Moving Days (2009)

It's funny when you find old work, and you can't stand it. I just re-read this post, a quip really, published in The Phoenix. It drives me crazy, because it's kind of nasty. Kind of dramatic.
That being said, I kind of love it, because it reminds me how far I've come in 2 years. I'm WAY less of a pussy now, and I fucking love this town.

-Mader
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving Days (2009)

So.
Here I am, in Vancouver- once the towering notion of cinematic adventure, as far as my small town eye could tell. A bustling hub of high fashion and long nights, short double highballs made with mystery ridden spirits, gay bars and scandals. It's no New York, NY, but we need to take baby steps, right?

So, I'm here- and maybe I just got here, but maybe it was over six months ago, and maybe I just got used to the towers and bums more quickly than I thought. But I'm here. And you know what? I bet it was cool. Was. WAS. Now? Now it's just as wankabilly as the next town. See: Forgivable and over saturated, nicely bland and horribly stenched. Crack ridden and sad with the misfortunes of the once fortunate. But oh, OH THE MOUNTAINS!

Hmm, am I bitter not to see this beauty as a gift? Oui. But as the ugly seek perfection, and the perfect take it all in vain, so shall I. Lucky enough to be raised in BC, cocky enough to see the greener grasses on foreign lawns. What adventures are to be had? Ugh, none here- unless you count the contrived banter of bike couriers and wannabe wannabe's. Maybe if you step back and see the true cliche's rype amongst the earthy hippies and think, "Hey, Those crystals sound like fun! Jee. Maybe there's a script in there somewhere..hmmm". Psh. Maybe if you look in the cold, sorrow struck eyes of one in a million that have simply lost their way, and pause to hear their plea- all the while knowing the change in your pocket will remain- maybe that is adventure.

Maybe Life is just as bland on sprawling praries. Maybe nothing is good enough on the moaning shores of Labradour. Maybe the bills you stuff your mattress with will become the pea to your princess, and be your ruin. Maybe it is not who lives the more interesting life, but who's is better photographed.

SO Document that, and this, and hold on to these magical moments in your dilapidated city. Hold on to the small fragile man with the tin foil hat. Hold on the the woman on verge of tears, just standing for a half hour beside a parked car with a bag of dog shit. Hold on to the 16 year old girl who pukes into her purse the moment the Sea Bus begins its course. Have a loff. Move away. Move up and over and out. Take acid, shout swear words, make airplane arms while alone in public. Just recall those things you've recalled and thought magical, and make sure you do something you'll be proud to recall in the future.

Then take pictures, and send them to me.