edwards block

I have entered, for the first time in my life, the Atlantic time zone, having arrived in Fredericton, New Brunswick on Wednesday morning. The trip was uneventful. I spent so much time and energy packing my bike in one box and my panniers in another – making sure that the weights and dimensions were not in excess of Air Canada’s continually shrinking limits – that I was almost (but not quite) disappointed that no one at the airport even bothered to weigh or measure them. Fear not, however – I was not left without anything about which to complain: my pre-ordered (and pre-paid) meal never showed up at my seat. Of course, “meal” is a bit of an over-enthusiastic description for what would probably have turned out to be a tasteless Quizno’s something-or-other and a tiny packet of crisps, the combined volume of which probably would not have exceeded the total packaging surrounding them, so perhaps I should be grateful. I did not suffer for lack, however, as Larissa had taken me to a very pleasing and filling French dinner before departure that warded off hunger all the way to Fredericton.

I even have something positive to say about Air Canada. Really! It’s not simply jet-lag induced delirium. There is a small screen in each seat, and a selection of films. As usual, there are a number of schlocky Hollywood titles available, none of which I cared to see even a trailer for. An unexpected additional option, however, includes four French films, with English subtitles. I was able to sit back in my window seat and enjoy a choice (“Un Secret“) from my favourite genre: the Holocaust. And you wonder why I’m so dark.

Fredericton, I am happy to report, is not dark. It is sunny and, most importantly, warm. Hot, even. It’s been a tad chill in Vancouver recently, and any temperature over 12 degrees would be a welcome change, but I was able to enjoy cycling into town from the airport in highly satisfying 24 degree comfort. It’s not all bliss, though. As I sat on the front lawn of Fredericton’s tiny-but-pleasant airport re-assembling my bicycle, the local mosquitoes relieved me of no small amount of blood.

So here I am, travelling once again. I’m not sure if this cycling thing is going to work out, or if my knees will collapse along the way somewhere, but I am hoping that the new bike will make the difference between pain and pleasure. The plan (such as it is) is to spend a few days in Fredericton visiting Darren and Brian, and then to cycle in an as-yet non-specific south-easterly direction. I intend to arrive at Easton Mountain (the ‘commune’ in New York that I stayed at last summer) by June 24. If the knees don’t work out, I’ll send the bike home and take the bus.

Last night, Darren, Brian and I attended the award ceremony for the 2008 Strathbutler award, given to a visual artist by the Sheila Hugh McKay Foundation at the Fredericton Playhouse Theatre. This was preceded by a gala private cocktail reception in the Beaverbrook Art Gallery. One oddity was the bar at the gallery where, when I asked for red wine, I was told by the bartender that dark beverages are not available in the gallery. “I guess a Guinness is out of the question?”, I asked. He laughed as he poured my white wine, but I never did get further explanation. An Acadian tradition?

As ceremonies of this sort go, it was pretty good. It was well organised and stuck to its already compact schedule. As well, a short welcoming speech by New Brunswick’s Lieutenant-Governor Herménégilde Chiasson was the most intelligent and passionate defense of the arts I have ever heard from a colonial representative of the queen (though that is perhaps an unfair description, as he is more accomplished and respected artist and intellect than regal mouthpiece).

The weather continues to be hot and sunny, though there is the possibility of rain forecast for the weekend. Today, I will be out cycling on the north ‘shore’ of the St John River, testing my knee before I decide whether to venture across the Appalachians under full pack.

After almost three weeks at Easton, I’m back on the road again. However, I’m not on the road as originally planned.

The other day, I took a test ride to the local town of Greenwich (that the locals pronounce “GREEN-witch”), not a particularly hilly route, and I did it with no luggage. The round trip is 30km, and by the time I got back, my left knee was sore again. As it seems unlikely that I’m going to manage to peddle this bike to the Poconos, let alone New Brunswick, I abandoned that plan in favour of a less knee-straining public conveyance: the Adirondack Trailways bus. As a result. I’ve got Simon and Garfunkle tunes stuck in my head.

Displays of patriotism are everywhere, some more tasteful than others. Here’s one on highway 40:

Now I am in New York City again, where I will pick up a charter bus to the Poconos tomorrow afternoon. This evening, I went to the National Museum of the American Indian, at the southern end of Manhattan, to hear Martha Redbone sing. The theatre in the museum has terrible acoustics, and I could make out almost none of the lyrics, but it was still pleasant.

This church on highway 40 has the crosses all ready to go. But for what? If only I’d had someone to push the shutter for me as I posed…

The nudist convention in the Poconos starts tomorrow night, and goes for a week. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stand the company of 800 for a whole week, but as Grant always says, “God hates a coward”.

I’ve enjoyed my stay at Easton, and have decided to go back there after the nudist thing. For one thing, I left my bike and most of my luggage there, but also, I like it there. It’s an interesting dynamic. In the simplest description, the residents can be divided into two groups: “The Party Boys” and “The Church Ladies”. Though I don’t think of myself as wholly either of these, I tend to think that I have a foot in each camp, as I appreciate characteristics of each, in my own peculiarly paradoxical way.

Residents contribute, in exchange for food and shelter, to the maintenance and running of the place, which operates a not-for-profit model retreat business, mostly providing programs of spiritual- and self-development to those to those in the queer communities. Last week, I painted the rear wall of the guest house, and washed a few dishes. Who knows – maybe I’ll come back again next summer.

Here’s the view from Jeff’s pool deck, looking toward Vermont/Massachussets:

An interesting side note to this summer so far (interesting to me, though perhaps too much information for some of you) is my newfound chastity. It’s been almost a month with nary an orgasm, which is by far a post-puberty record, and not a blue ball to be seen. Really, it seems inexplicably relaxing, like having a vacation from biology. Or maybe my knee isn’t the only thing suffering the effects of a bicycle. Perhaps there is a life for me in the celibate world of the clergy. Well, except for that little atheism problem.

In the meantime, I wander, and experience the non-carnal. I haven’t managed much writing while at Easton, but that’s mainly because I have been more social and haven’t made time for it. Or maybe an overabundance of under-utilised seminal lubricants somehow inhibits creativity.

Now that I am giving up the bike trip, it seems likely that I will postpone the trip to New Brunswick, perhaps until next summer. Instead, I will probably spend the remainder of my time at Easton before returning to Vancouver in early September, though I may stop off in Chicago on the way to visit a friend, if she’s going to be in town.

I arrived at Easton Mountain on the afternoon on Saturday, July 28, after a very pleasant and scenic ride from Albany, northward up the Hudson River valley. Easton Mountain is an “intentional community”, of sorts with an integrated operation that serves to generate income for, and participation in, the community, as well as to promote the ideas of community and social justice more generally. It’s part commune and part organised retreat, with both parts serving to support the other.

I came to Easton to attend a week-long all-male retreat focussing on “Self, Sex & Spirit”. It was a busy week of workshops and group discussions covering topics including identity, voice, spirituality, massage, theatre, compassion, movement, erotic energy, improvisation, poetry, art, yoga, writing, and combinations thereof, along with plenty of swimming, games, volleyball, and other activities.

This is a part of my ongoing quest to experience my life as a variety of diverse but integrated activities that challenge both my own conventions and those “recommended” to me by the world at large. I feel compelled to defy many of the “rules” of social convention and propriety, whether in search of more meaningful rules that better suit my personality, or in order to test those rules and adopt them with a greater sense of ownership and awareness than if I just accept them on the basis of their being approved unquestioningly by tradition, the family model, religion, or economics.

Partly because I enjoyed the week here so much, and partly out of deference to my complaining knee, I have been re-examining my travel plans. I am due to arrive in Tannersville, PA (in the Pocono Mountains) for a large nudist gathering on August 17th, and had originally planned to spend two weeks cycling to it via a semi-circular route through Boston. However, I have decided to remain here in the community as a “work-study” participant, and plan to cycle toward Pennsylvania on August 13 or 14. After a week of running around in the woods au naturel, interviewing participants, I will once again take stock and decide what my forward path will be.

Day one of my trip, yesterday, brought me to the dumpy-but-sterile Howard Johnson’s in Jamaica, New York, chosen for the fact that it’s just a mile from Kennedy airport. Here’s the $125 view:

Today, I cycled north through Queens toward the Bronx. On the way, the bumpy Queens streets (rural Saskatchewan backroads are smoother) broke the bolting holding on one side of my rear rack. Because of the weight, the rack bent, and I had to unload the whole bike to fix it, putting me behind schedule. Then, having carried on, I discovered that the only bridge that crosses to the Bronx is a bicycle-forbidded freeway with no sidewalks. Thus, I was forced to cycle west to Manhattan to use the Triboro bridge. Unfortunately, I somehow confused west with east and ended up way the hell out in Little Neck, practically in the next state, before I realised my error. To make things worse, my left knee started to hurt again.

As I have to be in Easton (north of Albany) by Saturday afternoon, I no longer had time to make it cycling. So, I was forced to rent a car and drive to Albany. The nearest location? Kennedy airport. I rode all the way back down there, and by the time I arrived my knee was killing me. There’s nothing cheap about New York, and I’m paying an exorbitant rate for this stupid car, a Dodge Magnum that looks like the vehicle of choice of a gangster pimp.

As I write this, I am having dinner at a “Roy Rogers” at a truck stop on the I87 Thruway, where a portion of every large Coca-Cola is donated to “support our troops and their families”. I ordered water.

I’m not sure what the knee problem is. I like to think that it’s this bike, which isn’t ideally suited to long-distance touring. At least, that sounds a lot better than old age. I won’t be able to stick to my plan to ride to New Brunswick if the pain persists, so a change of plan may be in order. Maybe in the end it will be a Greyhound tour of the northeast. I’ll have to put some Simon and Garfunkel on the Ipod.

Better news to come. I hope!

Despite being overly guarded about being seduced by cults, I have cast aside my principles and willingly signed up for what may be the biggest modern cult of them all: Facebook. I resisted for quite a while, but the number of friends and acquaintances who have opted to join have reached a critical mass of sorts, so I finally caved in.

According to the site stats, there are 342,726 Facebook members who have registered themselves as belonging to the “Vancouver” network alone, which is really quite a remarkable portion of the population who have cheerfully volunteered to provide the faceless Facebook empire with a complete database of every historical and social aspect of their lives, conveniently sorted and linked and collated. What better business model could one imagine than a data mining firm that need only throw up a website and have money-making products delivered to it for free? So much for privacy concerns. It’s going to be an interesting world soon, when everyone wakes up to the realisation that their Facebook profile can be matched up to their blogs, their Flickr account, their credit card provider, and of course the faceless pictures that they posted “anonymously” on such important cultural sites as ‘Newbie Nudes’, or ‘Rate My Poo’. Separate sites, yes, but not to the CIA under the Patriot Act. The Media Access Code (MAC address) will undoubtedly be the downfall of many. I can’t wait for the 2014 congressional elections!

What really irritates me about Facebook, however, is something that seems to be quite common on US based websites these days. There is a field that asks your political views. The choices are:

• Very Liberal
• Liberal
• Moderate
• Conservative
• Very Conservative
• Apathetic
• Libertarian
• Other

What about the rest of the political spectrum. The furthest “left” one can be is ‘very liberal’? Was Karl Marx ‘very liberal’? And what does ‘very liberal’ really mean? Is this like ‘extremely moderate’? Why not let us call a commie a commie? Or is it the philosophy of corporate America to eliminate socialist tendencies in the world by simply pretending that no such thing exists? Nonetheless, I have identified myself as “other” (which is really the best description for me anyway, whatever other choices might be offered – and that’s not limited to politics) and carried on.

Anyway, there I am. Now I, too, can keep track of all my friends without having to go to the bother of actually seeing them.

In other news, I am getting back in shape again after the relative inactivity of the tropics. I retrieved my stored bike after my return and set a goal of 200km a week, which I have been successful at achieving or exceeding so far. On Wednesday, I am planning to cycle up to D’arcy (north of Whistler) for a few days of camping on Gates Lake. This is warming me up for my return to the east coast in August, when I plan to ride from Pennsylvania to New Brunswick, or thereabouts.