Grand Canyon via Joshua Tree

We are making an accidental habit out of arriving at dusk. Joshua Tree at this time of year with sunny, hot weather is not a unique idea, and there was no official refuge for us to be found. Luckily, the Hobomobile can park anywhere, and we did. The side of the road worked as well as any site, and inspired an early start to the day ahead of the dawn.

Of all of the campsites we examined, most recommend would be Jumbo Rocks; massive, smooth rock formations to climb and admire. Camping is something most enjoyable with a collective, so there was no need to linger.

What lay ahead was miles and miles of immaculate highway that is without interference of neither turns nor services nor habitation. Desert. This is the beginning of a growing feeling of loneliness and a longing for company that overwhelms in waves. It's interesting that the one-way conversations with my beloved canine friend seem to satisfy this feeling, and the irony that most friendships are self-serving monologues is not lost on me, though there is no friendship like that of this animal.

Tempted from the highway by the peculiar signs pointing to London Bridge, we happened upon Lake Havasu: a comfortable oasis from which to base several hours of editing labour from. Pulling up lakeside, swinging open the doors, we epitomized the Hobo Producer persona, while working on the December tan. Productivity at it's best.

London Bridge, for the record, is a poor imitation, but you probably guessed that.

Carrying on, we delayed our arrival to Grand Canyon National Park until almost midnight. Rolling in in the dark to the snow dusted tourist village again left us little option for legitimate parking residence. Finding ourselves at the end of the dark lookout, all we could know of the canyon next to us was the incredible sound of the wind howling through it. Not until morning would it's majesty be revealed.

The last dawn of the year broke the canyon crest with that glowing beam of life and light that inspires artists of all mediums. However, unless you're travelling with your family there is little more to do here than meditate on the awesomeness of creation, buy some kitsch, a postcard or two, and move on.

The dusk/dawn itinerary happily means avoiding park fees, which is an added, and lovely bonus.

Los Angeles

As we roll off the PCH into Santa Monica’s prominade there is only one thought on the Hobo’s mind: shower. 2 days is the limit I’ve found. I guess I don’t make a very good hobo in actuality. Especially when you consider the homeless in Venice. The gather en masse, in masses along Venice Beach after hours. It’s impressive the order they seem to govern themselves with when you absorb the sheer numbers of people sleeping there. I’m sure it’s an interesting place to spend time.

The form the human body takes when it is driving and also when working on the computer is quite restricting. Add stress to those activities and there is potential for a load of damage. In my case it screws with my temperament. My skin, the blessed curse of it’s hyperactivity, is a beautiful indicator that I have reached my limit of gas station food and angry thoughts.

What better way to return to SM than with a hot yoga class, followed by an epic shower. The yoga doesn’t stop there. It’s all I want to do here, followed by eating super foods and cooking meals that just can’t be bought.

It’s easy to resent Los Angeles. Everyone loves to profile it as a place of shallow, judgmental people ruining the world with bad movies. It’s actually a cop-out to leave it at that, and I find it’s a viewpoint that’s more a reflection of ourselves than of the city.

For me it has become a haven of sorts. Gradually I find myself gaining strength here. My cravings and urges are healthy and productive. My

work ethic is constructive and my lifestyle filled with more and more joy. It helps that I don’t have the social environment Vancouver stews with, or the history Victoria is stained with. It also helps that the dating world here is not even worth bothering with. Without anyone to distract me unless requested to, I am the architect of a new life here.

It helps to also have enough friendships that I can find myself with the odd place to recharge the 3 things a Hobo Producer really needs: Shower, Power, and Wifi (not necessarily in that order) I also managed to accidentally get invited to a couple of amazing Hollywood parties where I got to be the exotic Canadian not-on-the-hustle who entertains with a silly accent that makes people giggle. The best of all worlds.

As I’ve almost come to the end of my current list of pressing needs, it’s time to carry on. The plan unfolds in many directions at once and I hope my choices are sound.

PCH

The Hobo Producer Pacific Coast chapter begins in San Francisco. Of course. San Fran is an interesting place to drive a van that may have engine failure or run out of gas at any time (the fuel gauge doesn’t work). The lanes also rarely connect in a parallel way. Amazingly, it didn’t prove to be a problem.

So where else to go but Haight Street for a night of Twoonie Brewskies and billiards with gay men. Waking up at a parking lot on a roaring beach, hungover in a camper van: so cliche.

The Pacific Highway is absolutely breathtaking. The ocean roars the entire way over the roar of the Hobomobile (yet to be named) directly alongside the highway. It’s hard to go too far when in a state of amaze like that. A wee little town between the expensive state parks offered a quaint little haven by the name of Moss Landing. The RV park there not only beat the price of the campgrounds, but also had wifi and power and showers. In other words, heaven.

There was just enough time in the day for the brief wander to the beach to witness sunset. In its glory the whole trip sinks in.

Freedom. Possibly a word or feeling previously unknown. This is that. And as the sun reflected in the amazing shore a colour scape that included emerald green, there was a moment easy to experience. To describe it is futile. This sunset had some other magic that can only been experienced while alone.

It will be hard to travel with anyone ever again. Driving Big Sur is probably screamingly gorgeous in the daylight, but with no one on the road to protest the speed I preferred to maneuver the 360 degree turns at, it was a happy accident that we traversed under nightfall.

Cambria was on the other end of that windy wildness. It’s a sweet town like any other in this district; historical and quaint. I would live in any of them. The people are so so sweet and are so happy where they are. Most important, they don’t mind a van parked next to their stretches of glorious beaches. Waking up there, pouring out of the car with my dog, greasy and unkempt, the ocean sang us a welcome that plants the thought that things couldn’t have gone more right that night.

To Oakland

Leaving the country is obviously a complicated thing. For this trip it was mostly emotionally complicated. Although three days delayed, it turned out that we hit the road at the exact perfect time. Of course.

As it also turns out I would also spend the next two days driving alone, in silence. I’ve now located the face plate to my stereo but it’s an amazing thing that I lost it in the first place. The silence left me alone with my thoughts.

I continually observed myself cycling through the hate, hurt and anger towards this person I blame for my woes. All of the expressions of this ugliness that I could think of would have done more harm to me than to them.

Suddenly, just before the California border, I started writing it into my script. It has become a pivotal part of the film and opened my eyes to the true strength of the entire story. After a few hours of refining things in my head as I drove, the tears stopped. The anger stopped. Maybe the hatred stopped but I’ve thought that before so the jury is still out on that one.

These feelings are part of the artist’s burden. Pain, sadness, anger, and love all feed our expressive selves. Not always, of course, but sometimes, in my observation, art is the way to release them. I was afraid that this shuddering sadness I had been carrying would dilute the opportunities ahead of me and cloud the instinct that I rely on so much as a filmmaker.

I arrived in Oakland with exactly enough time to settle in. Arriving where I am supposed to be has a certain certainty. I can gradually feel my feet again on the ground, and the excitement of what’s to come overflows from my fingertips.

Great minds talk about not identifying with emotions but rather letting them flow through you. Not resenting them but accepting them in order to move beyond them. I’m starting to feel that accepting them is the best way to truly let them go and eliminate their remnants. The creative force possibly exists for that purpose.

I hope this understanding can stick around, and perhaps even evolve further.

So my first day in Oakland created this

Motorcycle Tripper

One of my best friends took me on a ride up the Sea to Sky highway the other day on his BMW bike. His passion for bikes triggered the filmmaker in me to throw together this MicroFilm within a couple of hours.

Since he didn't know I was making it, the finished film surprised him. And since he is in sales, this has indirectly resulted in exponential interest in my MicroFilm projects.

A few days later, I got a call from Sarah. Sarah Tripper had a video on her website, but she thought it could be better.

So I turned this

Into this

1 hour to shoot 1 hour to edit 1 hour to upload.

I see a pattern forming. And I'm getting better at filming from the back of a motorcycle, although I did damage my microphone input on this one. It's always good to learn these lessons while still under warranty.

This Is East Van

My lone window is a lens that I realize is two directional.

Endless photographic opportunities present themselves to me and yet all the photos look the same. The light changes, and the movement changes, but the geometry is everywhere. Trains, trucks, cranes and noise.

Movement. It has to be captured on video to truly see the mechanics of it: the lateral patterns.

Then Robbie comes over after what feels like a lifetime apart. He's the oldest friend I have. We met in grade 2. Well, I delivered newspapers to his house before that but we only watched each other then, we never spoke.

Every train that passed my window is a story about his life as a longshoreman. It's a career path that almost killed him. He took me down to the Port side of the fence and I asked him more questions than I would include here. I'm not exactly certain why, but I put the footage together and this is the bit that it became:

I've entered it into the video component of This Is East Van along with a couple of stills.

The beautiful thing is how the comments from the posting are from my long lost friends who all know and remember Robbie. It warms me indescribably.

A Foxless Fox Hunt

Your production of the hunt is very well done and a wonderful gift! 

A lot of work has gone into the filming and to have edited it so well and quickly.   

I hope you enjoyed the day...the remarkable horses and hounds and so many wonderful and witty people!     

Thank you for including the blessing. 

Cheers (Tally ho!) Esther  

Out and about today and getting incredible feedback from our day at the hunt, and your video. The Fraser Valley Hunt Club fb page is buzzing, and someone from Key Property Management phoned the receptionist at The Local today and raved on for 15 - 20 minutes about this great video, and how great you are, and so on. Virginia Mills called and said she'd heard from several people about this great video (but does not have internet so has not seen it), and thanked us for coming. The publisher at the Local is agog, thrilled with the video and our photos and other coverage. Agog. How can I help you capitalize on this buzz? -Heather Jeal, Journalist
Was a great pleasure to meet Arwen.
We had never met before and she immediately came up to me to explain to her the lay of the land on camera as I walked through the grounds. 
I’ve attended the Fox Hunt for over 7 years now I believe, capturing pics for a local community newspapers. This is the first time I was able to just watch and enjoy. A real treat!
It’s such a great pleasure to be the official “Fox” of the event.
Much love to Virgina Mills, Esther North, and Kenan MacKenzie, I am truly honoured and grateful for your hospitality and kindness…
 
Thank you to Arwan for asking me to help host the documentary, a huge passion of mine, and for putting together this great video. 
She is available to help you with your video production so email her  at  arwen[at]gamutproductions.com
Hope you all like! Please post your feedback below! Share with your friends…
And hey, I made it out alive as the fox again this year… With two helping of Yorkshire pudding in my tummy!
It’s Always A Good Day on the Sunshine Coast!   Duane Burnett  : D

Eastside Pride

I've set up shop across the street from the JJ Bean roastery. I get a kick out of the image on the bag also being my address. Then I read the bag and realize we share the same mantra in our East Van pride, and I understand a little more clearly why I'm continually drawn here.

"JJ Bean's roastery is on Vancouver's Eastside. Our neighbours are artists, students, musicians and soccer fanatics - passionate people who love what they do. It's the kind of place that inspires us to focus on what we love, and to do it in our own style."

Funny, that's just what I was thinking...

Also relevant then is the upcoming Eastside Cuture Crawl which I was going to do an installation for in my studio but instead have decided to attend extensively Nov 18-20. The variety of mediums being worked in and the abundance of artist studios in my neighbourhood makes me so pleased I want to burst. It will be tricky to document without the taboo of photographing artwork, but I think an abstract video is in order. The Other Day On the Eastside will be posted here sometime in December.

The Other Day

Inspiration Strikes Strong and with a Thunder. But only where there is room for it.

Asking myself where the creative way forward is when I'm alone at the helm is a beautiful question to address. I'm not sure many people get such a blatant opportunity to examine their own process, style, and path.

I have been resistant to moving forward because of what it means I have to move away from. The past is such a beautiful memory, full of inspiration and great successes. Yet in the past there is no kindling for the fire that burns ahead- as I had once naively hoped.

And so somethingsomething studios is reborn. A studio of unrestrained creation. What I want most, and am most excited by, are the ideas that do not have to be condoned to be created. To create without the need to reach some professional standard or acceptance. Of course, the criticism has always been that this theory results in financial failure.

However, by restraining the productive time I have available, I force those projects that are less inspiring through the wringer. I have a spark that fuels my propulsion forward in a way that I haven't felt since before I was earning a living at this craft.

At the same time, some spectacular projects have fallen into my lap as a result of being present, aware, and open to them. As if by accident, I am now at the forefront of the Canadian studies being carried out by MAPS Canada and for the first time hold the rights to a project of great merit from the outset. I set out the other day with just myself and my SLR to see what would happen.

This is what happened

One day I will find a camera operator who enjoys me as much as I do them. One day I will again record proper audio for my interviews. One day I will see funding for a shoot BEFORE it happens. Until then, I am overjoyed at my half-assed attempt at pulling it off if for no other reason than to prove to myself that those things should not hold us back.

And so begins a new series titled "The Other Day in..." where these odd short videos that I whip together in mere moments shall find license.

And in this moment of writing a smile finds my face because as I write all of this to some future semblance of myself (because who else would care?), I also now know that you may be reading this Brownie, and I love you so truly that it makes me wish I had a post secondary education and could entertain you more with some literary wit. Hearing that you care enough to have read past posts leads me to want to do better in life so I can report great things from a solid, grounded place. Stay tuned.

Without

“When it looks as though you’ve lost everything, take a hard look around because you are in a unique position to learn something.” Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

To be without. To have not. Every moment is defined by need in the essential sense of the word. What is it that you have to have right now, and only now, or in the very immediate future? I need salt. I can live without pepper. I can’t live without fresh flowers.

Blossoms: beauty in a pure essence. For it’s own sake. Not attached to ego or expectation, but with a glimmering hope it may have a chance to become fruit and begin to rot. None of which was important to the first human that gazed amazed at it’s vivacious form and colour. I will spend my last dollar on flowers, and flowers are free.

Everyone has their requirements in life. I don’t require a can opener. I am doing just fine with my 1 knife. I can not collect too many mirrors or vases. Candles. Plants. Television-less yet online. Today none of these possessions can matter- they need to be expendable. Abandon-able. Unattached to me.

Without is not a sad place as one may assume. It is a place of plentiful potential that one must choose to be in in order to remain. It brings with it the fat belly of Buddha, and requires great discipline.

Rain paints the industrial east side in a reflection of the pewter cloud that’s trapped above. Days have begun to model themselves after the trains, trucks and ships loading and unloading. The low cloud cover has made me short sighted. Somehow in finding the world simplified by necessity I’ve opened up the potential of shining a light into the fog. My backpack is light. The way forward is clear. The answer needed to ignite the nitris is also the first rule in Italian racing: never look back.

Creatively bursting at the seams, creative bruises make me flinch. I’m building a whole new team from chapter 1, ground up. It’s a team of 1 to start. We can’t build on mud and broken windows so we’ll have to excavate. That’s extremely painful when you’ve come to like the garden you’ve planted and the crazy animals that were once friends. If we don’t start on level ground everything will keep falling down, so it stands to be extreme. I’ve already dug the hole.

The Other Day on the West Coast < It's a new dawn, a new day, a new life

Happy Social Media Week

I walk the rain soaked streets of East Vancouver wearing sunglasses. It's the only way to bear the lingering stench of miserable mistakes of my youth that hang in the air with memories at every turn like the piss stained pants of an alcoholic.

I can email and text while I walk my dog and spend some time memorizing the muzak loop waiting for Bell Customer Service to sort out my jugular. The trees that line these streets are old, and I remember I've walked this way before.

I consider all the leakage of my mobile bill which still doesn't give me enough usage to not incur fees. I remember a time when I didn't regard airtime. The data and texting is disguised as unlimited but it hikes my fees significantly for the privilege. My 80 page phone bill listing all of the texts they don't reveal makes me wonder if the unlimited privilege matched my usage or my usage matches my allotment. The same thing happened with my first cell phone bill 15 years ago. It's a steep and expensive learning curve sometimes.

All the while that I carry all of these mobile fees on my gypsy back my biggest struggle of the past few months has been lack of connectivity. The true luxury of life seems to be in accomplishing a space where one can print scan and email in one fell swoop. The thought of sacrificing my services, of trimming my excess? The idea seems daunting to even consider. Being unconnected is a major depletion.

To not be able to pick up my phone and ask it any question I may have conjured. The fact that I have access to the 400+ people I have made contact with over my 5 years living in Facebook from all walks of my past and present- all in the palm of my hand at any time of day or night anyplace within a sniff of a satellite. Any address, location, or service I may need provided by Google Maps with directions, a panoramic view of the street, photos people have taken, and reviews blogs votes likes and dingbats, all by our great cataloguers of the universe: godggle

In the face of financial failure and even with the fortitude of foresight, it's this ability I won't abandon. At any cost.

My intricate text conversations that have become facets of friendships that connect me to people in a new way, a new language. To have to budget that time?

Entertainment at every red light; every bus stop. Touch, toggle or keyboard? All at once? No problem. Try doing that on a $30 Nokia. I've researched and arranged entire shoots while riding shotgun (and getting roadsick). I can skype while I'm driving (not recommended). All of this was just science fiction when I got my first email address a dozen years ago.

I don't mean to be offensive towards those who truly cannot afford this extravagance. Somehow in all of my financial mess, this expense has become truly defined as essential. I work in media. If I couldn't scan your barcode what would that say of my abilities to problem solve software that you edit your beloved project on? I spend as much if not more money on communications than I do on food.

And I can't see any other way. What has become of me?

Powell/Victoria

Steel and Engines

drive the waterfront

Brutishly choreographed

Strength is all that’s required here

The objective obvious:

work as much as the day allows

there is always more to do

and complaining won’t help

Rumbles layered with ringing bells

Sea birds’ Glee and industrious smells

The trains keep passing passing past

and the last won’t ever be the last

Time reminds us

the truth is overstated

Thoughts keep drifting backwards

but the past is overrated

Remember dreaming of now

That wasn’t long ago, friend

Habana

If you want to see the real Cuba, there are not many ways better than to make friends with a Cubano. I hardly speak Spanish but my pigeon speak is better than his English. When he slows down and explains things I understand what he means often without the words.

The real Cuba is not so easy to take. He is so proud that he can get everything Ba-Ra-To! and we trade off on buying things since touristas can pay for quality while Cubans can not, and often the price for Cubans for the equal value is just a fraction. However, this standard is a challenge for me, while I grin through it. It’s so fun for him to spend my money, and I’m happy to let him: habla suave.

Absolutely it’s against my better judgement. I follow him to his family’s farm after travelling by bici-taxi, car, bus and then taxi. No one would know if I dissapeared. Of course it is insane. Somehow I can trust him. Maybe it’s his aggressive adoration.

Cubans are obsessed with things and although they have no capitalism, they most definately have commerce. There I am, this tall blonde beacon of a currency they aren’t able to earn, but here it is well within their grasp. Senor Havana’s relationship with material things and superficial esthetics is remniscent of high school days.

And that is how the Cubans live. In near poverty while remaining so absolutely sophisticated. Because it wasn’t always like this. You can see it in the epic colonial architecture now crumbling into the streets.

He introduces me to his family. They speak too fast for me to understand even the smallest bit of Spanish. It’s all pronounced differently anyways, and I feel dumber than I am. Smoke definitely makes it difficult to speak Spanish.

He introduces me to his friend who speaks English.

“I used to live in Florida but I came back here in 1983. I think I’m going to go back. It’s not good here, this isn’t a good place to be.

• I like it here

• That’s because you don’t live here. Is he your boyfriend?

• No.

• He’s a good man.

• Is he? He seems like it.

• Be careful.

• That’s what everyone keeps saying.

• He’s a good man. Be careful, because he’s a good man. Know what I mean?”

It’s hard to not notice how this chills me to my toes. He’s completely hijacked my trip but has proven at every turn to be trust worthy and genuine. If perhaps also a little overly enthusiastic.

Everything about him is very fast. Everything about him. I beg him to slow down in every way. He personifies Habana perfectly.

I don’t smoke good cigars or drink good rum or lounge in the sun doing nothing. Cubans don’t do that so I didn’t either. Affluence doesn’t seem like something enjoyable to be proud of here. But my Cuban friend found me a better deal on good cigars and rum to bring home with me so I had more money to spend with him. He didn’t have to steal from me. He could work my cash from my fingers with such skill, I was glad to have some stashed away.

Yet I also felt I should have spent it all while I was there because I can earn more, they can’t, and I won’t be back again for some time. And now here I sit with no money. So of course it’s more complicated than that.

But while I had the opportunity I did let him talk me out of a pair of my pants, my running shoes, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, deodorant and telephone. I returned home to find that these precious artifacts were all duplicated in the things I shipped home from Montreal. In fact all of these things were so abundant here. As is the delicious air. Ah Victoria, you really are the best city I’ve ever visited.