All at once TWENTY SOMETHING Ishi Dinim
I
’ve made this journey to Nelson many times before, every year since I can remember. The long drive in different seasons, sometimes leisurely, more often a race to get there or back at record pace. This occasion is different though – my method of travel and my motivation. Today is my first go at flying there.
poles, cars, houses, cities become miniature. Snow-crested peaks, as far as my eyes can strain; the immensity of it all makes me feel inconsequential. I recall the words of a lady-pilot on a flight from Omaha to Lincoln, Nebraska: “Just remember you’re hurtling through the air in a thin metal tube with wings, so wear your seatbelts.” After
Deadlines looming again; time’s been passing me by, too much on my mind. How often do I really have to contemplate never seeing someone again? Something about getting on planes does that to me every time. Our small twin prop rattles into the frozen morning sky. Get on a plane in Vancouver bound for Castlegar with my mom. The stewardess says, “The fog at our destination is not looking good. The pilot will decide whether to land or fly back to Vancouver when we get close enough.” Deadlines looming again; time’s been passing me by, too much on my mind. How often do I really have to contemplate never seeing someone again? Something about getting on planes does that to me every time. Our small twin prop rattles into the frozen morning sky. I marvel at the steam rising as the sun pushes it from rivers and valleys. I watch the gridlock grind its way towards the clogged heart of the city. The lamp
countless voyages along manicured highways, this new perspective is both amazingly beautiful and frightening: a bird’s eye view pattern made of clearcuts and strip-mines. Just yesterday Lincoln, Fitch and I cried together. It doesn’t matter that one of us is a baby; we were feeling the weight of the world and found support amongst each other. We drove around helping complete things that needed doing. On the last leg of our endeavours, we found ourselves in a parking lot. Parked in front of us was a hefty SUV, idling. After nearly 10 minutes, my friend said, “I wish Steve was here. I
hear he’s been telling people to turn their cars off.” I thought I’d try to embody Steve and muster the courage to go ask the lady to think about our fragile planet. Instead, we talked about relationships and got cold without our engine running, slightly fazed by the jerry can on the back seat giving off its scent. I ask my friend Isabel tonight in the hospital what I should write about. She answers, “Ishi, you should write about how fragile the world is.” It seems so appropriate. How can I refuse such a substantial topic? The leaves are falling off the trees again and I genuinely know what she means in my bones. But how does this all make words? In all of this, I sit in her house filled with memories, swollen with love. I remember unconditional friendship and honesty built upon the truth of a unique understanding. In this house, I write about fragility. I think back to stories of three women I’m lucky enough to have been here with: relationships broken, mended, and strengthened. All with a profound chapter written in this place. Ishi graduated from Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design in 2001, with a BFA major in photography. He makes films, collects cacti and ponders many things. Currently he is doing what he can for himself and the planet. contactishi@yahoo.ca
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