Knitting Ferocious Spiders

From China to New Zealand, above the sea. Above, even, the clouds. Aircrafts aren't so special anymore. Even when they serve you decent food. The magic is gone; now so pedestrian. How many tons does this thing weigh? Flight is magical enough, I'd say; it occupies so many of my dreams. This is what we might call kamakzi blogging: renting time from the Auckland Central Library on a sunny day, a sunny summers day, on a mission. Let's hope I crash into the right target. Here. 6 days and counting. Moved hostels, walked the grassy crater of a sleeping volcano, bought "jandels", tried to rest, found an apartment. It's the latter that's making it sink in. The outlay of funds for a habitat, the outlay of funds which precludes my ability to get home on my own. I live here now, and it's now that I need a job. So I've done my resume up. Which was harder than it sounds when you have to rent your computer time, and more so when you realize that their standard o...

There is a point, almost a location in and of itself, that is between two places. Transitional and uncommitted. Where you feel vulnerable to disaster, and not yet fully dedicated to a direction. Something's going to go wrong. I'm going to be pulled back. Made to stay. But there is nothing to stay in. The apartment has already moved on without you. A stranger is living in it. Your possessions exist zipped up; on wheels. You have no space, no home. I was in that point for at least three days, if not a week. It is an awful one to be in, and all I could do was fret, about nothing. Nothing; nothing. All decisions had been made, all bills paid, all money made. Just wait. Wait , they say. The powers that be. The angels of time. They would point at that clock . You're counting down. Down. Down . I finally flew from that point yesterday. Into the future, on Cathay Pacific Airlines. Through 20 hours of darkness, we fled the dawn above the clouds. Now I'm in Hong Kong, and the day...

And 30 seconds. I'm numb with excitement. Oh, and fear. Did I mention fear?

Not an escape hatch. And there is also this, which I feel is somehow apropos. Goodnight street. Goodnight murals. Goodnight overpriced corner shop. Goodnight hair salon. Goodnight apartment. Goodnight door. Goodnight room. Goodnight moon.

In 2003, when the power grid was burned out, this city became somewhere else. With the light pollution stopped, the summer sky was as alive as it can be, and the skyscrapers were silhouetted against the blinking sea. This is a mural in what is now my old neighborhood. I stood on the viaduct bridge over the Don Valley Parkway, and watched motorcycles race the motorway in the dark, far below. It was the most magical Toronto has ever been for me.