Two months

Has it only been two months since I arrived in Montreal? That hardly seems possible. When I think back to August 6, the last day I was in Edmonton, and all the traveling in between in France, it is a fast-paced blur.

I still hardly know myself. In fact, I wonder sometimes if I am unknowing myself. Is that even a verb?

It is remarkable the extent to which I feel a new city shaping me. I think Montreal is radicalizing me. One of the first things I did shortly after arriving here was stop eating meat. I just didn't see the point in meat. I had increasingly lost my taste for it; moreover, I couldn't really justify it. Factory farming is one of North America's biggest environmental blemishes.

Then I started to think of psychogeography in a different way. Not merely a stroll around the city and a reflection on its effect on us, but more importantly, maybe, a rejection of the very economic forces that come to shape cities. I want to push my own wanderings to the point where they no longer become an observation: they become a participation. They become an attempt to live differently. Instead of hurrying around our cities like ants, transporting consumer goods hither and yon, we should be moving about them with creative purpose -- seeking our identities and those of others, trying to make new situations that have maybe not existed before. Let there be more spontaneous gatherings in our cities. The tamtams in Montreal is one such gathering. I so much enjoyed celebrating my birthday that way: sitting in the park with the tamstams' rhythm in the background, eating with friends, basking in the sunlight. Last weekend was one of the best of my life.

What an autumn it has been.

Now it has returned to a more typical autumn grey and grizzle, the streets are slick and sinuous, and everywhere you can hear the hiss and rush of wheels on wet cement. But still I love it. It was perfect weather for a short afternoon nap. Now, slightly re-energized, I hope to be able to accomplish something before a fresh round of celebrations begin: Halloween!

Up the mountain

It was time for a break, and the sun came out, so I walked up Mont Royal. From the top, there was a striking view of St. Joseph's Oratory. I took a photo and later doctored it quick-and-dirty in iPhoto. If this particular computer had Photoshop, I would've spent longer on it.



I am soon starting a new project, with friends, whereby we will extensively "blog" on Montreal and include photos and film. It is a psychogeographic tribute to the city. I am really looking forward to it.

Home

One day I would like to conduct some research into how people feel about where they are from. Where is home? What do they like about it? What do they not like? Why do they stay? Why do they leave?

A benefit of my studies at Concordia is meeting people from many different places: Newfoundland, Germany, France, Los Angeles, Pittsburgh, etc. Most people, to varying degrees, have an attachment to their place of origin. Often, you can simply see it in their eyes when they discuss it. The enthusiasm and feeling of pride in describing the place.

Me, I become rather emotionally on edge when I must talk about where I am from. I find myself intermittently becoming angry or defensive. Or just laughing in a way that attempts to make light of past hurt.

For one, I am not even sure how to say where I am from anymore. I can say, Edmonton Alberta, but then people go, yes, but where are you REALLY from? Then I will say England. But what am I supposed to say about England? Its influence on me becomes increasingly irrelevant with time. I do not feel English.

I do not feel Albertan. Never did.

I certainly feel Canadian. I made a conscious choice to obtain my citizenship because I do feel an attachment to the country.

But then, beyond that, what does one say? I am reluctant to speak of England as if I were speaking FOR the English, or to speak of Alberta or Edmonton on behalf of those who live there. It is unfair to do so. If I speak negatively of Edmonton I try to explain that this is only my personal impression. For many people, Edmonton must be THE place to be. Right now.

I suppose I must admit to a bit of jealousy towards those who would willingly "go home" after their time in Montreal. Because for me, that just does not seem like an option. It would feel like defeat. It is not home. It never became home. I already feel more attachment and pride in Montreal than I ever felt in Edmonton.

And I take comfort that I am not alone in this. I have two good friends who are ex-Edmontonians. Talking of Edmonton reduces us to rage or other forms of emotional distress. It is as if the city has scarred us. It is very odd. I don't know of any people so adversely affected by their "home" town. How did this happen?

Montreal is grey and gloomy right now -- has been for days. Still I love it, I love it, I cannot get enough of it. I looked at my circle of new friends yesterday gathered together and thought "I wish this could continue forever. All of us in Montreal until we get old."

I felt sentimental and went home. I missed my girlfriend intensely. If she were here, life would be perfect.

What people do for entertainment

Yesterday I was on Crescent Street for a short while, long enough to realize that this is the arse end of Montreal. I saw the spectacle of young toughs swinging punches and wrestling each other on the ground. Both sides had sought out such an adventure. I saw the episode from its very inception to its very end.

It was about two in the morning. My friend and I were sitting in a quiet cafe. There was a group of very drunk youngsters mere paces away -- girls and boys. We went outside so my friend could smoke. Some minor disturbance happened on the street right in front of us. I think it had something to do with somebody puking and falling over. All I know is that people were standing around making fun of the scene. Tough #1 detached himself from the group in the cafe and stormed out and immediately started verbally sparring with Tough #2. It was something to do with respect.

"Don't you have any respect, you fucking faggot?" he said.

He was obviously not looking to diffuse the situation. Nor was Tough #2. So the fight was on. The battle headed to the pavement fairly quickly, neither combatant being too steady on his feet. They rolled around for quite some time. The apparent girlfriend of Tough #1 stepped in gingerly at one point and tried to kick the head of Tough #2 with her pointy shoe. A friend wisely pulled her away and told her to stay out of it. Then a friend of Tough #2 tried to get involved but found himself thrown against a car by a friend of Tough #1.

When at last the fight was over, Tough #1 had no shirt. This displeased him. "Where's my fucking shirt?" he yelled. Likeminded toughs from across the street were jeering and taunting him but no further fighting ensued. Not that we saw. The spectacle having reached its end, we decided to leave.

What a seedy, sketchy walk it was up Ste Catherine. Nothing shocking to those familiar with Whyte Avenue in Edmonton, but disconcerting all the same.

About fifteen minutes later, I was in a cab headed back to Verdun, chatting with a driver from Chateauroux, France, which is a mere 50 kms from where my brother lives. He talked about going to dances in the countryside when he was young. Then we talked about the English who buy up property all over France because they love the food and the life. He left me at rue Galt, my street, just outside the restaurant, le Belle Province, where a few remaining customers were huddled inside over video lottery machines, placing their final bets.