set up our simplified picnic on a small dock hovering above some lilly pads, cattails, and rats. There was a small yellow duck toy as well, but it proved much less entertaining than our rodent friends. Before long we were back on the trail making our way around the rest of the lake, scoping out fellow event-goers setting up their domains for the evening festivities. We found a spot on a good plot of grass, threw down the blankets, and got to reading and people watching.

The Illuminaires Lantern Procession is a yearly event in Vancouver. Despite this being its 19th year, I had never come out for it, and Mark hadn’t even known of its existence. Regardless, there’s a first time for everything, and what an evening it was! Children chasing bubbles in the low sun offered free entertainment until the costumes appeared. Costumes of all sizes and colours, body paint, stilt walkers dressed as fairies and butterflies and fantasy characters, and a delightful woman dressed atop an ostrich in full on safari gear. Fire throwers, roaming bands of musicians, donation jesters, and everyone else, from newborn to elderly, come to join in and witness the event, made for quite the sight. Lantern borders defined blanket spaces until the sun finally set and the real show began.

There were lanterns of all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some small enough to carry, could be seen floating around the edges of the lake in the procession, while others were hidden amongst the trees and shrubs. We watched from our blanket for as long as we could handle before we packed up and joined the tour. Lights. Smiles. Shadows. Colours. Joy. The atmosphere was absolutely palpable. It was pure magic.

* * * *

The Simpsons Movie, pirated, and projected in a public park, for anyone and everyone, homeless or otherwise.
A solitary moment spent enjoying fireworks from afar, and a much more crowded time enjoying them right up close.
Scones, coffee, an English Mastiff, and a chance to catch up with a good friend.
A show of comedy and video humour in the back corners of 1181.
Strolling along Commercial, Venables, and other unknowns, in search of poutine and midnight gelati.
West van beaches, the old highway, both ways on the sea to sky, music, whyte cliff park, and a setting sun.
An outdoor concert complete with viva puffs, camera lenses, pleasant sights and Wonderwall.
Dinners with friends. Movies with friends. Beaches with friends. Wanders with friends. Drives with friends.

* * * *

i heart(ed) summer.

* * * *

I sit shirtless on the back deck, computer on my lap, and I experience summer relaxation. Sure it may be hard to see the screen, and there are wasps constantly investigating my legs, but it’s not raining. It’s not snowing. It’s not cold, not too breezy, too dark, too hot, too loud, too quiet, too lonely, too busy. It’s perfect. It’s summer in the suburbs of the GVRD and I am content, surrounded by all the colours of the rainbow in impatiens and hydrangeas and petunias and fuchsias and all sorts of unnameables, dancing in the wind, coated by swimming shadows of the cedars up above. This is right now. I am here, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else but here.

* * * *

memories: vaguely planned, delightfully made, easily lost.
..if not recorded.

* * * *

When the screen door opened, flapping back again on its weak hinges, the sweet satisfaction of new exploration was unbearable. We climbed the final ladder and made it to the top, whereupon we witnessed a new angle on the vancouver skyline in the evening. From Science world, what remains of the Plaza of Nations, past BC Place and the condos of Yaletown and False Creek, to One Wall Centre, reaching for the sky like a giant, glassy tube of lipstick long forgotten in the center of downtown by some nameless giant. The Cambie, Granville, and Burrard street bridges leading cars and pedestrians en masse into the core. Tonight is the opening night of the Celebration of Lights, a 4 night competition of music and fireworks, drawing a quarter of a million people nightly to the beaches surrounding English bay.

As we sat there on the roof, feeling the slight summer evening breeze, and watching the sky slowly gradient from blue to teal to violet to pink to orange, the first explosion peeked out from behind one of the many glass condo towers. We should have been working down below; we were paid to be working down below; but this was more than worth it. A simple 20 minutes spent perched atop a steel storage bin, 50ft above ground, watching the city watch lights and colours appear and fade into a dull brown fog. When it was over, we smiled, reminisced, and made the hot descent back into the bowels of the mechanical lair, dusty coffee grounds once again saturating our skin and senses.

* * * *

He wondered what it all meant. ‘If the skies and the trees and the waves and the wind are the medium for the message, then what should I be taking from this?’ he pondered as a few giant drops of rain began to appear on the windshield. ‘I understand simple sunny weather, and I understand chaotic, destructive windstorms, but this is too beautiful to understand.’ His eyes drifted back and forth, attempting to soak in the sky as much as he could, while ensuring the white and yellow remained an equal distance from each wheel. The day had become another for the memory banks. ‘How many days have to go by before another like this will occur?’ he asked himself. ‘How often will I be given the chance to feel alive, in the monotonous discontent of suburb life?’

* * * *

Writing is freedom. It is a way to remember. It’s a tool to increase vocabulary. It’s a method to improve spelling, in a world dependent on [spell check]. Writing is a way to communicate when photographs aren’t available. Writing is a way to say what can’t be spoken, to pen what hasn’t been considered. It’s a way to evoke emotion, in both the writer, and the reader. It’s a way to relax, to put oneself at ease, to enjoy ones own company.

* * * *

Float above the world in a hot air balloon.
Run at least one marathon. Any one. Anywhere.
Climb to the top of a snow-capped mountain.
Live out of a suitcase for at least 6 months.
Canoe through a lake, a creek, or a river in the wilderness.
Jump out of a plane, parachute ready.
Enjoy a sunrise at least once a week during the summer.

* * * *

A free, live, open-air performance by the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra at the natural amphitheatre in Deer Lake Park. A blanket, some food, a deck of cards, a good friend, and beautiful summer weather. A hive of children; bright colours writhing and dancing over a spherical jungle gym. Clouds turning from blue to pink to orange to purple. Dogs panting, classical music echoing off the trees, the hillside, the thousands of fellow park guests.

Life is good. And I’m thankful.

* * * *

I’ve noticed that if there’s one thing that potentially sets me apart from most other people i know, it’s the ability to recognize moments as they’re forming, and to cherish and enjoy those moments to the fullest of my ability before they’re gone. I can be driving home from work and see pieces falling into place.. a full moon with soft foggy clouds nearby, the road leading up to the suspension bridge. I feel the moment coming. The clouds move into position, the bridge supports and cables, quickly approaching to frame the image, glow in the dim orange light cast from the street lights. One or two cars speed past on the right and left, and lights from the industrial island sparkle in the background. SMACK there it is. The world stops. Physical existence becomes inconsequential. Even consciousness itself passes into the background as the imagery before my eyes burns directly into my soul and brings it to life. I am consumed in the moment. I am the moment.

* * * *

Normal.
Progress.
Fun.
Change.

Subjective.

* * * *

When he was young, he thought he was special. Special in the way only a handful of people in history have been. In other words, he had the same thoughts as almost everyone else has had at one point or another. He slowly grew older, and came to realize that he was no more or less special than any other human on earth. He was simply different. Unique. For better or worse, he would be an individual. It wasn’t for a few more years that he began to realize that this is not something to be sad about, but rather a way to become a fully realized adult with talents, hobbies, interests, experiences, and a personality that seem to have no correlation to each other in any way. He wondered how he would ever find someone odd enough, intelligent enough, and attractive enough to be a reciprocal match. That is, until he realized he could find his match in simple interaction with others. Or by experiencing art, in any form it may take. Or by listening to the stories and memories of those he encounters, and sharing in their dreams. Becoming alive in their joy.

* * * *

Thank you for today. I smile, contemplating how it was we came to meet this warm afternoon, wondering if we’ll ever have the chance to meet again. You may never know the impact you had; simply knowing there is at least one other on this rock who knows how to make use of his/her mind, has given me the comfort to trust humanity just a little bit more. The faith to believe others like you really do exist outside of my imagination.

* * * *

Pulling into the church parking lot, looking across the valley to Mt. Baker in the background.
Finishing a great book with time to sit and think about it.
Turning off the computer.
Sitting at a bus stop, listening to a pleasant chat strike up between strangers.
Enjoying the salty, cool air of a sunset at English Bay.
Falling asleep on the last workday of the week.

* * * *

He speaks through the wind, and the clouds; the rain, and the burning sunlight. His face is hidden in the waves of the ocean, and in the reflections of the city. He knows how best to communicate what He finally needs to say, and He knows that he’s listening. And He knows that he’s ready.