I seem to be writing about only one thing lately.

In the day, there are rushes of contentment amidst moments of clarity. Little things, like driving on the highway, feeling the wind ruffle my hair. Waking up to the fresh, cool morning air that signals the oncoming autumn. It all feels great, and for a moment, I can think of nothing else but how wonderful it all is.

The night is another story. The sky draws it’s curtains, leaving me with only haunting memories that turn vivid when the sun no longer washes them out. The darkness is only a reminder of the void she once filled with the very vibrancy of her soul, and without her presence to intoxicate me, I’m left feeling numb.

Jesus christ, I could go on and on.

I wonder why anyone would read all these ramblings about love and loss. Isn’t it just the same shit over and over again? But love is the only thing I do well. Love is the only thing I know, and I can only write that which I know.

In time, I’ll have just as much to say in celebration, but for now, I need to get everything else out of my system, stoking the fires of grief until I run out of fuel.

Oh, and listen to this.

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Sometimes you wish your friends lived far away so you could drive home forever, and sing off-key into the darkness.

But at some point you have to come home and undress, you have to stop the pressure of the water running down your back and step out of the shower, you have to go to bed for the sake of your colon, you have to put aside your thoughts for another day.

There was something about his expression that made you believe that you’re better now. You’re safer. Maybe the realization that your mistakes are your own to make. That you’re stronger now than you ever were, and that people care about you, enough to tell you the truth when it’s the last thing you want to hear.

Praise the night, for this wouldn’t be possible any other time.

On nights like this, when I’ve been in the house by myself all day, I have a craving for something. Not just for a taste, but an experience, among the lights and the shadows.

A while ago, I found the right place with the right ambiance. A place without the distractions of my house. Where I can write without thinking of what other work I should be doing.

I always tell myself that I’ll go tomorrow. It’s always tomorrow (the same day that most diets start). So I force myself to get in the car and drive.

When I walk in, I have to remember the nomenclature. Tall means small, grande means medium, venti means large.

Along with this craving comes a thirst for something sweet and warm to drink, harking to the days I lived unemployed, and my favourite thing to do was drink all sorts of strong coffees and teas. My stomach will pay for this later.

The cups always feel nice in the hand. Maybe I’m a sucker for good design — the pure white, the clean lines, the textured insulating sleeve with prominent corporate logo.

Sometimes, I need to go out to be alone. A warm drink is company enough.

Tung Choi Street (or Ladies’ Market), as seen in my Hong Kong: Markets video as the area covered with blue tarp, is for the ladies, and opened all day.

Temple Street, on the other hand, only starts to come alive at night, and is also known as Men’s Street. There are no stalls out during the day. This is the street that one of my favourite Stephen Chow movies, God of Cookery, is based on, so it was awesome to be able to see it in person.

Instead of handbags, clothes, and posters sold in Ladies’ Market, they sell cheap men-oriented trinkets like batteries, lighters, baseball caps, electronics, camera gear, and sex toys. There’s also a section with rows of stalls for fortune telling (at 2:12), offered in both Chinese and English languages, and European (tarot) and Asian (face, palm reading) flavours.

Temple street is also known for it’s roadside dining, where you can order pots stuffed with meat or deep fried delicacies. I was warned not to eat anything on temple street though, as the standards are too low now¹. One might get away with an upset stomach at best, and end up with a trip to the hospital at worst.

Since Temple Street is notoriously shady, where there’s more open prostitution, drug dealings, and other unsavoury activities, I limited my filming on the off-chance that I may have captured something I shouldn’t². Can you spot the two hookers?

1. Even my dad won’t eat there anymore, which is saying something. [↑]
2. During the walk through the stalls, I was yelled at once by a vendor to put my camera away. [↑]

Going home after a party in my Civic Coupe.

I love driving at night when the roads are calm, and the patterns of the street lamps pulsate in your vision.

The blinds are open so I can see outside.

Secretly, I hope a face from one of the windows will appear and look outside, someone who’s thinking the same thing, so that I may not be so alone. A way of comforting myself, when I’m by myself in this veneer of a house.

I’m not sure if it’s working.

It’s on nights like this that I feel especially lonely.

I spent the last two hours looking for an image that would express my mood, but this was the best I could come up with. When I went outside, to see if the street lights would offer me more, I passed by open windows, each one filled with a different coloured light. It made me wonder what the people were doing, who they were with, what mood they were in.

It’s been a day alone. A day without contact. A day of rain and greyness, and living vicariously at Robson Arms.

So here I sit in the dark, with my apple and honey swirl pie and Ovaltine, writing because I haven’t said enough today, listing to songs of love and hate. Feeling like an old soul.

Wondering tonight if I’ll dream, or sleep soundly, or dream without remembering.

I put on my most comfortable hoodie, grab a camera and a tripod. Pass by the mirror and see my eyes are swollen. A baseball cap’ll hide my face.

I put on The Alchemy Index. First is Fire. An anthem of rage, and burning, and fury in the night.

The flames will rise and devour me.
Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I’m free.

I find a quiet, winding road, alternating between 60 and 30 max. About eight kilometres down, there’s a small ferry loading dock, with a place to park on the side of the road. I get out and take a picture of the car. Other cars keep passing by, their headlights leaving streaks across my camera sensor.

The road slopes upwards around a bend, and I drive off again to find out where it goes.

There’s a lookout point on a cliff, surrounded by a rail. Across the waves of the Ottawa river is Quebec. People come and go. Three types of people.

The couples here for a romantic view. They park, walk up to the railing, and talk to each other about nothing in particular. The girlfriends get cold and shortly want to leave.

The kids in their parent’s cars, already high or drunk. They sit in the car with all the lights on, talking through their music, oblivious to the serenity around them otherwise.

The men here by themselves, abandoned and alone on a Friday night. They sit in their cars with the lights out, and come out to lean on the railing every now and then. I’m one of them.

On my way back, I skip Water and put on Air. A song about a boy who could fly, about falling upwards and away.

So, here we go.
Hold on tight and don’t let go.
I won’t ever let you fall.
I love the night.
Flying o’er these city lights.
But I love you most of all.

I miss a turn, and find a smooth pavement road that winds through the forest. My eyes are dry and tired. I put on the high beams and cruise control, discovering another way home.

I drove home from class tonight with the windows down and the music cranked. It’s not the songs, it’s not the singing, it’s not the speed, it’s the air that affects you. That smell.

The Operation by Charlotte Gainsbourg is the ultimate night-time driving track when you’re feeling single and electrified.¹ The baseline drives you.

i want to explore you
i’m gonna get under your skin
so you can feel me running through your veins

i want to examine
every inch of your frame
the pressure points that cause your joy and pain

When I got home, I showered, got into in my PJs, took Dolly in my arms, and stood out on the patio. I wanted her to feel what I was feeling under that night sky. She clung to my arms, but didn’t make a sound. It was unlike her, because any time Dolly gets picked up she immediately begins purring. The night was too much for her.

I think it’s too much for me sometimes.

For now, I’ll live vicariously through Maggie. Except I won’t be getting drunk on Sparks (the orange kind), I won’t be going dancing, I’ll just keep running into my crushes at every turn, and I’ll keep meeting the asshole, idiot guys they go out with. And like Maggie, I’ll refuse to be that guy. The one who talks shit about other guys, the one who flosses his cash money, the one who drives fast to prove he’s got a dick.

Yes, I’m breaking my post order because of Maggie. It’s like she made me write this. I would totally hoolahoop and make Dragon Ball Z poses with her. I just found out that I don’t know how to spell hoolahoop. Hula hoop. There we go.

Maybe this dry spell is making me loopy.

I think I’ll sleep with the windows open tonight.

1. This song won’t be up for long; I’m taking it down in a couple days. [↑]

biting keeps your words at bay
tending to the sores that stay
happiness is just a gash away
when i open a familiar scar
pain goes shooting like a star
comfort hasn’t failed to follow so far

and you might say it’s self-indulgent
and you might say it’s self-destructive
but, you see, it’s more productive
than if i were to be happy

—The Dresden Dolls, Bad Habit

I was jittery and nervous all day.

Several new developments have left me with a lack of resolution. People to meet, presents to give, pictures to take, responsibilities to fulfill. And as much as I try not to think about it, it’s in my nature to do so.

I still haven’t gotten passed this feeling. Still don’t know if I want to. Still don’t even know what it is. All I know is that it’s making me manic.

I can only write this at night. When I’m falling asleep and off my guard, sitting on my chaise, with the curtains drawn and the window open to the winter air.

Now I feel like writing, but I don’t even know what to say. Everything’s too jumbled for me to decide whether I’m happy or sad. Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s one because of the other. Life, at the moment, is so bittersweet.

Wonderfully bittersweet, that’s what it is.

I’ve done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

—Tool, Schism

I suppose I feel it most when you’re not around. Empty nights, when it’s been another day without contact.

Part of me misses talking to you, but part of me doesn’t feel like it just yet. It’s a contradiction I can’t explain. Not that it matters anyway.

You just don’t get it.

I was going to write about how I slept well for three nights in a row, but the third night turned into this morning.

Even before getting in bed, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep because of this. I knew that as soon as I woke up to roll over, I wouldn’t stop thinking, wondering about the situation I’m in.

Somewhere in my mind I want to run away again, simply because it would be the easiest thing to do. Fortunately, I know better, and realize that I have to face up to the decisions I make, as well as the consequences that result.

I can’t tell if the hardest part is not knowing or not assuming.