Days can start pleasantly. And oddly enough people can become accustomed to being lonely. The state of being alone is not always surrounded by negative energy. In a foreign place one becomes used to this state of being. Much like how one becomes used to an unfashionably designed house or hole in the wall which drips maliciously.
People deal with loneliness in a variety of ways. The impulsive emotional baker may throw together a batch of banana nut muffins on a particularly unromantic Valentines Day. The unemotional Type A may choose to sit alone in a dark basement watching reruns of televised sports commentary as they gurgle cheap beer. And then there are those earthy granola types who claim to avoid the state of loneliness by crossing their legs and humming, performing yoga in unbearably hot conditions (on purpose and even during winter). I call this group, reefer madness. These libertarians self medicate using unregulated plant privates rolled into cigarillos. More and more people are finding that psychiatrist approved prescription drugs perform a much needed role in their day to day mental functioning.
I on the other hand don’t fall into any of these groups. I used to bake a lot of muffins, I never liked the taste of cheap beer and certainly don’t enjoy dark rooms featuring sports commentary. I hate hot rooms although stretching would probably be a good idea once in a while. The word marijuana makes me laugh and I can’t take it seriously. I certainly would never invest in such a crop. Although prescription drugs are neat (they come in a cute little bottle with your name on it!) I was never one to want to depend on their services.
I have always loved individual activities. I cannot list one group sport that I remotely excelled at. I recall holding a basketball once and dropping it in fear that it may just hit me in the face. Forget baseball and soccer altogether. I used to sit in the very back of right field on my haunches picking Daisy’s. Flowers are beautiful don’t you think? My successful athletic endeavors include swimming, diving, trampoline, water skiing, downhill skiing and bowling. It was not until today, when I started writing this, that I realized the majority of my life has been spent in state of solitary enjoyment.
I am always shocked by people who can’t handle being alone. The needy woman who runs from one boyfriend to the other. Or people who can’t imagine spending a weekend without being in the crowd. I love socializing. I thrive on it. Some may say explosively. On one hand, I spend a great deal of time alone and conversely cast my pent up thoughts on the people around me.
I fall into the legion of lonely artists. Looking back at my past I can list off a number creative outlets I have used to distract the lonely wolf which lurks in the back of my mind ready to pounce when I can no longer fidget. I was a reader, knitter of quilts and scarves, poet, solo dance party enthusiast, zone out on the floor in the dark with a vanilla scented candle while listening to overtly emotional lyrics courtesy of Alanis or Bjork geek, poet, writer, photographer, cook, baker and candlestick maker.
It was not until I started traveling that I realized my passion for writing. Traveling on my own for months at a time I felt not a moment of loneliness as long as I had my camera, journal and pen. It has dawned on me now that as my academic career is at an abrupt halt I cannot stop this carnal urge to write. Without exams to study for, or paper to research I often find myself pacing up and down my classroom or in my apartment like a restless tiger. I can understand why artists are hard to understand. We have a unique weakness which can drive us mad. When one depends on artistic expression to soften the darkness of loneliness danger lurks.
“My Muse has forsaken me!” we scream.
The muses: a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits, their number set at nine by Classical times, who embody the arts and inspire the creation process with their graces. I can not tell you the number of times I have felt incredibly anxious due to my inability to tap into the inspirational juices of these graces. Artists require an artistic channel much like the depressed need Prozac, Reefers need yoga and insurance salesmen need Budweiser. This is intellectual drought. Writing droughts occur anytime and anyplace. In University they usually occur in the worst possible moment, the day before something is due. I always carry a journal with me wherever I go. In class, on the subway, in bed, at dinner, everywhere. I have these journals handy so I can scribble down a random brilliant idea, a lunch menu or even a fleeting feeling. And then, when the fruit is ripe and sweet and no longer pithy I rip these various notes out and hold hands with my muse. It is here that we proceed. To a special place of calm explanation and exploration.
I have always been a story teller. First captivated by the oral tradition through family stories. Followed soon after by television programming and theater. My high point climaxed in the summer of Grade 10 when I rented over 500 films in one summer. Libraries are a sacred institution I soon discovered. Summer camp and university provided an endless stage for me to ramble on about the random tales constantly hustling and bustling within my head. And then I traveled and found my niche. The perfect medium to touch the untouched. An easy and exciting way of reaching out to people through an honest narrative full of educational bites and hilarious momentous events.
I find it funny to look back at my youth as my overindulgence in the film medium frightened my parents. I spent a lot of time alone watching Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa and Federico Fellini. I used to go to the library bi-weekly to pick up thirty to fifty VHS and DVD’s. The librarians all knew me by name. They had a special shelf just for me. My fingers turned read as I clutched grocery bags brimming. Sitting in the car, my moms eyes looking concerned as well as a tiny bit curious to find out exactly which films I had selected for this week. When I lived at home, there was no need to visit the video store, ever.
If only I had been a poor student, stupid even. It would have given them ammunition. A chance at intervention. This was the last thing I needed. Sitting for thousands of hours watching classical movies unfold before my eyes I was enchanted by the various ways a story can be told. As my repertoire expanded I soon became obsessed with foreign films (and for some time refused to watch anything without subtitles). It was here where my passion for story telling and travel merged into a distinct purpose. Whether I was oogling over the grittiness of French cinema or staring at an entirely unspoken story of nomadic central Asian salt sellers, I knew I had to see “all of this.” Crazy how movies can change your life. And I always wonder why parents are cautioned about how much television their children should be allowed to watch. If I ever have children they will be forced to watch an allotted number of films each week.
Over the past two years I have had to explain to several people how writing works. I find it odd how many people detest writing, as it comes so easily to me. Whenever I say, “this weekend I am staying in and writing,” the response is often along the lines of shock followed by, “why?” Most people write out of necessity. For school, for work. A small few write to inspire, to emote and to be. People who read my work on a regular basis often ask how long it takes me to write the more lengthy editions. I open up my word document and start to type. Thoughts flash through my mind and I start to madly type. My fingers flicker uncontrollably on my keyboard. I appear like a zoned out secretary. This is me calm. Take a picture, it doesn’t last forever.
And then, all of a sudden my life in Korea experienced a breath of fresh air. My first visitor. Travis Dhanraj a friend from Toronto was embarking on an Australasian backpacking tour and was making a Seoul stop. By now I had become accustomed to a comfortable routine. Routine is the easiest way to avoid loneliness. Keeping busy with predictable cyclical activities. For the next week I broke free of my regiment and thoroughly enjoyed my new company. We ate out at restaurants every day. I made sure he was exposed to as many Korean delicacies as possible.
The next few days I curtailed my typical schedule. Cutting out swimming, staying up late into the night chatting and uproariously quoting Jurassic Park taglines. We ran around the city visiting my favorite palace and tea house in Insadong. Constantly chatting about how one should properly form their lives into something creative, unique and beautiful. He was often amazed by my endless amount of energy. He openly wondered if I secretly plug myself into the wall at night to recharge. We both gave each other words of wisdom even if they weren’t realized at the moment of contact. He gave me a lesson in “how to chill.”
And all of a sudden I found myself standing at the bus station with him. Seeing my first visitor off to Bangkok. I jokingly told him that we had to heighten the drama of his departure by being as emotional as possible. As I walked away I quickly turned and raised my hands to my lips tearing, “don’t look back.”
I went to work feeling entirely weird. I sat in my seat void of emotion. I didn’t realize how having a visitor from home may create such a high and a slippery low. It now dawned on me that my regimented schedule may be hard to wean myself back onto. I came home to an empty apartment in need of a good cleaning. I was now reminded of everything I had grown so accustomed to avoiding. Empty rooms can be safe havens as well as prisons it seems.
I reluctantly fell into bed. Rolled around, staring at the ceiling. I was so thankful but at the same time saddened by my new state of tangible loneliness. And then I felt a wave of fuzzy warmth flow across my toes and fingertips. I darted out of bed and played Sigur Ros over my loudspeakers. I grabbed a pen, flipped open a journal and spend the next hour seducing my Muse.
