The Lonely Side of Following One's Bliss

Irish Times Pub, Bastion Square, Victoria, B.C.

Years ago I was walking across a rain dappled campus at the University of Victoria. I had spent a wearying week trying to find out why my student loan money hadn't been transferred to my bank account. Without the money I couldn't pay for my courses and get on with focusing on school. 

At the time, I was walking behind two professors or men in tweed (I assumed they were academics), one holding a black umbrella for both of them. They were bearded, slim fellows, one slightly bald. Heads slightly down, rain pattering on the fabric, they were chatting about Joseph Campbell and his famous line: Follow your bliss. 

Joseph Campbell

It was late afternoon and for some reason I decided to follow these  men. Maybe it was the comfort I felt in being near their company, that they were discussing a subject I knew quite well and yet didn't know. I knew the standard works of Joseph Campbell. I had read the Hero With a Thousand Faces and referenced him in the two theatre history papers I had written the year before. His advice, however, of 'follow your bliss' was not so much a result of his work and research but a lesson from his life. From what I understood, Campbell traveled the world and pieced together his ideas about myth through literature, philosophy and psychology. In the presence of a baffled business student, someone wavering between following his father, a captain of industry or doing what he loved, he told the young man to do pursue the latter. This meant becoming an artist and as it turned out, the student when on to brighter and better things instead of going into the family firm.

It was a significant discussion to overhear because I asked myself whether I knew anything about following my bliss. Absolutely nothing, was the response. An hour later, I went to the university library and dropped out of all my courses. The money wasn't supposed to arrive, it was a sign. I really couldn't stand what I was doing, namely theatre. I thought it was something I wanted but it wasn't. And it wasn't my 'bliss'.

I celebrated with a meal at my favourite Victoria pub and the next day found a job at a liquor store. I never felt such relief in my life. I had gone out on a limb and there was a safety net waiting.

I still don't know if it was the right decision but I figured it was a start. I eventually left Victoria for Vancouver and Vancouver for Niagara with the intention of Following my bliss. 

Winery Barrel Cellar, Vineland, ON.

For a long time I thought this bliss I was seeking was involved in the wine industry. That misconception, fortunately was laid to rest after a grueling harvest week as a cellar hand at a Vineland winery in the fall of 2011. I had to quit the job because of health reasons and ended up moving out of my apartment, my mother having suggested I cut my losses and house sit for her and my step-father in Essex County. (I should note I went after the winery for misrepresentation and managed to get a three-week severance pay.)

In Kingsville, I got a part-time job and applied for E.I. and managed to coast through the rest of the year and into the next. I returned to my writing and worked every morning before heading to work in the afternoon, completing a book which I am now marketing. 

This was my bliss.

But I've learned something, it has been lonely. 

My days and nights like last year are like my days and nights now. I come home, I have dinner. I watch a little t.v. to unwind then I write or read. I repeat these patterns now and then looking for opportunities to get out of the house.

Last night I went to a poetry event to read a poem that had been shortlisted for a Bookfest contest in nearby Windsor. Initially I was excited at the prospect of sharing my work to a large audience but as the day drew closer I felt that old hesitation again and the day of the reading, actually wished I could stay home instead of go out. 

It was a nice evening, the clouds were hovering over the lake and when I arrived in Windsor, I got lost, driving in the rain, finding myself on Riverside, gazing back at the bridge, a red sunset going down on the river, on the towers of Detroit, the drops on my windshield almost pink. I could have stayed there but I continued on, finding a parking place, finding the venue, a worn down bar on University Ave.

Walking in from the rain, smelling the fried food, hearing the murmur of conversations, I was a little disappointed as I glanced at the crowd. I have been writing since I was sixteen, doing my best to perfect the craft, something I started out doing for fun, little by little realizing it is the only thing that makes me happy. But every writer's group I've ever attended in Ontario, every poetry reading event or get together I meet only older people. 

No difference last night. Most of the writers I encountered were wrinkled and grey. Some were teachers, some professors, writing their part-time passion. They drank their beer, they chuckled and shared stories. When someone familiar walked through the door, there was always a person waiting to shake their hands and welcome them. I had a beer and sat at a table off to the side, the only seat available.

I was looking forward to the evening to meet some fellow writers that were about my age but once again that hope was dashed (and I intuitively knew this before I left the house). I listened to the other poets read, all the while drinking my beer, looking out the window, wishing I could leave. When it was my turn, I read my poem. It was well received, my prefacing it with a humorous story to both relax the audience and myself. In the main, I was proud of my effort and though I didn't win and it wasn't so much that I hoped to win, to be first or anything, I just wanted the opportunity to read my poem at the BookFest and potentially meet other people, hopefully my own age.

Strange now to think about those two professors this evening, to think about dropping out of UVIC, how every time I go out to be involved in my 'bliss', I meet senior citizens instead of my peers. Yes, I think I have followed my bliss but strange how it has lead me here to South Western Ontario. I feel like I'm part of a prank no one has let me in on. Campbell said to follow your bliss and doors will open for you where you didn't know doors would be. What doors? I keep asking, I see only the same walls.

I think about those famous writers in New York or France, artists who got together at salons and read their works and shared. I've never quite experienced that. I wonder if I will. 

In Kingsville, there are no writer's groups. Here, most of the people my age are married with kids. All the pretty women have wedding rings, usually diamonds, probably wed to a greenhouse owner or the son of one. 

Kingsville, I have no complaints though sometimes I feel like I'm in exile. It is a pleasant, rustic little town, a place you would want to raise a family or retire but not for someone in between everything. There are wrap around porches and new subdivisions, and people at the beach and the park. On a sunny, Sunday afternoon in autumn, it is a safe place to be. There is little excitement here, the liquor store closes at six most days and the bars are filled with retirees.

Queen St., Kingsville, ON.

I wish I had something optimistic in mind to finish here but I don't know. I think about my guitar teacher who told me that to do what you love, you must sacrifice. I never asked him how long or what the sacrifice entailed, I assumed it was something significant. 

I look up at the window now, there's a reflection of my face lit by my laptop screen in the glass. I almost swore it was a ghost. 

And I think to myself, if I saw Joseph Campbell now, even his ghost, I'd throw my shoe at him.

Being Ahead of all Parting or Life as a Wandering Guest

Nearly a full month has passed since I landed in Amsterdam. I don't feel tired but I do feel homeless. And not in the dark, weary vagabond-sense of the word. I simply I know what my soul feels like on this planet.

To some extent I feel homesick only for the familiarity. Beyond that, there is a despondent and curious pleasure in moving from city to city. Truly, I miss my home only in that there was structure and cohesion, certainties that could very well have been illusions but they seemed real to me.

Aside from a week in Cologne, I've been a guest in people's homes. And though I've met many people, I am continually and endlessly challenged in trying to understand where the exact boundaries lie, what the expectations are, when I should be present and not present. And when to move on.

I stayed with family outside of Amsterdam. The experience was wonderful, together I saw so many beautiful towns and cities, from Marken to Middelburg. There were day trips to Haarlem as well as the province of Zealand to see the Delta Works. But by the end, two days before I was supposed to leave, I knew I had  overstayed. I didn't want to overstay, I continually asked my host and hostess when is a good time for me to leave. What's normal here for a stay? I wanted to make sure to leave on good terms.

I tried to take advantage of my time by making day trips to Amstersdam. I showed my appreciation by buying wine and bringing flowers. I gave them space.

Then one Saturday night, at dinner, I felt quite small, as if I didn't exist in that moment. The family began to speak entirely Dutch. They had moved on but I was still there physically.

The following day, I even went to church with my hostsess though I didn't want to. I felt I had to otherwise there would be more tension. I didn't understand a word of the sermon and I tried to sing the songs but felt out of place, yet, nonetheless, trying to please my host and hostess, to show them I could be accomodating. 

When I left on Monday, I went to Den Haag and stayed with a urban planning professor from Brazil. I have been using AirBnB, a website where people rent out their rooms, apartments, homes to travelers. R. was an excellent host and I was grateful he allowed me to leave some of my stuff behind. I had planned to simply donate some clothes to charity. When I was near Amsterdam, with family, I had asked my host, if I could store some of my things and pick them up on my way back. He said okay. I even went so far as to buy some souvenirs, grateful I had a place for them. It would be too much dragging thist stuff around Europe. But then my hostess had a problem with it. The week I would be flying back to Canada, they wouldn't be home. And she didn't want to inconvenience her grown kids to be around. She said she would talk further with her husband, negotiate if you will. I said not to worry. In my heart, I figured it would be best to leave the matter and move on. I didn't want to come between them. Again, they had opened their doors and their lives, welcomed me in and for this I am eternally grateful. We had a nice glass of wine on our last night and they toasted me.

I realize, being a guest, you never have the final say and it's better to remain quiet than complain. It's not your place to raise your voice or question anything. One must give up one's expectations and simply accept. This isn't your home, naturally and things change.

Being with R. in the evenings, I would often ask if it was okay, permissible even to watch t.v. with him. I didn't want to trespass on any rituals, be they as simple as doing a crossword alone in a living room or watching Family Guy. Sure, I am renting out a space, I thought but it's a personal space nonetheless. One evening, he shared his meal with me and I received a glimpse into his life. We talked about family, his back in Brazil, mine back in Canada, the similiarities and differences. 

The next morning, he walked me to the train station. We shook hands and our goodbye was formal but kind (I'll be seeing him again at the end of my trip to pick up my things).

I went to Antwerpen next (another AirBnB) and met A. and S. and their little daughter K. I had an excellent time there and made day trips into the old town to see the main sites, the new MAS museum, the sublime cathedral and the main square (not to forget, a true Belgium dish of wine-drowned museels and Vlaamse Frites). At the end of each day, I had some excellent conversations with A. about art and the modern world. In the background, his wife attended to their daughter, bathing her, reading to her, playing with her.

When I left, A. gave me a hug but not S. She was still a wonderful hostess but I know she was guarded. I'm another stranger, a kind of brief invader, posing as a guest. When I arrived, they were a little late coming home. To appolize for their lateness, they offered a place at their dinner table with them, a wonderful vegetable soup with sour creme. K. giggled and laughed and played and watched her Russian cartoon. It was nice being a brief part of their lives, almost a family member. Walking out the door on my day of departure, I knew I wouldn't leave a long impression. By chosing not to embrace me when I left, I knew S. wanted to protect her home against any potential lingerers, whether banal or aggressive, it didn't matter.

Today, the beginning of June, I'm about to leave for Baden Baden. I haven't had breakfast. E. and J. have both left for work. I will leave my keys in my apartment space. Again, here too I have had a wonderful, probably the best time so far. J. and I have talked a lot, seeing that he gets home from work earlier. Last night we took a walk with their dog, Jimbo, along the river in Nuremberg. I could see he was tired and unhappy. For the last ten years he has been working in the hospitality industry. I know the work. It is unkind, ungrateful, there is rarely any appreciation and the stress is often insurmountable. 

It started to rain as we walked under the canopy of linden leaves and on the way back he said if I wanted to come back, I could be their guest, without AirBnB. We were friends and I felt the same. Similiar interests, tastes in movies, beers and wine. He spoke English and I tried to reply in German. His English was in the same shape as my German so we both needed the practice. We could see pieces of ourselves in each other.

When E. arrived home, I said I would retire for the evening. I knew they needed to be alone. They needed to talk about what J was going to do. I respect them, I could relate. Our social time together had come to an end. I had spent several nights with them, a few hours here and there, again, always trying to be aware of what is comfortable or not. I had dinner with them. To show my thanks, I bought wine. 

Sure, I keep thinking, about all my hosts and hostesses, I am renting a space but not their time. They have more than opened their doors to me. They have allowed me to feel a part of their lives when my life has been feeling like a series of leavings.

In Baden Baden, I'm going to be staying with a family. A room and a bathroom. Sure, I'll be in their home but with a private space. I think this is important because boundaries are important - they are personal but also socially political, a defence for one's self against the unfamiliar, the unknown and different. Without them, identities are shaved away and dignity scarce.

Besides understanding these social perimeters, I am learning as a guest to be prepared for all goodbyes, whatever they mean, however they come. Philosophers have always made mention of death being essential to an understanding of life. If we can't be comfortable with death, how can we achieve an appreciation of life? (Or, in my case, how can I be comfortable with departure without an appreciation of where I am?)

In Rainer Maria Rilke's poetry, especially his Sonnets to Orpheus, there is this tender awareness of life and all its vulnerabilities. In the second part, sonnet XIII he writes "Sei allem Abshied voran" or "be ahead of all parting."

Rilke could write these lines because he lived them. He was a peripatetic poet, not someone who lived forever in the same home in the same town of his ancestors. He traveled and wandered widely, he met Lev Tolstoy in Russia and was Auguste Rodin's secretary in Paris. His life was an untenable one and his verses reflect his awareness of never being at home, always searching.

In other words he was a guest on this earth, a guest amongst his friends and family, his hosts and hostesses, often showing his appreciation by dedicating work to them. He composed his famous Duiner Elegies in a castle owned by Maria von Thurn und Taxis, a woman whose relatives lived in nearby Regensburg.

I visited Regensburg this past Wednesday but didn't see the famous palace owned by her family. I enjoyed a weissbier of theirs though, from their brewery, in a cafe called Orphee (how appropriate when I think about it now), an hour before I left that perfect and timeless pastel-town.

In the Presence of the De-Sacralized and the Disappointing or The Dom in Köln

"Disappointments measure how great our hopes once were." So wrote the famous French author, Honore de Balzac. His characters were typically young men losing their illusions, understanding the world to be a den of thieves.

I think he was on to something. 

For me, Europe has proven to be a bit of a disappointment (and a den of thieves). And it's not that I was disappointed all at once.

No. 

Everything is gradual. 

I suppose this recent climax of disgust has a lot to do with my visit to the Dom in Cologne. I had visited beautiful and quiet churches and cathedrals in The Netherlands and Belgium but found this sacred space to be less so.

First things first, it's right beside the main train station. You walk in and everyone and their iphone-savvy grandchild and grandmother is snapping a photograph. The interior erratically flickers with flashes. It's like looting accept they are stealing the solemnity through their actions. Another world heritage site checked off. Here take a picture of the family in front of the nativity scene. Great. Great. Now you can go home and show your idiot relatives what everyone else is showing their idiot relatives.

I walked around but didn't take a picture. Why bother? I could see the place's beauty but it felt gutted out, like an animal on a butcher's block. There was nothing moving about the place anymore. The horde had gotten here first.

And horde doesn't mind paying or so it seems.  

If you want to walk to the top of the belfry, it costs you a few euros. To stow your coat or backpack in a locker is five euros.

You have to go to the bathroom, that's 0.50 euros thank you. 

If you want to visit the treasury, another five euros. Danke schon. 

But god, the bathrooms in Europe. I can understand the train stations. A lot of dirty people are coming and going, a lot of riff raff. Better to keep an eye out. But then I went to the movie theatre in Antwerpen. Nine euros to see a film. Sure, the seats were comfortable and the screen was big (they are in the cinema) but get this, I had to pay 0.40 euros every time I had to pee. I wish I knew this before I drank that beer in the pub. 

But nine euros. Don't you think that should cover the right to use the toilet?

Getting back to Cologne, walking around the beautiful but de-sacralized cathedral, there are beggars and other types milling about. I saw a Muslim woman bent over her cane, bare foot, holding out a paper cup. In the square, just as I was leaving, an Asian woman approached me - perhaps East Indian or Pakistani - and held out a rose to me. I was about to ask, for me when I thought better. Distrusting her, I told her I didn't have any money. She shook her head and walked away. 

What the hell? Whatever happened to asking people if you want to buy something. You just don't hold something out, a gesture of giving and expect something. (Fuck you lady and your fake gesture of good will...).

This whole continent is on the take. Especially when it comes to your bladder and bowel.

I think I need to get away from the cities. The cities bring out the worst, the greediest, the darkest in people. I've always noticed that wherever people go, you'll find a wake of their debris. Beauty is often eroded by the presence of humanity. The less people, the better.

I'm here in Cologne for a couple of days but I think I'll sneak into a museum or two and ignore the morass of civilization. The rest of the tourists here can go fuck themselves.