mlle. h. bean

Today I got my wallet back! The things you'd think were missing weren't, and vice versa. They took 5 stamps worth 65 cents each, which is the kind you use to write to the States. As most Canadians know. But they didn't take the Canadian stamps.. very odd.. They also left the brand new $50 bus pass (good for 30 days of travel!), which I'm very glad for. The police called me this morning (the guy's name was Derek; is that a typical cop name? Make that a Canadian cop), and they don't know who turned it in or where it was found. It doesn't look any the worse for wear, so it's all good.

The snow is really starting to coat the mountains. It looks like a postcard. It looks stunning. It looks both real and fake. Snow=tourists, and they come in droves. It makes the 'village stroll'--that cobblestoned passage through the pseudo-European layout of the town--colorful, all the reds and neon greens of ski outfits. (There are other colors, too.) I stood for a minute today at the top of the stairs by the Gondola Transit Exchange--where you can look out over the Gondola square, with a view of the mountains to the west, towards Vancouver--and just watched them all. It was the end of the day, and folks were coming off the gondola like boxes on a conveyer belt, and then going in all the various directions--to the Longhorn for some strategically placed alcohol consumption*, up the stairs towards me, on thier way to the busses, or through the village to their sundry hotels. The sun had set, but it was in that timeslot where you can still see clearly the mountains ringing the valley, and the new snow changes the light, making it clearer longer, making each tree on the distant sides distinct.

I'm living alone these days, but I don't feel like a hermit most of the time. Especially when each moment seems charged with the essence of existence. That was a rather cliche-d way to say it, but I can't yet find better words. In words that I suppose might suit my father more, I'm being-here-now a whole lot better these days. So each time I come into contact with another human being, I'm listening more to what they say. I feel more like what we say is real and happening right now, and less like it's a script that would come to pass no matter what.

I can see how this whole blog thing might cause a deficiency in my real-journal writing. I can also see how it takes courage to do. It really isn't all about narcissism. Talking into what seems like thin air, knowing that nobody or anyone at all could be reading what I'm writing, really changes the dynamics of it. My journal--my real one--is tangible, at least. I can open and close it and keep others from looking at it. But then again, no-one said this was the same thing as a real journal.

* I say strategically placed because the Longhorn Saloon is about 50 m directly in front of the base of the Gondola, one of the Whistler chair lifts. People can just walk from one to the other. They make damn good money at the Longhorn. Then again, they make damn good money just about everywhere here. That's the way it is with resort-cum-towns.