Pageboy, page 10
BUCKETS
As the shoot for Whip It was coming to a close, the thought of bursting this bubble and going back to Los Angeles with Paula disturbed me. I wanted to get as far away from Hollywood as I could.
I had been fixated on the state of our environment and the catastrophic impact we’ve had on it. As I became more and more entrenched in Hollywood, I was traveling around the world constantly for work, staying in luxurious hotels, chucking the towels in the tub to be washed.
I searched online for somewhere I could go and learn about sustainable living, wanting to know what it meant for humans to exist in sync with our natural surroundings. I stumbled upon a place outside Eugene, Oregon, called Lost Valley. As described on their site, Lost Valley is a learning center, educating youth and adults in the practical application of sustainable living skills. We take a holistic approach to sustainability education, engaging students in ecological, social, and personal growth.
Looking into the various programs, I settled on the Permaculture Design Certificate Course. Paula was planning on coming, too. It would be a month of living and learning in an intentional community, far removed from the world of film, and I could wear whatever I wanted.
A week out from heading to Oregon, Paula decided not to come. She did not want to be away for a month. She’d returned home, and settling in Halifax felt nice for Paula, a coziness, a community and familiarity. She’d been following me around, tagging along, no real agency of her own. Out of a groove she wanted back in.
Now the thought of going to Lost Valley without her filled me with dread. I’d be alone, walking into a situation with complete strangers. Going solo into an unknown situation was one thing, but this new reality I found myself in, where people I had never met knew who I was, added an extra layer of anxiety and discomfort that I wasn’t sure I could reconcile. Lost Valley, the course, the space, that time disconnected from my current ways, was something I craved, I wanted to push through my silly little fears and go.
“My keys are always in my pocket, that is what I tell myself,” explained Drew. “If I’m not sure, if I’m hesitant and scared, I simply remind myself that I have my keys in my pocket and I can leave at any point. You can just leave.”
A pretty straightforward suggestion, but one I had not considered. To this day, I will say this to myself, and it still helps.
I flew into Portland, where I changed planes, and continued on to Eugene. I arrived the day before I was to show up at Lost Valley, so I booked a room in a motel. My nerves had calmed somewhat, the travel complete, but stress crept back in, social anxiety mounting even while alone. I plunked down on the bed, the top blanket scratched my elbows. Grabbing the remote, I rolled over and turned on the TV. E.T. was on. I grinned and almost winked, as if to say, I hear you. I love synchronicity, regardless of what it means, I notice it and roll with it.
E.T. is one of my favorite movies of all time, I even have EP PHONE HOME tattooed on my arm. I probably watch it once a year, and never have I not bawled my eyes out. I wished so badly to be Elliott when I was a little boy. For my first Halloween after I came out as trans, I donned a red hoodie and by chance already had sneakers that looked just like his in the film. I dressed up as Elliott, hit the streets of Manhattan with some pals, and had the best Halloween ever. Wishes can come true.
When I awoke in the motel the next morning the air was moist, fog loitered in silence. I soaked it all in. I did not have very much luggage. After having traveled for a month throughout Eastern Europe with only a backpack, I’d learned how to keep a bag pared down. My cab arrived and I plunked my bag in the back seat and got in.
This was my first time in Oregon. I stared out the window as we sailed down the highway, ever since watching E.T. my nerves had thankfully diminished. Passing churches, gas stations, irrigation services, and mechanic shops along the way, it reminded me of Nova Scotia, a certain aesthetic in rural spaces that immediately jolts me home. The driver took a right off the highway onto Rattlesnake Road. We descended into a new world, swallowed into the forest, slaloming through. Trees, all trees, with creeks roaming and meeting and splitting. He took another right onto Lost Valley Lane. I said thank you and goodbye as he dropped me at the foot of the property.
People welcomed me with big smiles and warm eye contact. I was directed to where I would be living, a building that had been the former sleeping quarters of the all-boys summer camp that existed there before. Wooden bunks were separated by thin walls that did not reach the ceiling. Next to the lower bunk was a bedside table, and instead of doors, curtains hung. I unpacked my things, leaving my cell phone off and behind. The washrooms were shared. We did not use toilets to pee, just to poo. Urinating happened in a bucket next to the toilet full of wood shavings (a carbon source) to minimize the smell. When the odor inevitably made its way through, we would take the bucket and dump it on the giant compost outside. Urine is an excellent nitrogen source. You can absolutely compost your shit as well, it’s just a tad complicated and takes more planning.
Other students coming to take the class arrived throughout the day. We all introduced ourselves, getting to know each other. People were there from Oregon to Malaysia, from South Korea to Indiana and Nova Scotia. There were about a dozen of us in the course. Lost Valley itself was also a permanent community with a dozen or so people living there at the time. I had never been to an “eco village” before, it was in many ways what I had imagined. Biodiverse, dense gardens curled and reached and overlapped, none of that monoculture business. It produced more food than I could fathom, an abundance from such a compact space. Different plants worked together, looking out for each other. Chickens ran around in their coop, picking at the compost thrown in for them to eat, munching and digging and scratching and pooping until the chicken coop is moved a few yards away to another location, leaving the soil underneath fresh and ripe, closing the loop.
The food at Lost Valley was mostly from the property or nearby. The freshness, the colors, the smells, it was like living in the Halifax Farmers Market. Those vegetables were some of the best I’d ever had. A bite of kabocha squash forced my eyes closed, no words, mouthwatering with the roasted elephant garlic from the yard that I smooshed with my fork … the earthy sweet melted in my mouth, filling it. I was patient, it soothed. Nourishing on every level, harvested one hundred feet away. I could feel every cell in my body screaming THANK YOU when I ate that food. Before dinner that initial evening (and every lunch and supper thereafter), all of us would circle the spread of food, hold hands, and close our eyes. Taking a moment, we joined as a group to express our gratitude, our appreciation for one another, for the earth, for how lucky we were to sit down and consume life-giving plants and grains and water. It was a moment to breathe, to connect and ground, to remind ourselves. An easy thing to roll your eyes at, but I really liked it. A similar but different way to say grace. I told myself I would keep up the ritual, but it’s unfortunate how easily these types of epiphanies slip away when we are thrust back into society.
I was comfortable. No one seemed to be fazed by the Juno business. If anything, I figured they would like me less due to my occupation and therefore would not be interested in it. Hollywood does not exactly go hand in hand with permaculture. But that first evening after we had all eaten and spent time getting to know each other, someone put on music. “Anyone Else but You” by the Moldy Peaches, the song that ends Juno, came out of the speakers. I felt a sizzle of embarrassment, unintentionally pressing my eyelids tight. I had wanted so badly to escape it, that time, how people saw me, but perhaps it was needed to break the ice. We spoke of the film briefly, and then of acting for a bit longer, and then that was that, I could just be me, whatever that meant at the time.
The group was full of warm, supportive, and passionate people who cared about Earth and our collective future. I had been mostly dismissed in my friend circle in Los Angeles when I spoke to these issues, or bought books for them that they would never read. They’d giggle at me in the you’re being dramatic way, when I would discuss resource exploitation, the climate crisis, how quick it was coming, how it would affect the most vulnerable first, how the consequences would be unthinkable, the impending collapse of our society and our role in it.
“I think you’re overreacting” was a common response.
“You lesbian hippie,” another pal said.
I’d get frustrated, feeling disregarded and dispirited by the lack of concern and empathy. The opulence urged entitlement, and the entitlement required ignorance. But my self-righteousness and judgment were means to alleviate my own guilt, my own life of unnecessary consumption in Los Angeles.
It was invigorating to be at Lost Valley, to be engulfed in such a wealth of conversation, immersed in a common focus, to gain knowledge, to be humbled. I’m lucky for that, most people can’t take a month from work and travel to Oregon to take a course.
I always woke up with the sun. Roosters sounded the alarm, a chorus of birds and insects serenaded my hazy rise to consciousness. I slept on the bottom bunk, no one slept above me. Usually one of the first up, I’d get changed and tiptoe down to the bathroom. Squatting, I’d pee in the bucket, maybe I’d need the toilet post-coffee. Washing my hands and my face, no mirror to glare at, a break from that nuisance. Breakfast was the only meal of the day without a group circle before. It let people take their time getting up, have silence if they needed. I enjoyed tucking away somewhere, perhaps the little library, a moment alone with oatmeal and an apple, a little quiet before the chatter. The day began in the classroom mostly. We would cover everything from gray-water systems to water catchment to garden design, composting to medicinal tinctures, fermentation to building a cob hut, and on and on. The amount of information was overwhelming, or rather, it was overwhelming how little I knew. It struck me as sad, I should already have this knowledge. Instead, my mind had been shaped and plugged into a system that makes us sick while we make the planet sick.
The reality is that I’d benefited from being plugged in, but learning all this new material felt like I was relinquishing society’s hold on me. I’d spent a sizable amount of time squeezing into the system even though my body rejected it. Far removed from myself and the world around me, this grounded me, this gave me hope.
No scarcity complex or illusion of constant linear growth. A true way of observing, of caring and relating to the world. Here was a space with dreams beyond self and ideals that truthfully felt no different from what we’d learned in primary school—be kind, collaborate, take care of the Earth, share—concepts that don’t jibe well with our capitalist system, the ones they push us to forget.
We went over the principles of permaculture, a term coined in the 1970s, a result of combining the words “permanent” and “agriculture.” The core tenets of cultivating a regenerative, reciprocal relationship with nature are derived from Indigenous science and wisdom. Permaculture illustrates our interconnectedness and how we can live in partnership with the land and natural cycles of our planet. Essentially, slow down, look, listen, and witness what is happening. Let the landscape tell you what to do, make meaningful decisions or adjustments, versus forcing your ideas or expectations. Take a breath and find the alignment. Nature takes time, all of our growth does. If we can see the impact of our actions, perhaps we can make better decisions based on those observations. Work with the cycles, not against them. Permaculture is about closing the loops. Yield with no waste. Our actions reflecting the planet’s. And as humans, how do we as individuals harness and store our energy? How best can we protect it, embrace it, and share it? To keep cycling through?
On the third day, a final person arrived late for the course. He had been at Lost Valley for a month or so right before the course began. I could sense the delight regarding his return. He had originally arrived with a group of WWOOFers, the Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms, a grassroots organization that formed in 1971 and connects volunteers with host farms. They had all just traveled across the country from New York City in a biodiesel school bus. He left Lost Valley to stay in Portland with his fellow WWOOFers but chose to say goodbye and head back south to take the permaculture course.
I felt a thread between the two of us. A version of love at first sight when I saw him. Ian was small in stature, big in presence, with an effusive charm and knowing eyes. A beanie sat atop his head, concealing a bun that kept his massive red mane of hair contained; unrestrained, it flowed all the way down to his ass. Gesturing as he spoke, his movements were distinct, frenetic, and full of flair. His vernacular witty, sharp, and spicy. I could not stop laughing. I was drawn to him, something already attached, it would just take a little detangling to get close.
“Want to come with me to Portland this weekend?” I asked on a whim.
We were sitting in the computer room together, researching how people manage to utilize the permaculture principles in densely populated areas. I wanted to seek out and visit examples of urban permaculture. And I also wanted to see a woman I had a crush on.
“Yeah, I’m down,” Ian said.
I rented us a white sedan, and off we went. Ian and I barely knew each other, but it did not matter. We existed well together, an unspoken agreement to skip the silly stuff and jump right in.
Our love and friendship was solidified on that trip, an intimacy encouraged if not forced by the car. We hadn’t yet begun to know our trauma, but in talking, we were starting to see it. It was the first time I bonded with someone so fiercely who understood a particular shame. We spoke of similarities in our childhoods, families, unrequited loves, hometowns, and although we were part of different systems, something about our upbringings connected us, a roundedness and similar suffering. It was as if we entered a field of pain, yes, but also one of camaraderie and healing. Something altered for me in that time, knowing him. I felt supported and seen, I could put my guard down, relax, here was a true friend.
We were both in a space of needing not only a respite but also new ways to see things. Seeking comfort, yet leaning into our discomfort as well. A risk-taking through wanting rest and a desire for community that was connected to our queerness, digging through the layers to find it. We craved a paradigm shift from other worlds, and required other eyes that didn’t hold us down to old narratives.
When we arrived in Portland, our first stop was to meet a woman who had turned her small Craftsman home on a compact property into a permaculture haven. She produced zero trash, and the list of just the edible perennials growing in her yard was mind-blowing. She had chickens and rabbits, water catchment and gray-water systems. There was even a silkworm tree. I’d never seen anything like it. She gave us a tour of her house, explaining how she composted her shit. Pee went in one bucket, shit in another, and if I am remembering correctly, she would rotate biannually between two compost bins, closing one off for six months so nature could work its magical chemistry, transforming waste into fresh, fertile soil to grow something new. Her root cellar was filled to the brim, cans upon cans, jars upon jars of preserved food. It was magnificent.
I had never been to Portland before and wasn’t sure where we should stay. This was a perfect excuse to text my crush for suggestions. We checked into a hotel, dropped our backpacks, and lay on the one queen-size bed. He’s cute, I thought as I looked at Ian, wondering what he was thinking. A sense of attraction, yes, but more a curiosity. Strange how immediate intimacy often conflates the two.
We went to a wine bar to meet up with her and her partner. The four of us sat at a high table next to the window. I looked at my crush from across the table, eyes glued. She was brilliant, funny, multitalented, and sexy, and I was transfixed by her mouth, had been since watching the music video for “Entertain” by Sleater-Kinney compulsively.
I had first met Carrie Brownstein at the SNL after-party when I hosted back in 2008. Sleater-Kinney has always been one of my favorite bands. After school in grade twelve, before my mom was home from teaching, I would strip down to my sports bra and briefs, close the blinds, and place The Woods CD in my mother’s stereo system in the living room. I loved the cover—forest grows through a theater floor, heavy red curtains frame the wooden stage, close to fully open. Pressing Play, I’d crank it up and up and up. The moment the drums hit—Janet Weiss, taking you like the tide—my body would drop, surge, and sway, I’d enter a different world.
On the day the duck was born
The fox was watching all along he said
Land ho!
Land ho!
Corin Tucker’s voice, its otherworldly, guttural bellow, had me breaking into a full dance, head banging, jumping jacks, mash-up. Full throttle to the entire record, I’d go nonstop, flailing myself around the house, all limbs extending, stretching, frantically releasing energy. Sweat dripping, I’d drop to the floor, give twenty, run up the stairs, down the stairs, push-ups again. “Entertain” is my favorite Sleater-Kinney song, Carrie’s voice, that singular yowl, it motivated me, sent me somewhere, I felt it in my bones.
Hey! You look around they are lying to you!
They are lying, ha, they are lying!
Can’t you see it is just a silly ruse?
They are lying, I am lying, too!
And all you want is entertainment,
Rip me open, it’s so freeing, yeah
I did this pretty much every day when I got home from school. I rotated Sleater-Kinney’s The Woods with Peaches CDs, they were the most actively spun—cute baby queer. Insulated, I had the space to release, force it out of the body, attempting to jostle awake a connection. For lack of a better word, it felt spiritual, the music held me while I pranced freely.
Upstairs, I’d make a pit stop in my mom’s room. To the left of her bed was a full-length mirror. I’d stare at myself in my underwear and sports bra, my bangs gooey with perspiration. Turning my body to the right while cranking my head to the left, I’d interrogate my profile, always surprised. Breathing in, it swells, the poor things always suffocated.
