Reckless!

It is really amazing how buses don’t get into accidents everyday. I mean, they drive like maniacs! They swerve into the other lanes and run red lights constantly. If I drove like that I would be either dead or have killed someone already. I was definitely not surprised when a bus driver ran over a high school student a while ago. With their reckless driving skills, I’d expect them to kill at least two people a day. In addition to their reckless driving skills, their attitudes toward passengers are appalling. I’ve seen bus drivers who refuse to stop for passengers and ones that refuse to drive after being insulted for providing bad service. Suck it up you crybabies! It’s not like we’re being unreasonable; even if we were, bus drivers are paid to provide at least decent service to passengers. However, I have never seen a case where a bus driver is insulted for properly doing his or her job.

What I really hate the most is how bus drivers refuse to stop for more than five seconds at a bus stop for parents with children. Parents with children usually take more than five seconds to get to the door because bus drivers make it almost impossible for them to get there since they don’t know how to brake properly. Therefore, the parents have a choice of either risking their child’s safety by attempting to get to the door before the bus stops or to start walking towards the door after the bus stops, hoping the bus driver won’t to drive off.

Evanescent Encounter [Drifter]

Vertiphon - Bola. The bus arrives, finally. Boarding is a chore. And where to today, Johnny? To the drudgery of school? The monotony of mail service? Perhaps. All of them feasible options. But I know you care not, Johnny. For you the destination has already been decided. The path is not yours to walk. For the Drifter, place is moving, and place is fixed. Return to your seat. Return to the hermitage. The only home you will ever know. Return here and wait. And see.

Reprise. Another boarding, another departing. How many of them look as the same to you, Drifter? How many of their faces just like the ones before it? So complacent now in your huddled reverie at the back of this bus. They all appear as dark smudges against a backdrop of upholstery blue and metallic gray. What farce to let pass. The artist surely enraged. His masterpiece made nothing but a cacophony of colors. All screaming to be heard. Given life.

Pfane Pt1 - Bola. It is a sad sight, isn't it, Drifter? Seeing these people as blots on a landscape. How much more beautiful would this scene be in their absence? Without their odorously scented bodies and often crow-like squawkings. No longer a cacophony but a chorus of willful defacement. Each new face acting as the newest graffiti on this otherwise scene of serene. But wait, Johnny. Are you not among their kind as well? No? The Drifter, you say. Ah, what a humbled position to fill, I must say. Here, placed among them, yet so far removed from them. Always the observer, never the actor.

Atomontage - Gridlock. But wait, Drifter. Look! A face, no, a person even! Hair dyed amber, fingernails bright, clothing equal parts chain and fabric. A person unique. Follow with the eyes. Follow quietly. Not alluding to your presence. Allow her naivety. Allow yourself a glimpse at this painting's beauty. Watch the anomaly of her presence. And allow a grin at this defiance. Not allowing herself to be a simple smear, but a form, a texture, a veritable centerpiece! Watch in awe. And forget time.

Pfane Pt2 - Bola. Look now, Drifter. Another approaches, one so like the girl next to you. Watch this form, too. Watch them both. Then watch in horror and disgust as another pure figured is stained, smudged, and smeared once again. Features eroded by uniformity. Textures dulled in association. Left to find her place in the now so benign and banal backdrop of ambiance and function of the bus. Defiance murdered. Wondering. I know you are, Johnny. How this painting will look by time's end. How many pure figures will there be left? Or, just as here, will the individualality become a forgotten plane of existence?

Done Processing - Gridlock. Sigh, once again, and calm. Let the fear of erasure pass and return to your post. You are the drifter. Your presence already removed, your existence secured. Your destination void. Travel with this bus. Step in its walks. Let it carry you to wherever, and remain unaware. Sit and sleep. Watch at whim. Regard the renegades. Enjoy in the endlessness of your task, for it is sure to never end. Perhaps, one day, though, a creature shall come aboard. One of such startling presence and unchallenged uniqueness that they may even be said to be found. And in that state, perhaps, they may even speak to you. Free you from your contemplative seclusion. "Let the other lost sheep go, drifter. Look here, and see the saved."

Ewww

One of the many reasons why I really dislike taking the skytrain is because of the weird stench that diffuses throughout the skytrain from the heat vent. The stench resembles sweaty socks that have not been washed for at least three years. As bad as it may sound now, it gets worst. On a rainy day the stench would increase ten folds and reeks as bad as the sweaty socks put into a room full of rotten bananas and tomatoes. As if it isn’t bad enough, the smell would cling onto your clothes and follow you throughout the day.

After giving some thoughts into this problem, I realized that perhaps we, the users of public transits, are also responsible for the unpleasant smell on the skytrain. The skytrain is covered with old chewed up gums, coffee caps, and newspapers; all are leftovers from irresponsible passengers. Is it that hard to throw your garbage into garbage cans or recycling bins located on the skytrain platforms? I once saw a group of teenagers having a spitting contest on the skytrain. They were standing in a straight line competing on how far they can spit while other passengers were watching quietly; how stupid can people get? Then again, perhaps I’m expecting too much from people in general; if we are too lazy to save the world from serious problems like global warming, who would give a crap about the weird smell on the skytrain?

Transients

I’ve debated on how to approach this issue, or whether to deal with it at all on the blog. I’ve opted to face it head on, grab it by the horns, and put as little sugar coating on it as I can.

Though I feel sympathy and pity for them, homeless people make going downtown suck.

Now, I was relatively naïve and unexposed to downtown until last Spring semester when I had 2 courses at the Harbour Centre campus. Now, at first I was just in awe, looking up at the massive buildings, jaw agape, feeling like a damned tourist (hell a lady in a gastown store thought I was one). When I had change I would give some or all of it to those less fortunate people who asked. However, one persistent, underhanded, conniving cheat, lied straight to my face, twice, trying to convince me to give him money. I understand he is likely very hungry and desperate, but lieing to me, blatantly, straight to my damn face is a load of bull$@^*.

For quite a while this one man’s actions made me incredibly intolerant, not even willing to spare coin when I had it. But I softened recently and began to, especially when I felt they were deserving.

Giving alms to the less fortunate is considered a charitable and compassionate thing to do in almost every religion I can think of, but is validating lieing?

Regardless, it is not just as simple as that, it is a problem of volume. There are many, and I mean MANY people living downtown with no proper residence, hungry and out of work. Some cases it’s drugs, some it’s runaways, others are supposedly those who have been given one-way tickets here from other cities by their governments. The climate here is very temperate, rarely deadly cold or hot (compared to other cities), so it is understandable too that it is an ideal location. But now it is at the point of a MAJOR damn problem. There is no easy way to solve it (obviously, as then it would not be a problem would it?), but it is an issue that needs resolution.

How does any of this have to do with Translink? I can understand how that might be asked about now, and I can tell you. Some people have low hygiene, not all the time, but sometimes, some more than others. Homeless people can often smell of their environments, and when trapped in a tiny itsy bitsy community shuttle, it is nigh unbearable. Also, notice who goes ticketed by Transit police ~%50 of the time nowadays, people who appear to be of low financial circumstances.

I feel a swell of pity to see fellow human beings living like that, I know there are some who choose that life, but I can’t imagine it’s all of them. For me, I intend to show compassion when I may, cast my vote towards fixing the problem when I may, but maybe not wander around downtown so much.

Encounters on translink

As an international student, from Norway, I had my first encounter with translink about 18 months ago. What I found interesting about using its services was not the translink system itself, but the people I encountered while using it. I remember my first trip with the sky train and how shocked I was when a stranger came up and spoke to me. I know that this might sound strange to all you Canadians, but for me this was something new. In Norway you mind your own business when taking public transportation. I know this might sound cold, but that’s just how it is. I don’t think Norwegians necessarily are colder than Canadians, but we’re not good at that kind of small talk. So when this total stranger came up to me and asked me how I was doing, I was not expecting it at all. Therefore I just answered fine and kept on minding my own business. I have, however, realized that this is very common in Canada and started to enjoy these small and often meaningless conversations. One of the better conversations I have had was on the 135 bus going down Hastings. My Norwegian friend and I were going downtown. So we were sitting there talking amongst ourselves in Norwegian when an old lady sat down next to us. Suddenly she started talking to us in Norwegian. This was quite shocking to us as Norway is such a small country that you rarely meet anyone that knows the language. It turned out that this sweet old lady had Norwegian ancestries and had learned Norwegian form her parents. She started telling us stories form when she had visited Norway, talking in a combination of Norwegian and English. I found this experience extremely interesting and it made me become more open to enjoying such small talk. Given the vast amount of characters you can find using the translink system there are endless opportunities for interesting conversations.

Memory

Since as long as I could remember, Translink has been my main transportation method to and fro school. The experiences that I have accumulated throughout the years have given me motivation to purchase a car and bid farewell to the devil machines.

The most vivid memory that I have about Translink was in fact not long ago; it was a hot sunny day during the summer of the year 2006. I was planning to head home after a long day of school; however, things weren’t as simple as I thought it would be. As I reached the bus loop up on SFU campus, many students were already lining up for the 145 Production Bus. In this situation, it usually means the bus will arrive soon; however, after standing outside in the burning hot sun for half an hour, I realized this was not the case. As the bus finally arrived forty minutes late and started to head down the mountain, the stench of fifty sweaty university students clouded the bus. Sweat dripping, shoulders aching, things just can’t get anymore worst, or so I thought. About half way down the mountain, we were notified that the bus had broken down and that help will arrive in about half an hour. For “safety” reasons, the bus driver did not allow us to leave the bus for fresh air and re-enter the bus; as if we would be more safe suffocating in the bus. Our choice was to either walk down the mountain or to stay in the sizzling hot bus. As any sane person would do, I chose to hike down the mountain.

The journey seemed like forever, but when I finally reached the skytrain station, not to mention that fact that I was already all covered in sweat, I realized that I still had to take transits for another hour to get home. It was definitely one of the worst days I ever had thanks to the reliability of Translink.

Requiem for a Dream

Once, there was a world of dreamers. These people were born of dreamers; and their children would be dreamers; their children's children would be dreamers. Time passed fluidly, and so the cycle had continued for the longest of spans, enduring the ages of towns and cities and proceeding right through to the age of grand kingdoms.

Life was good, for not only were the people born of dreams but so, too, was their world born out of the same marriage of humanity and integrity. Businesses flourished; science, and the arts, too, where pursued without relent. Wherever these dreamers went civilization erupted from their footprints. Yes, life was indeed "good".

However, by themselves, isolated from each other's assuring and beauteous squalor, the many kingdoms soon became lonely. A deep longing filled the hearts of the dreamers, for they wished to know their brethren, to see their contented and wistful faces. Truly, what they wished for was unity. And with the heart of a dreamer it was easily attainable. Highways and byways, ferries and trains, sprung up everywhere, a convenient medium with which to link the world's peoples; although, for some not even this was enough. The age of the magnanimous metropolis was now upon them, and for some dreamers their once-so-small world had become far-too-large to know. The only solution was to build more: buses, and trains too, though not simply one or even ten. Hundreds of these Ambassadors of Public Transit were loosed upon the people.

And for a while...it was good.

For a time, it was good. For a time, the Ambassadors were great and glorious, and showed us such courtesy and servitude. Yes, they had performed their duties well. No one even thought to doubt the great men and women who lovingly watched over the Ambassadors from their opal Obelisk. Doubt was a luxury unfordable to the dreamers; that is, until it was thrust upon us with a feeling of necessity rather than luxury accompanying it.

The day that jewel bore its first crack, our hearts did not waver. We still had faith in those above us in that towering monolith, and we were steadfast in our belief in the Ambassadors; however, even they would come to betray us.

When the first Ambassador dirtied his robes we did not shun him, we did not spurn, we merely assumed, effortlessly, that he would cleanse himself and then continue on in his duties; but alas, our naivety had made us blind. The next day another crack formed in the opal Obelisk, and the next day yet another. Soon, all the Ambassadors had been fouled, their radiance erased; yet, still, no one had come. No one stepped forward to help them, to cleanse our once-beautiful Ambassadors, or restore their dignity. And as the days went by and more and more fissures etched themselves into the once-proud obelisk we all soon realized that it was not a masterpiece of opal, but a facsimile of glass. No dignity would return to that place, for there never was any to begin with. It was all a clever facade. Soon enough, doubt had come to us, and with it, the obelisk left us, crumbling under the weight of our scrutiny. Now it was all lost: our pride in the Ambassadors, our pride in the Obelisk, our pride in this Trans-link between our peoples.

I can no longer stand to face the Ambassadors, for they have become so hideous to me, defiled as they are. I pass by them and I pass through them, and no emotion escapes me. They deserve no expression of joy, nor of praise. The only action I can will myself to take is a hollow confession of gratitude as I use their services, no less, no more.

And it is not good.

I am evermore disgusted by such sights, so much so that I cannot even bear to see another display anything other than disdain. Sometimes, I will see travelers from afar, people who do not know the disappointment that I do. Enamored by the sight of the precious Ambassadors these travelers draw forth their cameras and take picture after picture commemorating their first encounter with the wondrous vehicles. Oftentimes I let it pass, but occasionally I have such an urge come over me, a violent urge to go and strike down their devices and cease their useless preservation of these images. Admittedly, I would not be justified, and so I do not engage the act. I just cannot bear to think that somewhere someone cherishes this which used to be our...dream.