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.