Terminal 38

I'm sitting in the Vancouver airport. Its 8:48am.

I was supposed to be in the sky 3 minutes ago. At least that's how the agitated and shuffling people directly across and beside me are feeling. An attendant (poor guy) comes over the loud speaker, "Well folks, looks like according to the flight schedule flight 4286 to Edmonton will be leaving the tarmac at approximately 10:00am. Unfortunately we have been unable to locate our pilot. Should any of you feel up to flying the plane please report to the front desk so that we may leave earlier".

I chuckle. He's trying but it's a tough crowd.

The snorts begin. Shuffling and angry phone calls. Swearing.

The woman beside me picks up her phone and dials, "Hi, yeah I'm going to be late.... I know, I know - unbelievable. I will see you at around 1:30 then." She presses the end key on her phone and turns towards me with a look of disdain coupled with eager anticipation of a similar and therefore comforting reaction. I simply smile.

Everyone in the area re-opens their newspaper, flicks on their laptop, opens their phone. Back to life. Back to work. Back to the grind. God forbid one hour is wasted.

I look around. Seriously? It's one hour. A snipit of unimportant time in a day/week/month/year. One hour to ensure we have a sober/healthy/present pilot for our 'privileged' method of travel.

It's my first day of work. Frankly, an extra hour or two is fine by me. I'm reading a great book and getting paid to do so - reading instead of what I anticipate to be two days of awkward and exhausting introductions. I wish I could get paid to read all the time. I smile again. I am content enough for everyone in the room. Who knows - maybe, with exception to the overtly chipper flight attendant, I am content enough for everyone in the airport.

I'm tired too. Reading is nice. I didn't sleep last night. I was thinking about garbage. Thousands and thousands (millions?) of acres globally of garbage. Slowly rotting and poisoning our planet. Increasing populations and incomprehensible amounts of garbage. This beautiful planet covered in filthy diapers, plastic bags, no longer pristine Starbucks cups. Forever sinking, seeping, soiling.

Sitting on the plane. Still a delay. Locked and loaded and still no pilot. I am roused by a loud snicker to my right after the overhead speaker says "Thank you for choosing Air Canada". Billions in debt. How are they still going? Poor working conditions lead to unionization which inevitably leads to bankruptcy. What a twisted circle. Everyone wants their piece.

I feel guilty flying - carbon fumes from aircrafts are the worst pollutants. Each time we take that trip to the Caribbean we are taking a little piece of the blue with us. They say ignorance is bliss - I'm sure it is. I am fighting the yearning for ignorance every single day.

Today was just another day - another hour.

I wish that when I had looked over at that women I had seen a smile and cheeky little shoulder shrug after that first announcement. That smile displayed only momentarily before opening a book of her own - savouring the moment as if it was a gift - just for her, just for me.

The Schoolhouse

I'm standing in what appears to be an old schoolhouse. One room with a little bell on top to let the kids (now with great grandkids of their own) know that school is in. I'm standing in the middle of the main room. The whole room seems to be swaying and moaning with the wind. There are large planked wooden floors and a single side table off to one corner. There is a large fat lady sitting at the table.

A tight bun in her hair.

An expectant look on her face.

She holds a pencil in her right hand and a piece of paper in her left.

She is staring at me.

There is an even larger man off to my right. His chin and clothes droop yet he is as tall as he is wide. He is standing facing me. He shifts constantly. Agitated.

Straight ahead one of the schoolhouse walls is missing. A vast lake sweeps under the floorboards and I can now hear the water faintly lapping below my feet. The water is dark and ominous reflecting the sky above. Both are near black with only shivers of light appearing and disappearing. Playing tag. The sky is a heavy dark blanket. A mist begins to seep between the faint line separating water and night.

The mist moves sideways reaching for me. My face and arms become damp. The fat man looks at me and snips "I'm waiting and this is unacceptable".

I furrow my brow and look at my feet before responding "I'm not really ready". What I mean is, I'm not sure what to sing.

It dawns on me. This is a darkly twisted singing audition. A signing audition? The fat man looks even more agitated. He looks towards the door as if summoning strength, or a new performer, whichever comes first.

He looks at me again and takes a deep breath, "Find that one song. That one song that is yours. The one that you have been thinking of every day for as long as you can remember. The one that your mind plays with and moulds over, constantly changing in an attempt to perfect".

I say, more to myself than to the fat man, "That which my mind plays over and over is a plot not a song".

I watch the fat man shuffling his weight. Impatient and annoyed. I turn to see the fat woman put down her pencil. I then attempt a horrific rendition of Sheryl Crow's Home as the mist grows into drops.

Frankenstein

"Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow" Mary Shelly (Frankenstein)

There are so many preconceived, media invoked and fed beliefs and now culture driven ideals about "Frankenstein". Mary Shelly's original creation has been so twisted over the years that one could argue the original message has been long lost. If the original text, that which she wrote at only 18 years of age in 1818 had been lost one would never know the inner beauty that the monster originally held. Beauty that was stripped, re-molded, and ruined beyond repair by human contact.

Victor Frankenstein was a scientist yearning to play god and create new life from inanimate matter (not necessarily dead body parts) - yes Frankenstein was the human. How interesting it is that we have taken the name of the god-like creator - that which created the hell to ensue both for the monster and for the victims of his insatiable pain and changed it to be that which we fear.

After completion of his work, Frankenstein is horrified and disgusted and flees. The monster is left to its own accord, and knowing that his creator has fled he attempts alternate human contact with disastrous results.

After a number of painful scenarios play through the monster goes into hiding.

"Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy to have found shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man".

From his hiding the monster watches a loving family from afar for a long period of time. From behind his cover, he learns love, happiness, compassion and empathy through the unknowing family that become his subjects of knowledge. When the monster becomes akin to the family and decides to present himself - knowing how loving and caring they are to each other - he steps out into the open with hopeful confidence.

"I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanor and conciliating words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards their love."

Horrified by his appearance not unlike his creator, the loving family, that which had become in his imagination his loving family, flee.

"Everywhere I see bliss, from which I am irrevocably excluded... I was a poor helpless miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but, feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept".

The monster, void of love and acceptance, sets out on a rampage to assert the label he has so unwillingly accepted.

"I will revenge my injuries; If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth".

While death and destruction have become the modern focus behind this work, Frankenstein remains another profound and exemplary work of man's ability to create his own hell through the continual thirst for power. While the monster carries with him a horrific exterior, it is society that creates the rampage and terror that develops within.

Frankenstein truly is a masterpiece. A powerful work written by a ground-breaking writer who arguably changed the course of literature - far more important than the mere hallowe'en or adam's family depiction it has become.

Setting the Mood

"Every page was once a blank page, just as every word that appears on it now was not always there, but instead reflects the final result of countless large and small deliberations. All the elements of good writing depend on the writer's skill in choosing one word instead of another" Francine Prose

Everything has to be perfect. Just so.

Music at the right volume - not too loud - not overpowering a thought but loud enough to create an unobtrusive constant. There is something so un-progressive about the sound of a distant airplane, lawn mower, car alarm. The remote needs to be close. MP3's lack volume consistency. You get what you don't pay for.

A coffee.. no... a water... no - both.

A book - maybe two. The mood may change.

A note book, pens (different colours).

A piece of fruit.

Book tabs - book tabs are essential.

Comfy clothes, pillows, a blanket.

A large window.

Then. Only then.

Only then can you truly enjoy the sun seeping through the warmed glass.