Simple Beauty

Occasionally I am fortunate enough to work on a house where the homeowners are willing to spend money on quality materials and allow the time needed to create something of aesthetic value. I’m spending a few weeks doing clear fir moldings in a beautifully designed house on Vancouver’s west side. The details are simple and classic leaving the evenly textured vertical grain lumber to add depth and warmth. Even raw and unstained the wood creates a level of comfort that painted MDF will never possess. We’re using minimal fasteners to eliminate distracting nail holes and keep the lines clean. Projects like this make my job worthwhile.

Waldorf Diaries--Fear (and Loathing)

Recently a close friend and I were discussing the affects of fear. How fear possesses an insidious nature and an ability to degrade and debilitate all situations. I believe the antithesis of joy is fear rather than sadness. I’ve heard it referred to as an evil and corrosive thread that weaves through our existence. Still I’m not convinced that fear is without value and I think it is a necessary aspect of the creative process. The challenge of getting beyond it is pivotal and requisite for the growth of any undertaking. Fear itself is not motivating and in my history it’s had the power to paralyze me but more recently there is growing faith that if I’m able to recognize it—verbalize it—I have the ability to progress. This has proven true both in my work at the shop and in now my literary project. I've encountered few things as terrifying as a folder full of jumbled notes and unfinished thoughts.

Fear is also one of my favorite bands to ever come out of the L A area and I love this t shirt!

Waldorf Diaries--Zombies and Convalescence

With the recent arrival of zombie tenants at the hotel I’ve come down with a rare strain of acute viral rhinopharyngitis. Also known as the common cold “Zombie Version”, its symptoms are nasal and chest congestion, sneezing, coughing, fever, and increased appetite for human flesh. “Feed a cold,” as the saying goes.

I spent most of yesterday convalescing in my hotel room sleeping, watching Sanford and Son episodes on Youtube, and creating a mountain of crumpled tissues on my bedside table. Being sick in a hotel feels different than being sick at home. I can't wrap myself in blankets and lie on the couch. The absence of a kitchen means that most food and beverages must be obtained by actually getting dressed and going outside. Hotels are public spaces so it’s impossible to have the requisite privacy that is needed for proper recuperation.

I’ve been sick in hotel rooms on several continents. Usually these small rooms were in the hot tropical climates of southeast Asia or areas where cheap wine is abundant like the south of Spain. I even spent a couple of days sweating in feverish delirium within the confines of a shack in the Western Sahara. This time is different. At home, in this Vancouver hotel, I have a routine and responsibilities. I’ve missed work and had to postpone social obligations.

Then there’s the zombie issue. I have to talk to the hotel management about this problem before it gets out of hand.

Waldorf Diaries--My Neighbor's Closet

It’s Friday night and it’s difficult to get out of my room. Racks of clothing line the hallways outside my door turning the second floor of the Waldorf Hotel into Vancouver’s newest garment district. Shoppers crowd into the narrow corridors pulling hangers and drinking wine. It’s still early and the true multitudes have yet to arrive. In a couple of hours it may be impossible for me to get out of here.

My room is an interesting juxtaposition against the retail fervor happening outside the door. I often feel sequestered here in this calm space that contrasts so dramatically with the rest of this hyper social hotel. My sparse but comfortable furnishings, books, laptop, printer, my utilitarian clothing—these basic and uncomplicated things bring a sense of calm. I’ve been careful to limit possible distractions and reduce my life into its simplest form. This is really an experiment in focus and though hardly a monastic cell it does possess an austerity that allows me space and perspective to move forward in this project—Finding a definition of home.

Waldorf Diaries--Rowdy Neighbors

Not much bothers me. I am able to sleep through any commotion and this ability is handy here at the Waldorf Hotel. Almost nightly outside my window there is a crowd coming and going from the bar, restaurant, and cabaret. People stepping out for quick cigarettes with their friends and talking in loud drunken voices. I hear bits of conversation. There’s always one particularly inebriated guy whose voice cuts through the ambient vocal drone. This is “the guy” who needs to be heard. “The guy” who has something important to say. Something that is wittier and funnier than anyone else. His identity changes nightly but he is almost always there. The other night as I was falling to sleep I heard him say,

“There were paper towels everywhere!”

He repeated this several times laughing maniacally.

“Paper towels everywhere! I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it!”

He has a woman counterpart whose shrill cracking voice is usually saying something like, “I can’t believe who that bitch thinks she is!” I’m paraphrasing but that sentiment is common. “That bitch” is a popular topic of conversation.

These neighbors who share my window are a migratory group coming home to roost by 11:00 pm. and staying until a little after 2:00 am. They are always gone in the morning so I don’t think I’ll ever get much of chance to know my neighbors. We pass each other occasionally but generally we keep different hours and my quiet existence on the second floor remains unknown. 

Sometimes my neighbors park their scooter in the living room

Waldorf Diaries--Amnesiacs

Today we saw the sun and forgot it ever rains--this is a city of amnesiacs unable to recall the day before--I wonder what else we can't remember--

I have trouble accepting that I might belong here--that there might be a reason I’m on the far western reaches of this continent—like this city I am uncertain about what I am—unclear about my history and definitely uncertain about my future—like me, Vancouver is in a constant state of retransformation—trying on different architectural and cultural styles—building tall shiny glass structures in an attempt to artificially reflect the ocean and snow capped mountains—mountains that more often than not are obscured by heavy clouds that make it difficult at times to tell if it’s day or night—it feels manic depressive by nature—two days of sunshine in a row make it difficult to imagine that it ever rains—one day of darkness and rain makes the sun seem like a distant myth

Vancouver is conflict with itself—unsure of its purpose and identity and struggling with its inherent duality—it’s beauty and ugliness—both extremes making it difficult to find any middle ground or stability—this is a hard city for me to love—but I’m still trying—

Waldorf Diaries--All Summer in a Day

The weather has been the primary topic of conversation all day—this morning I put on a wool sweater and a hoody before heading out into the unrelenting rain—July in Vancouver resembles January in Vancouver—I checked the weather app on my iPhone and it forecasts more of the same for at least the next seven days—this was not what I envisioned for my summer at the Waldorf—I saw myself dressed in shorts and a t-shirt drinking iced tea on the patio in the late afternoon sun—that hasn’t materialized—my old school black suede Pumas wait impatiently by the door for a chance to be let out onto summer’s sticky hot tarmac—I hear them sigh as every morning I pull on my Blundtstones to endure another day of trudging through the puddles that now link together Vancouver neighborhoods like a series of lakes—

I’m reminded of the Ray Bradbury short story “All Summer in a Day” that is set on a jungle planet where the sun only materializes for two hours every seven years—the protagonist writes a poem that has the lines,

“I think the sun is a flower,

that blooms for just one hour”

Right now even an hour would be celebrated—

More on Keys, Locks, and Gaining Access

The other day I was rebuilding an old fir door jamb that had been damaged in a robbery—the intruders had brutally kicked in the door and splintered the frame where the deadbolt had fastened—they hadn’t bothered using any kind of finesse in their entry instead literally using the “breaking and entering” technique—they spent the better part of a day cleaning out the place of anything valuable including a large safe they must’ve put on a dolly—

As I carefully rebuilt the entry to its original form I added a security plate to reinforce the strength of the new deadbolt knowing that it would do little to dissuade a determined thief—it was primarily to give the home owner peace of mind, however false that sense of security might be— it made me think about the illusion keys give us—the illusion of safety when, in fact, if someone wants to get through a door there is always a way—locks work because there is an agreement that breaking through a locked door is a criminal action and an invasion of privacy—the fragile lock on a diary serves the same purpose and has equal symbolic strength—there is an extra moment of thought required before a threshold is breached—needing a key might discourage crimes of convenience—they might discourage the indiscretion of reading someone’s personal thoughts but they are useless against any committed force—

Despite knowing its limitations I still had a feeling of satisfaction as I tested the key in the new lock and heard the solid sound of the bolt clicking into the new heavy jamb--sometimes that illusion of safety is all we need

Reclaiming Space

Refinish
Renew
Restore
Repair
Refurbish
Recondition
Reconstruct
Rebuild

Over time people have given me old broken things to "Re-" and make pretty again--they usually say something like, "Whenever you get a chance--there's no hurry." Usually (Regrettably) I take them at their word and I don't hurry--this inevitably creates a backlog and pieces of broken stuff sitting in various corners of the shop--

I've taken it upon myself this week to do some work and clear some space--so far I've "Reassembled" two chairs and "Revisited" the oak farmhouse table--the latter is now stained and has the first coat of oil on it!
I feel "Reinvigorated"!

One more table and two more chairs to go...

re-prefix1 once more; afresh; anew : reaccustom | reactivate.• with return to a previous state : restore | revert.

Waldorf Diaries--Lynchian

There is something inherently cinematic about living here at the Waldorf Hotel—last night as I was watching the burlesque show in the cabaret the scene had a dreamlike element to it—the theatrical qualities of the costumes along with the music and the timeless design of the space itself, with its bamboo and glossy black laminate surfaces, created complete and unique images—a series of perfectly framed stills that evoked an emotional reaction—

My friend standing me beside said, “I always feel like I’m in a David Lynch movie when I’m here.”

She’s right—like a David Lynch movie what we were watching had no set time frame historically—it was impossible to tell what year it was—the performers and the audience both were choreographed and costumed without a designated period to place them—no generational anchor—it had a Lynchian darkness to it as well—a feeling that it had the capacity to tip into something more sinister—a sensual and potentially dangerous place where the appearance of dwarves, monkeys, and clowns wouldn’t have seemed out of place—

Barbarella Metropolis

Due to the recent development of sunny days in this city photographing this cityscape window display I built proved to be difficult--I can only suggest you go check it out yourself at Barbarella Hair Salon (click for link) on Main Street--

Waldorf Diaries--Keys

I can usually gauge how complicated my life is by the number of keys I’m hauling around—it’s also a barometer to tell how settled I am—the more keys I have correlates directly to the amount of responsibility I’m shouldering—the more rent I’m paying, the more gas I’m using, the more utility bills I get in the mail, the more insurance I should have—I carry heavy noisy metal symbols of this around constantly in my pocket—

When I moved into the Waldorf that weight was diminished considerably—upon leaving the Lee Building I took six keys off my ring—there was the front door key, the garbage key, my mail key, the laundry room key, and two keys to the deadbolts on my apartment door—they allowed me entrance into my life—my home—

There have been periods in my life when I’ve carried no keys and these were always periods when I either felt the most free or alternatively the most restricted—these were also times of great transition and change—there can be a sense of opportunity with the absence of keys and the ability to choose what new keys to accept—on the other end of the spectrum (when it comes to keys I’ve found there is no middle ground) there can be an intense feeling of loneliness—even desperation—

Today, despite my present transitional state, I still seem to have a lot of keys on my ring—along with my hotel key, there’s my car key, three keys for the shop, and two keys to the apartment I was housesitting in June—this morning I saw them and thought to look at my bank balance to see if my shop rent and car insurance checks had gone through—responsibilities I am grateful for—I like the weight of metal keys because it acts as not only a reminder signifying responsibility but also of security—their bulk also helps me check if they’re in my pocket and not still in the ignition as I’m closing my car door or on the table saw when I'm leaving the shop—

In my life I’ve locked myself out of a lot of places--

Waldorf Diaries--Patterns and Purpose

When I look at the carpet on the floor of Room 103 or the tile in my bathroom I’m certain this room was not designed for long term tenancy—the kinetic nature in the designs force the idea of movement and it’s difficult for me to sit for any long period of time—I find my eyes are constantly drawn to and following the vines that intertwine across the green polypropylene fabric that stretches from wall to wall—I’ve actually come to like the pattern and I think if it was merely a detail in a much larger room it would act well as a propellant—moving people cheerfully through a room—here as a dominant feature, however, it makes me wish I’d never tried hallucinogenics in my youth—

The bathroom floor tile is a pink and white basket weave pattern—again I’ve come appreciate its almost Moorish qualities and if it was within complimentary features it would work as a cheerful and interesting place to put a bathmat—instead I stand at the bathroom door for longer than I should as my brain tries to reconcile the three dimensional aspect of the crosshatching—

Then there’s the truth—I will find any reason not to write—if I let myself I would get my tools from the shop and begin renovations to this space within an hour—I have to remind myself constantly that I‘m not here for that reason—I’m not here for the long term—a transient with a singular purpose--