Why did I shoot yet another fucking cliché?

This morning my alarm went off at 5:00. I remember setting it last night. My night self was pulling a prank on my morning self. My night self told my morning self that getting up at 5:00 is good for you. That’s when you get all the good shots. Plus: getting up is good for body and soul. Think of Benjamin Franklin: healthy, wealthy and wise. Yeah, my morning self sneers, fat lot of good early rising did him; he’s dead. I turn off the alarm and roll over but I can’t get back to sleep. Fine, my morning self says to my night self, have it your way. I pack my gear, eat a banana, and fill a thermos with hot coffee.

My night self had the vague intention of plopping my morning self on the slope of Riverdale East Park and watching the sun rise over the city. Because it’s nearly two hours until sunrise when I step onto the street, my morning self supplements that plan with another vague intention: taking shots of the Bloor Viaduct. Since the Pan Am Games, the Luminous Veil has been lit up with coloured lights that moved along the length of the bridge. I catch the first train to Broadview Station and set myself up on the east end of the bridge. There are cloudy wisps in the sky and they turn the full moon into a diffuse ball of light hovering in the west. Light trails seem like a good thing to shoot, but afterwards, as I’m packing up my tripod, I remember that everyone and his dog shoots light trails. The world needs more light trails about as badly as it needs more Facebook memes.

From there, I walk down Broadview to somewhere around the Rooster Café and meander down the slope between the trees. The wispy ball of light has sunk lower in the western sky and lights up the buildings along Bloor Street running east from Yonge. I catch the setting moon from across the Don Valley with my 100mm lens. Technically, I do everything right. I turn on the mirror lock and use a remote shutter release. I turn off the image stabilizer so it doesn’t vibrate the lens. I even focus the shot manually using live view. It’s almost as if I know what I’m doing. Except … so what? As I pack up my tripod, I think: what would really make this shot is if an airplane exploded above the moon, or a bomb blew up a skyscraper, or a prehistoric Godzilla creature emerged from the muck of the Don Valley. Moonlight is soooo boring.

To satisfy the vague intention of my night self, I move back up the slope and start shooting the financial district with my 50mm lens while the sun comes up. There is no full-on sunrise, but the clouds in the west provide a dramatic backdrop to the subtle light that illuminates the buildings. Meanwhile, down below, I notice that the grass is covered by a fine layer of frost. It’s all very lovely, or something. But, as I pack up my tripod, my head is filled with doubts. Why did I bother? Everybody and his dog has taken shots like this. The world needs more cityscapes from Riverdale about as badly as it needs more tabloid headlines about Justin Bieber.

I pack up my gear and head home. I walk across the footbridge that goes to Riverdale West, then climb the stairs on the south side of Riverdale Farm. I walk past the Toronto Necropolis, then through Wellesley Park to the stairs that take me to the foot of Rosedale Valley Road. From there I walk up Rosedale Valley. It’s a tunnel of trees, mostly past their autumn peak, but still flaming oranges and reds in places. I pause to shoot the trees underneath the Bloor bridges, but my heart’s not in it and nothing really works. Underneath the Mt Pleasant Road bridge, I approach the stairs that go up to Bloor Street. Someone has horked a loogie onto one of the lower steps. It’s dripping over the edge, but it’s cold and viscous, so it does nothing. It doesn’t even sway in the breeze. It presents itself like a modernist sculpture.

I swap lenses. Get rid of the wide angle I was using to no effect and replace it with my macro. I position the tripod on the steps so I can get in good and close. I shoot like I’m an avenging angel. I vent my fury against all those demon clichés that have imprisoned my imagination. Fuck them all. If a loogie is what it takes to free me, then a loogie it shall be.