In another fit of procrastination, I have just lost one and a half unrecoverable hours reading the exhilerating and heart-thumpingly delicious articles at Infiltration.org. This site appeals to me on many levels. It speaks to that year of my life when I wasn't afraid to go places where we aren't supposed to go. That year, my final year of highschool (OAC/Grade 13, now abolished in Ontario), found me trying many new things and letting go of inhibitions. No, I wasn't dropping acid or having orgiastic adventures in the city's parks. That year, though I didn't know at the time that what I was doing had a name, I was an infiltrator. Infiltrators are the people that go places they're not supposed to go, like subway tunnels, abandoned buildings, drains, etc. For me, following the boy I was infatuated with (which is a sort of infatuation that is rather hard to describe) into strange and illegal places was a beautiful adventure and also something of a rush. Mostly we'd just go places and he'd tell me of his adventures breaking in and exploring, but sometimes he worked up my courage and I followed him. I would have followed him to Hell if he'd suggested it. I think, in retrospect, maybe my mother sort of felt that indeed he was leading me there. I never lied to her. "I'm going out with Kelk," would turn into, "Oh, we went to a construction site..." upon my return. God bless my mother for being so cool. She just let me. It was that kind of a year, and my outings with Kelk were more my salvation than endangering.

"We're looking for Dave," he'd say as we left the eight or ten foot fence behind us, entering into whatever site struck our fancy (usually this was the future site of the Metro Convention Centre). Dave could be our friend, a dog... whatever. It took us places and it worked. Another good excuse I learned when caught in a location with another boy, who seemed to attract the attention of the law, was that we needed a place to see each other since our parents forbade it. You should only know how hardened police officers melt when a cleancut white girl says that, fighting back tears. Okay, that particular instance is both a moment of pride and of embarrasment. I digress, however; I shall return to Kelk. The construction site was a place of utter bliss. It's not easy to explain, but you cannot imagine the freedom you feel, standing many, many feet above a gaping foundation, up on a plywood platform, in the middle of a spring night when the lightest of rain falls, turning the air to a haunting mist. This feeling is only broken when you step on a two inch nail and it goes right through the sole of your boot. The skin wasn't broken, and though puddles caused my sock to get wet thereafter, it was mostly humourous. And it was a valuable reminder that what we were doing was dangerous.

The effect Kelk had on the people around him was, and probably still is, tremendous. While everyone else was going off to get drunk, high, or laid after our graduation formal, he took us to Exhibition Stadium at the CNE grounds - a wonderful landmark that has ridden off into history. Never before had I agreed to go up the catwalk, though we'd been there many times. The six foot ladder up onto the stage made me queasy and yet, that night, in heels and a short velvet cocktail dress, I climbed up to the catwalk and danced thirty feet above the stage. This was a stage where many of the world's best and most infamous acts had played; their grafitti covered the walls. And up on that catwalk, dressed to the nines with five my friends, we were a part of history. It must have been a strange sight, eight or so graduating teenagers, in formal wear, running about in the stands and around the stage. It was way better than getting drunk, high, or laid, frankly - and certainly not a cliche.

There were some adventures with the much younger Scarlette, my beloved Subaru wagon - stories that make my mother want to revoke my driving privaledge to this day. I never told her about those misadventures at the time, I admit. I wasn't completely stupid. There were the adventures up in the Sesna ("No, you will NOT practice dives and stalls !"). I look back at the things Kelk and I did, our Infiltrations, and I shake my head. Mostly I have trouble believing that I did these things. Me. Most of my law-breaking is summed up by speeding and jay-walking. Once in a while, though, I look at those construction site gates, those single floodlights that don't really illuminate anything, those fenced off sites, with momentary longing, a little piece of me remembering that I enjoyed those adventures. Kelk gave me security while we risked our necks, but it's the former that I remember best. He saved me from myself, from grief, from despair when few others could, or would, and he gave me the courage to go places I had only ever considered loosely in the fringes of my imagination.

This wasn't supposed to become an essay on Kelk. I was talking about Infiltration, which was supposed to lead neatly into my next subject, Detroit. It didn't, but let's not allow that to stop us.

Detroit, an Infiltrator's dream. It is a city built on faded dreams and crumbling into oblivion. While there are wonderful people bent on recovering and saving the old historic and awesome buildings of Detroit, still much of its downtown is slowly dying the sad death of abandonment. Inspired by this incredible site, my friend Megan and I had long ago decided to take a road trip to view and photograph the awesomeness of that city's former splendour, but time, money, inclination kept us from going. Tomorrow, though not with Megan, I will be going to this city that sits mythic in the history of the American Dream. Mom and I are going to Detroit, baby ! Okay, we won't be prowling around with a tripod into the seedy strips, among the crumbling warehouses and burnt-out mansions, but I intend to see the decay and take photos. At some point between The Institute of Arts and the Science Centre, I'll do this. I'm excited. It's not really Infiltration if you stay on the roads and sidewalks, but a little of me will be climbing up sagging stairs and opening broken doors, even if only in my mind.