:: Tuesday, May 13, 2003 ::

My Own Cliché

The tree split in two. About four feet off the ground, it completely split into two seperate trees, which proceeded to grow horizontally rather than vertically. Well, perhaps at fourty five degree angles. I climbed up, running my hands over the smooth flesh of the arbutus, which was unscathed despite the fact that its bark lay scattered on the ground. It was a perfect seat, and I propped my legs up on one branch and leaned back against the other, closed my eyes, and listened to the noise around me: the birds flying about, fighting, hunting; the ocean slapping against the rocks and sand, a little more vigorously once the ferry passes; the ferry, the airplanes, the powerboats speeding by just far enough away not to be an annoyance; my own breathing. The wind blew at my face and made me a bit chilly, but it was a numbing cold, a calming cold. My breath slowed and evened, and after a few minutes I shivered, and moved on.

That tree was nice, facing out on the ocean. But I had another place to be. Further along the trail, about five minutes further, was my place. A little stone cliff overhanging the rocks, where you can see down into the water for several feet, and over it for miles, and feel a little like you oversee the operation of the universe. There is a tree growing out of the rock which you can lean up against, and just be. And unlike the arbutus tree, the spot is further off the path. There is more solitude there. The waves aren't as strong there and it's not as fantastic.

But it's mine.

This place is thirty minutes from town and as long as the tourists stay away it is all mine. Acre upon acre of provincial park which a shockingly low number of locals visit every year. There were days in my past where I felt like I couldn't take people anymore, or I couldn't understand a certain boy or two to save my life, and I went sort of crazy. So this was my place. My implosion place.

I used to run along the path, run through the rain and mud, filthy myself, and then sit red, puffing and satisfied against that strong, rough tree trunk and stare out over the water, and feel all alone. And love it. Know that there was not another person around for miles. I would close my eyes and just breathe, in, out, in, out, not trying to hold anything in, not paying attention to the sounds around me, but just let them roll over me, and assure myself that with every wave there is an undertow, with every ebb there is a flow, and all those other obvious and somewhat cliché facts that we sometimes need reminding of.

It's been about a year since the last time I sat on that rock, against that tree, in my place. So despite the cool, smooth comfort of that arbutus tree, I moved on. Towards my spot.

But it's funny, because when I got there it wasn't quite how I remembered it. The angle was off... I remembered staring out at the ocean, but in reality to lean against that trunk you have to sit sideways. And despite the solitude I remembered, it seems you can see the spot clearly from the path. I shrugged it off and took my usual seat, and it still fit like an old shoe. But after a few minutes I noticed I wasn't so comfortable. The rock was cold and uneven, and the rough bark of the tree bit into my back. Soon after I brushed an ant off my arm... and then my back... and then I turned around and noticed that there were at least twenty of them, busying themselves in my spot.

So I know that this is a realization that is by no means original, but it occurred to me that I had made this spot into something more than it was. It was just a tree with rough bark growing out of a little stoney cliff, with ants and spiders making it their home, and it wasn't perfect by nature, it was perfect because of what it meant to me at the time. I guess the point of these kinds of realizations is you can hear them a thousand times as the moral to a story or the climax of a sappy movie, but it doesn't matter how many times you hear it, you have to realize it yourself. And so today I realized something I knew all my life. You have to make you sure you love things for what they really are, and not just for what you want them to be.

And then I looked again at my tree and saw that I couldn't really be pissed at the ants, because they have a whole existence going on there that I don't understand. So I sat for a while and looked at them work. And then I got up and walked away.

It's still my spot though. As the arbutus will be. As that whole park, and this whole Island are.

You're only a cliché in the eyes of someone else. So maybe this post sounds stupid. But it means a whole lot to me.


~song~ Ani Difranco - You Had Time


:: Katy 1:02 p.m. [+] :: ::



"Can the brain represent twinkling, perceptually, without representing individual twinkles?"

- Daniel Dennett
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