River + Nature

Whenever I think of Nature with regards to Edmonton, the first idea that comes to my mind is the river valley. It seems that everything begins there and branches out from that point. This may have something to do with the river being the only truly natural thing in the city.

The river, more than any other natural entity, feels completely free from mediation. Parks, on the other hand, although natural, seem to be tarnished by the mediation of the city. I feel that the river exists despite our transgressions against it--mainly pollution. While the city park exists because of a humanistic desire to keep nature in the city. So it seems that the river is more natural for it doesn't seemingly need our help to remain intact.

What does the river mean for me then?

Resistance. It cuts through Edmonton, and as citizens we've had to adapt to it by building bridges. The river shows to me that the natural world still eludes our control. It's presence may not be as devastating as a flood or earthquake, but for me, it still carries the same message.

Childhood Vision

Try to see Edmonton like a tourist/child . . .

When I look look at Edmonton from a child's perspective, I find that it entails interacting with an area on a much more intimate level. This intimacy, however, is a physical connection that is free from the encodings that things acquire as one grows up. For example, a stop sign from the perspective of a child--or at least for me when I think back--isn't firmly encoded with the idea of 'STOP'. For the child, the sign is something that can be climbed and swung around, or maybe a meeting place. Everything changes; grass is dug up and thrown; pine trees are potential lookout points; the neighbors lawn is enemy territory. And overall, I think, everything is just so condensed. The pattern of the bark on front-yard tree is known by heart. The rivulets of water that trickle down the driveway have been intimately mapped, and often barricaded with collections of dirt and mud.

Then things change. You move to a new town, switch houses: place has become transitory, no longer the stable center. Physical contact gives way to a new connection: an immediate concoction of past events and future plans that mix with the lived moment. I think that as a child one is free from this mixture of past, present, and future--there is just the now.

Perspectives on Edmonton

Looking back over the past month, I’m starting to realize just how many different ways there are to picture a city. The most striking moment came when everyone had to give a short summary of their maps on Tuesday. The maps ranged from detective stories to bike trails to Edmonton atriums. I can’t think of a single map—from the descriptions offered—that was like any other, each one had its own perspective, goal, and audience (I’m thinking of the map for homeless people).

This diverse range of conceptions of the city also extends to the literature we have been reading, most notably in the collection Edmonton on Location. The stories contained within this volume each speak to only different areas of the city, but also to different historical periods, histories, and memories.

My favourite short story from the collection would have to be Lynne Van Luven’s “City of My Groin”. Van Luven paints Edmonton in contrast to its rural surroundings, instead of placing it in opposition to larger cities, such as Vancouver or Toronto. My favourite line: “If art critic John Berger is right when he says every city has both a sex and an age, then my Edmonton is about thirty-three and feeling its oats, indulging itself with an innocence that now seems wilfully ignorant if not downright irresponsible.” I like the idea of picturing cities as people, giving them “both a sex and an age.” But how do some cities always manage to maintain their youthful image? And does Edmonton need to be youthful to be interesting?

Places and Stories

An assigned reading for another class--Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language among the Western Apache--brings up the notion of Place and how individuals can become fused with the landscapes they occupy. Specifically, at the end of the book, there is a reflection on a recently deceased Apache man who told stories that involved the land around him. What I found interesting, and relevant to 380, is that when this old man told these stories, he also imbued himself into the land around him. Basically, when we tell stories about places, the story AND the individual who told it both begin to live on in that specific place. I think this comes back to the idea of Hauntology.

Now that we have read a decent amount of literature about Edmonton, I find that the stories/memoirs are beginning to settle into the places that they deal with. But even more so, I feel that the authors behind these stores--at least my conception of them--are paired with their stories, existing in tandem.

But what happens when more than one author writes about a single place? It seems to me that these multiple stories become intertwined, jostling for position to be the first conception. In this manner, I think places can have a dominant story, or a dominant haunting. For example, the WCB building's dominant story has been completely changed due to the hostage situation that happened two years ago.

A question then...What is the dominant story/haunting where you live?