Second and Princess
Often when I take a trip I wonder if I will fall in love. At the same time, before every trip I’m anxious about going. It’s like looking across the room and seeing, or thinking that you are seeing: The One. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent my life looking for the intangible: home, place, looking for love, purpose, meaning, and so on. And even when I feel I’ve found it, the act of wondering is habitual, so I yearn and I ask: what’s next?
The plane landed in Whitehorse. It was a long day. I was on my way to the Dawson City Music festival. The night before we flew to Dawson the artists performing at the festival were invited to a meet-and-greet party. I rarely go to these events, I keep to myself skipping most parties but I went to this one, and it was there that I began to fall for this northern journey.
There are things you know, things you think you know, and the realization that it’s all a dream. Life: fragments of ideas, pieces of memories, images of desire. I sat there telling the story of who I am, I sat there thinking is this home?
There are trees in the middle of lakes when you find yourself beautifully adrift.
You don’t want to land even though you are afraid; you are awkward, even so: you don’t want to walk away—let go, land… and the time expands as the days envelope the night; perhaps the days persuade the night, dissuading the arrival of the night for just a few more hours. Is this the bridge to a new life? Is this the next stage of my life? I’m always asking what’s next, I always have… is this it
An artist is a being who asks what’s next, yearning for the passionate moments of life—this is why we are all artists at heart and it is the heart that guides us: the things we know, the things we don’t know and the realization that it’s all a dream.
In the end you can only wink at the city and the city can only wink at you. So it’s not what’s next, rather it’s a part of what’s next. It’s not the life I could have had, or maybe it is, either way it is a dream—it’s what I know and at the same time what will never know.
Is this the passion that arises from the long day? For those of us who haven’t experienced it—the midnight sun—and for me, a person who thought he couldn’t feel that light, a person who craves passion. But the short night doesn’t last and the longing returns.
Like all stories, they began before they begin. The Dawson City experience is no different, it began in Whitehorse—that night, the first night, at the meet-and-greet, I sat in a café as the musicians and festival participants gathered and told stories—an evening seemingly without end. But now it seems like it was bound within a single breath and I, tragically, exhaled. I had no choice.
The anxiousness about the future turned into sadness about the past.
And so I find myself sitting on a plane leaving Whitehorse, after Dawson, back to T.O. There, sitting in a window seat, but the window was ahead of me, I couldn’t look back, I could only look forward, moving further away from that moment—time continues to expand.
The light brightens until it is once more dark and light again. So it is—the breath—as with all things, as with all relationships, as with all journeys, we let go. And now I ask again: what’s next?
But this moment—the moment of the long-days-that-pass-shortly—I hope, will be with me; perhaps even haunt me. And one day, when I take my last breath, my last thought—the last frame of my life—if that image appears once more, that moment at the corner of Second and Princess in Dawson City I will be happy.