Warm Globe Problem

Preface

So I was trying to write this prate for about a week but for some reason it seemed way to difficult to write, so I'm going to stop short and just post it because I really have nothing else to say. I am now heading on vacation to get more Inspiration and get back Jan. 1, 2010 (They'll probably be flying cars by then! Remember those time capsule drawings we did when it was the turn of the millennium? Mine was dead on. I did not draw crazy flying cars, but rather a bunch of 30-somethings on the subway twittering on their Blackberries the funny odor coming from the homeless guy's jacket).

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Ah, so global warming is un-untouchable again! Her invisible shield of 5 years (or was it ten?) has finally been removed and Lo and Behold: do I sense the slightest distrust of our great scientists and wizards? Wait: I am not saying that global warming is not due to man-made effects, however I think there should be a few things that should be clarified before we preceed. Clearly, he who denyeth that Man is responsible for climate change is not equivalent to he who denyeth the Holocaust. No, he is not unscrupulous. In fact, he may have a point, if well-informed and not swayed by the preachers of the church of Toyota, Exxon Mobil and American Airlines.

Most recently, the Copenhagen debacle has done nothing really to hurt the stock of climate change, but it should be realized that putting 193 old men (and women) in a room and asking them to agree to effectively limit their economy may not work as well as planned. Sure, the conference has put climate change in the forefront of the media and at centre stage, and this is good. At this conference, green growth was also promoted as an alternative to our traditional view of the 'healthy trees = hurting economy' approach. I strongly believe that this is the most feasible of the attempts to curb carbon emissions, however I'll skip talking about this for now. However, to reduce 50% of the carbon emissions by 2050 is impossible based on the response of the countries involved, unless major paradigm shift happens (I'm talking along the lines of the-Canadian-oil-sands-and-Saudi-Arabia-have-both-dried-up-on-the-same-day). It's hard to do one-on-one negotiations, but with a 193 way conversation, distrust between countries really stalls the progress. I'm not going to point fingers... except for Mr. Obama and Mr. Wen secretary's secretary (He was too busy to attend himself), because how can you really trust that your greatest economic rival will follow through? Perhaps the solution is not the ultra-national (is that more than multinational?) talks, but rather more regional and bilateral. As for what the future holds, who knows? For most countries climbing out of the recession there's not much incentive to promote green energy but it doesn't have to be all bad. The United States, being the global research giant, will stand to create thousands of jobs in the sectors of green energy and carbon capture technology though research and development. With the other sectors of the economy shrinking ever still, this might be an option US may want to look in to to stay on the top.

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Some interesting links that I wanted to mention but didn't have time (all British for some reason):
http://tinyurl.com/globalwarm1
http://tinyurl.com/globalwarm2
http://tinyurl.com/globalwarm3

Anecdote

My father recently moved back to Calgary from a five year stint in the Cayman Islands, where he met his Jamaican wife Denise. Until she gets her visa they can only talk on the phone, which they do daily. Recently during one such phone call, when Dad asked Denise what she was up to, her answer was fairly typical. "I'm cooking, doing laundry, and the TV's on."
"What are you watching?" he asked.
"Your favourite Canadian sport," she said. Testing her, he followed with:
"My favourite...?"
"Yes, she replied, the one you like to watch where they glide with golf sticks."

Stefano

Gian Stefano Brigidi is an Italian from Rhode Island. He is in the second year of his Ph.D. in neuroscience, which is how he met Kevin and came to live in the palace. He works with rats, and every Tuesday he gets a little glum, because that's the day he has to kill them. Stefano skateboards when the weather is nice, and has a certain smile you'll only see when he's dancing. He usually showers at least twice a day because he says Italians are greasy, so he always smells wonderful. He is an excellent hugger.
Stefano is a master of cuisine. I could write a poem about the way he cooks chicken; the spices, oh and the pasta! A Tuscan dream, the pasta is. He keeps his wooden spatula on his grocery shelf, away from the other, less magical utensils. He keeps special spices in his room upstairs. The best part of all this is that when you compliment him gushingly on his cooking, he will sometimes respond not in words, but in hand gestures. First he will motion towards you or the food, hand outstretched, palm up, as if to say, "well, you know". Then he will kiss his fingers and lift them towards the ceiling, basking in the truth of your words, and in his own culinary artistry. This is something to see.
Stefano also likes the following things to a slightly abnormal degree: the noise city buses make, hummus and pita, white v-necks (he owns thirteen, and a few in other colours), sesame snaps, stories of my many awkward incidents, action movies (we call this man time), and being gangster.

Some choice quotes
Tipsy and reaching for the beer fridge:
Let's get this boat- ...whatever... going.
Later that same night, out of nowhere in no particular context:
We're like ABBA.
Regarding city buses:
You see, the older diesel engined buses, and the newer articulated buses are powered by these massive displacement turbo engines that just sound marvelous. I think the older ones are air-cooled, and so they take on a sound similar to that of old Porsche 911s, raspy, hard, and loud.
After meeting Kevin's girlfriend Jessica for the second time, as she is leaving:
It was nice m- seeing you... again... (looks at his hands in confusion and embarrassment) how...?
Via text message, saying goodbye on the day he goes home for Christmas:
You are a desert flower.

Liam Clancy's Dead

1935-2009




"I have never heard a singer as good as Liam, ever. He was just the best ballad singer I've ever heard in my life."
-Bob Dylan

Respect.

A Snack

One brick extra-firm tofu.
Two large spoonfuls e.v.o.o.
Curry Powder > Red Pepper Flakes > Mint > Ginger > Black Powder > Salt, to taste.
Cube tofu. Add ingredients. Toss ingredients. Bake ingredients: 350 °F, 15 min. Turn halfway.
Enjoy.

They Never Built It

Tomb of Newton (1784)

Click image to biggify.

Photo Life

EPISODE 1

Brand-new-second-hand-tie-dye-t-shirt on. That's how you start the week. I managed to roll out of bed at a decent hour, so even though Kevin and Stefano have already left the house it doesn't feel deserted, just pleasantly quiet. After breakfast I stand in the living room for a minute or so gazing fondly at my little makeshift studio, then begin taking the sheets down from the wall. I'm not sad about packing up the equipment, folding up all the metal legs, winding wires, and zipping up padded black bags. Just handling all that gadgetry; the thrill is still fresh. I try to keep it, right up until the last second, so even with the cumbersome bags over my shoulder and my fully loaded backpack I don't feel so weighed down walking to the bus.
I get off at Granville Street, and cross it just north of 6th ave, before the bridge. There's a red sign on the side of a building just across 6th that says "Beau Photo" in block letters. It's already beginning to feel familiar, like the Vistek of yesteryear. The interior is a little crowded, makeshift even, which makes you feel wonderfully at ease. There's no trace of that spotlight, tiptoe feeling I've begun to expect of camera stores, no what-are-you-doing-here-you're-not-a-professional-you're-not-gonna-throw-down-serious-cash looks from the staff. They are far too honest, I think, to be overly concerned with appearances. I return the strobe, and now it is a little sad. It's funny, I think, how the minute I started to learn about photography, light suddenly became a precious commodity. It's like a type of paint whose available form is constantly varying, a paint that is difficult to control and impossible to touch. And I have painted, and drawn, the old-fashioned way before, and intend to keep trying. But I've never felt more like an artist than when I'm trying to teach my eyes to see only light. I've also never felt more humbled.

The rain thickens on the way to school for my midday classes, and stays that way all afternoon; there is not much to be said about this part of the day.

Montreal

Bonkers, as they say.

I got a jaywalking ticket the other day crossing University and Milton--just got stood up by a thick-accented, blue-vested (are they bulletproof?) Montreal cop, looking all smug with his $12 haircut and toothy grin. Cost me a good $37. I don't mind paying the fine, but what annoys me is that (a) when writing up the ticket, there were clearly 30 students crossing the intersection in the same fashion as I; (b) when handing me the ticket, he gave me a flimsy little bookmark telling me that the flashing red hand means "Do Not Start Crossing" like I didn't know (I should put that in my favorite novel too!); and (c) when I payed the ticket online, they had to charge me an additional $1.50 for too-lazy-to-go-to-the-station-to-pay-his-fees-so-here's-a-little-kidney-punch.

On another note, the Levi's Walt Whitman commercials are one of the best commercials I have ever seen. First encounter: in the movie theatre, guessing which celebrity that blurred-out face belongs to (Nicholas Cage? Didn't know his birthday was in January). But bam! Thought I was in the wrong theatre, because there it was: Walt Whitman in all his glory on the screen with these forest adolescents doing artsy stuff like burning branches and running without shirts (like any free-minded individual would do). Anyways, I enjoyed it. Watch it. Buy Levi's or whatever it compels you to do.

The Short Story

If we're lucky, writer and reader alike, we'll finish the last line or two of a short story and then just sit for a minute, quietly. Ideally, we'll ponder what we've just written or read; maybe our hearts and intellects will be moved off the peg just a little from where they were before. Our body temperature will have gone up, or down, by a degree. Then, breathing evenly and steadily once more, we'll collect ourselves, writers and readers alike, get up, "created of warm blood and nerves," as a Chekhov character puts it, and go on to the next thing: Life. Always life.

-Raymond Carver on the effects of a good one.

Kevin

Kevin has lived in the palace flophouse for the longest time out of everyone; about two and a half years now. He's in the third year of his Ph.D. in neuroscience at UBC, where he does experiments on fruit flies all day. He is twenty-seven. A friend of his is a drummer, and keeps a set in the basement that Kevin practices on. He's pretty good.
The first time I met him I was with my dad, in Vancouver for a few days looking for a place to live. The palace was the last place I saw, Kevin asked us to come over at ten o'clock the night before we left. He put water on to boil while he went over the basics, (rent, buses, beach) and threw some peas in before giving us a tour. My dad said afterward, you belong with these people.
Kevin is a good person to know, because in the morning he will knock on your door and shout your name until you wake up and go for coffee with him. He is a good person to know, because he is very casual about being hilarious, and because when he gets drunk he will fix things around the house, help you with your homework, put together your bike, demand that you pat him on the head, and fall asleep on your arm. When he cooks Chinese food or edamame, he will always offer you some. Kevin sometimes plays strange atmospheric music with snippets of zoologists' voices from the 50's and children spouting gibberish that somehow makes you feel like you're at sea. He will also insist on taking you out for a pint on your birthday even if it's a Tuesday and you're both tired and no one else will go. He is a good person to know.

Some choice quotes
In the alley on the way to Coco et Olive on a sunny day, with a scowl on his face:
It's so f***ing pleasant out. MAKES ME SO HAPPY.
After having people over the Thursday before Halloween, setting up a projector, and arranging the couches theatre-style in the living room, while getting himself a beer, with a smug look on his face:
These are the only spirits I believe in.
That same night, after watching Paranormal Activity, which was actually terrifying:
Didn't need dry sheets tonight anyhow.
At a pub hidden in an alleyway behind industrial buildings and called the Narrow for very literal reasons, (bar along one wall, tables along the other, and a space the size of the aisle of an airplane in between) after Paul asks if Stefano is coming:
I think so. ...He's so handsome.
(Paul: I hope he sits next to me.)

For your entertainment

Kept me entertained for a while:
Door.swf

Mary

The wise go with the water
Alive, Indefinite, Gone
The wisdom's daughter's daughter
Doesn't mean I'm strong

Doesn't mean I'm anything like her.

Beautiful Cheap Living

SATURDAY

I'm up at six. Showered, dressed, and ready for the day by seven-thirty. In this house early mornings belong to the silence. Everything is so still, and every piece of furniture waits patiently for the earliest riser. In these fresh hours you move around stealthily, past dark windows, past evidence of last night's after party on the coffee table with the map of the Georgia Strait under the glass, past umbrellas and sombreros strewn about, past dishes stacked in the same basin sink that's likely been there since the house was built in the dirty thirties, and still the waves you make are tangible. I load the Seagull with some fresh film before gathering my things and stepping out the back door into the rain. For a moment at the gate, I take in my sleeping palace where it stands in dim morning light, then close the latch and head out the alley towards the bus stop.
The ninety-nine takes you right downtown with fewer stops. I've planned this trip online, coordinated the right times, double checked and triple checked. Sitting there, though, among all the sharply dressed morning commuters, I feel that familiar sensation of going somewhere I've never been, taking a route I've never taken. It's a panicky feeling; I'm looking at all the street signs along the way, as though the bus might veer off course. Suddenly there's something blocking my view. I can't see what street we're at, and the illuminated sign bolted to the ceiling that spells the name of the next stop in bright yellow dots is not illuminated. This conversation happens with the man next to me:
Me: Excuse me, do you know what street this is?
Man: Where are you going?
This is infuriating, but I must keep calm, this man knows where he is and I don't.
Me: I need to get to the Canada Line, I'm going to the airport. Is this Howe street?
Man: Oh, you're good.
The bus is pulling to a stop just as he is making this useless comment. I'm perched on the edge of my seat and my panic is manifesting itself in my darting eyes and stick straight posture but most of all my overwhelming need to hit this man.
Me: You mean I should stay on? Do you know where to get off for the train?
Man: Yeah, you can catch it later on at (some unrecognizable street name) if you want.
With only seconds to spare I make a final effort.
Me: Is this Howe street?
Man: Yep.
In the space of an instant I am off the bus. As it pulls away I am taking deep breaths, hitting restart, reassuring myself that my plans were well made and thoroughly reviewed, feeling relieved that I'm back on my feet, in control of my direction. Then just as I am reaching something like calm I glance up. This is not Howe street. I close my eyes and curse that man and his family.
For four or five blocks I move forward in an angry hurry, utterly lost, my initial confidence naught but a memory. Then I see it in the distance. I miss the entrance the first time I pass it, no doubt the first person in history to do so. Finally I'm inside, heading down the stairs, all the signs are right and the worst is surely over. The next train to the airport is in eight minutes. I look at the time. Nine-seventeen. I don't remember the time I had planned to be here, but this feels like late. I don't give up. There is a fellow beside me with some luggage. I don't want to dread interaction with strangers; I've always liked that feeling of unfamiliarity, in a way the conversation has a limitless potential, so I try again.
Me: You're going to the airport, yes?
Man with remarkable ability to be clear, concise, and honest when answering questions: Yes I am.
Me: Do you know by any chance, how long the train takes to get there?
Wonderful man: I'm sorry, I don't. I've never taken it this far before.
The word "far" comes through my ears, forms a heavy knot and sinks slowly to the pit of my stomach as the train is pulling up. I get on, wishing I didn't realize that this is my fault.
Wonderful man: There's a map here, let's see. We are here, and I know it takes about ten minutes to get to King Edward...
He is pointing with his left hand at the map, tracing the path of the train with one finger while the rest hang in a loose curve. In a moment of insanity I want nothing more than to be this man, calmly riding a train to the airport (where he will doubtless arrive early and maybe read), helping a stranger who is far less at ease without the slightest hint of patronizing pity or superiority. The hand is moving steadily towards the last stop, which in my mind I rename "Impossibility".
...so from here to the airport is probably...
He considers.
...I would say no less than a half hour.
Sally was very specific.
No more control tower tour. No more dials or switches, no more lights. No more planes overhead, or scratchy radio voices saying things like: All systems are go. Just a few minutes of limbo before I can get off this nowhere train and cross these nowhere tracks to the side that brings me home. It is still raining heavily outside. On the way, Sally phones me. Next time give me a call, Emily. Sure thing. At no point did I have her number.
I'm turning into the alley, approaching point A, never having reached point B. At the gate, there's a light in the window. Melanna is dry in her pajamas and laughing and dancing wildly in our living room. She is bright joy; motion; arms and legs and eyes that don't give up, twirling and singing and illuminating a home under the gray drizzle. When I get inside she's there with her friend Helene but I can think of no words that are better than a hug. She doesn't ask for any explanation, just grins big and says: I'm glad you're back. You look like a drowned rat.
I decide to take my bike into the shop. I need to do something productive before noon or I'll drown in this sense of failure. My bike used to be my dad's, the same one he rode when we used to go for family bike rides along the paths to Confetti's Ice Cream in Calgary before they closed down. A mechanic I know from the bar I worked for all spring and summer painted it red with blue and yellow accents, and my mum brought it over on the plane when she came for Thanksgiving, taken apart and packed in a box. Kevin, drunk and wearing his lab coat, put it together perfectly a few nights ago and even pumped up the tires for me, but he didn't have the right size of wrench to attach the handlebars, so I have no control of the steering and have to guide it several blocks down Broadway to Ace Cycles on it's rear wheel. I am the first customer of the day. No charge, it was no trouble at all. Even in full working condition, I walk it home. The street is busy and wet, I don't yet have a helmet, and to be honest, the whole way home I'm trying unsuccessfully to remember the last time I rode a bicycle. I don't trust that old saying. Still, that shiny new paint, those spinning spokes, the optimism reflecting off that reflector. I get home, run up the steps to throw my bag on the couch, and head back out in the rain.
I hope it always feels like this. In the alley, cruising over fallen yellow leaves, cutting through every puddle like it's a little red sea, laughing nervously at every wobble and triumphantly when my turning gets quicker and tighter. The best part, the easy part; the long stretch between turns. I get a little braver each time, go a little faster. Speed feels like winning at something. I hope I never stop loving the wind in my face, further evidence of this motion I'm propelling, or the cool mechanical roll, on rubber you can feel tracing it's pattern on the cement. I hope no amount of water rushing from the skies can ever wash away this most basic happiness. I am soaked through to the bone, and this is a great bicycle.
Back inside I'm on the phone with Vanessa, a good friend back in Calgary who lives and breathes soccer and has graciously volunteered her time to the university team. They're in town today to take on UBC and she has some time before the game tonight.
Me: What's the rest of the team doing?
Vanessa: Homework.
Me: Lame.
Vanessa: I know.
It sounds like she's eating something... probably soccer.
Me: Good thing you have a cool Vancouver friend. You're so popular.
Vanessa: I'm kinda worried about hurting their feelings.
By the time I get to her hotel downtown, we have about an hour and a half to spare before she has to be at a team meeting. We wander down Granville Street trying to cram all our stories into this time slot and looking for a place to eat. We end up at Cafe Crepe. She tells me about soccer and school and I tell her mostly about my roommates. While we're eating, one of her teammates calls. When she gets off the phone, I have a mouthful of bananas and strawberries and nutella and she has to go; the meeting is at two-thirty, not three. Her coach is wondering where she is. She throws down some cash and leaves very apologetically. We have said good things, but not enough. The rain has finally stopped when I get outside, so I walk through the streets of downtown and over Granville Bridge, stopping in the middle to look out at the boats and the mountains and over to the left the busy markets. When it picks up again, I catch a bus home.
Aussie Pat's on his way over to go to Vanessa's game with me. I met Pat last summer at Molly Malone's in Calgary. I was out with my cousin and he was passing through town with two friends from New Zealand, and the five of us shut the place down. We ended up running into them again the next weekend when we went to Banff on a whim, all three of them wearing those shirts you buy at gift shops with bears on them. It turned out that Pat had recently moved to Vancouver so we kept in touch. Aussie Pat is my first Australian friend, and that seems to me to be a milestone, which is why I usually introduce him as Aussie Pat, rather than just Pat. He doesn't seem to mind. He has brought his Canada umbrella, big and red and white and glorious. It will be dark out soon, so I switch the Seagull for the Nikon and we head out.
It rains heavily for the duration of the game, and we sit on the sidelines watching as dusk comes and goes. The sky is something tremendous that makes the well-lit field look eerie. I watch my friend in the number four jersey running back and forth, shouting things I don't understand. I see, or I believe I see, moving subtly across her face, every minor frustration: at being assigned to a defensive position, at calls made by the refs and coaches, at her inability to communicate with this team the way she does with Callies Major. In a very selfish way I am relieved to feel as though I still know her that well. Calgary loses, harshly, but Vanessa is as ever a goddess of composure. After the game she crosses the field to meet me. I introduce Aussie Pat, and we talk for a while. She is soaked through with rain and sweat and effort, and I miss her. It is a surreal thing to be standing in the middle of a dark and drenched field with this friend from what feels like ages ago. We can see each other so clearly, just like we always did, but there is a barely detectable thread tied to each of us. Mine is rooted where I stand, and hers is pulling her home. She has to leave.
Me: Come back for a real visit.
Vanessa: I want to. I will.
Back at home I change into dry clothes and make Pat and myself some pasta. We sit around with Melanna and talk about tonight. Pat's friend's band is playing at the Rickshaw.
Pat: Basically it's four bands covering each others songs, and playing a few of their own. They're not all great bands, but my friend's is pretty good.
Melanna has a strong craving for pie, so Pat walks with us down to Aphrodite's on 4th Ave, then goes on his way. It is a good thing to have a neighbourhood pie place. Nothing is better for a tired and rainy day. We're in woolly sweaters and sweatpants. Pie asks nothing more from us. Our server is Ian. He makes helpful suggestions and talks about the weather without being boring. A very pleasant fellow.
When we get back, I'm getting ready to go out again when Parisa comes home from her most recent adventure. She seems dissatisfied at present. I ask her if she'd like to join me and am surprised when she agrees. I shouldn't be, I remember what it's like to want distraction.
We walk down to 4th to catch the bus, and at the stop after ours, Ian gets on. From the back of the bus I make eye contact with him, point, and say to Parisa: That man served us pie. Now that I've done this very odd thing, he is forced to sit and talk with us. It goes surprisingly well.
It takes a while, but we find the Rickshaw, which looks exactly like an abandoned theatre, and might be. Pat sits near the sound booth waiting for us and we cross the floor to a makeshift bar and order drinks. We missed the first two bands, but Pat's friend is in The Good News, who are on last. Throughout the third band's set I still feel out of place, like we haven't quite arrived somehow. Parisa too is quiet, although it's hard to talk over the sound blaring from the speakers. In the break between bands I try taking pictures, but it doesn't feel right.
All this melts away when The Good News take the stage. Every member is immediately charismatic, the songs are good and get better when they start playing originals. Soon I stop caring about all the important and trivial things that usually swim around in my brain. For an hour or so I'm no longer interested in anything about my day. They have my undivided attention. The last song is Stomp. It starts with a short verse sung a capella, and then a riff comes in, one of those quickening, stirring riffs that makes you smile and tap your foot without realizing it. The guitarists are spraying beer on each other and laughing. The keyboardist is trying to convince the bassist to sing along for the chorus, which he finally does with an endearing nervousness. The lead singer dances in a way that is best described as catchy. Everywhere I look I'm entertained, and as the song builds up, so does the show. A guitarist from the previous band is on the stage in his underwear and suspenders, stepping over the drums and singing along. The drummer is kind of hopping around in his seat. The bassist has come out of his shell and is singing with abandon. Band members are hugging each other, the lead singer is lying down on the stage and turning in circles, getting tangled in the feet of the guitarists, who are soaked in beer by this point. For the finale someone invites the crowd on stage and now it is pandemonium. Everyone is singing and dancing, plucking at guitars and twirling around the keyboardist. There are five guys on the drums. It sounds amazing. I suddenly realize I'm laughing out loud. Everything is absurd. My Saturday flies by in my head, and quite suddenly, it makes perfect sense. I love this moment. I love this song. I love this band. I love this city.
I Love This Song.

They sure don't make...

...movie trailers like they used to:

Chair

Photo: D.A. Edelstein
Quote: H.D. Thoreau

Choice quotes from...

... my favourite radio show. Part II:

There’s so many excuses for not doing exercise right now. I mean, very likely in the apocalyptic scenario you’ll be running from something, so right there you’ve got no excuse not to do your jogging.

Jonathan: What about your warrior spirit? What’s your warrior name again?
Howard: . . . Allan.

There’s nothing in the dream dictionary about Nazi dogs, and so I don’t know whether to fret or not.

Jonathan: So instead of eating the Chex Mix, you accidentally ate a handful of bees.
Julian (aka Jellyfish Moron): Yeah. And it’s only got two-thousand hits. To date.

Souvlaki. One word, one love.

If I met someone of my own name I’d punch them in the face as hard as I could.

Jonathan: His hobby is collecting matchbooks.
Gregor: I don’t see what’s lame about that, matchbooks are interesting. What do you collect? Regrets, mistakes... matchbooks might be a nice change of pace.

It’s a scientific fact that if you unravel your intestines and you unravel your brain and you tie them together, you can reach the moon. That’s scientifically proven.

I’ll be like your spine. The spine you never had.

It started stinging, and I threw it down, and I poured my homemade margarita on my face while I was yelling ‘There’s fire in my face, there’s fire in my face, somebody put out the fire in my face,’ which has subsequently been put onto a lot of, y’know, t-shirts and mousepads... and there’s even a chain restaurant in the Midwest selling margarita glasses that say ‘Fire in my face, fire in my face.’ I haven’t seen a dime from any of this, by the way.

The farmer can’t plough with a dead horse. Tell him that.

No one calls my friend a creative type!

What I like about zombies is that they’re so interested in brains. In our culture we’re so superficial, we’re always looking at appearance, and there’s just so little attention paid to education that to have a bunch of people who just go around yelling ‘brains’ all the time... it’s just like, thank you. That’s the wakeup call I think we need.



WireTap.

Variations:

Choragic Monument of Lysicrates: Athens, Greece (335 BCE)

Robert Burns Monument: Edinburgh, Scotland (1831)

Tennessee State Capitol: Nashville, Tennessee, USA (1859)

Portland Breakwater Light: South Portland, Maine, USA (1875)

Beautiful Cheap Living

FRIDAY

There's a sort of clothing fair in the student union building, and I have time to kill before I have to meet Sally in room 125J, so I browse. I find a black t-shirt with a snarling blue cougar featured on the front under a banner that reads: Where Legends Roam . There are also bikers in the corner, and possibly flames involved at some point. I give the girl in the booth ten bucks and immediately send Melanna a picture of this gem. Her reply: I will wait for you until you get home.
Sally is carrying various folders and loose papers which she shuffles around to free her right hand and open the door to 125J. She says: So you're Emily. Affirmative, Sally. She takes my ten dollars and writes "paid" beside my name. While I'm adding my signature to the line, she reminds me to bring along my Aviation Club card tomorrow, and be at the Jade sculpture by the international arrivals gate at 9:45 am sharp. A minute later and the group will leave without me. Important business, this is. Can't have anyone delaying matters. I ask about pictures. Sally tells me the occasional photo of the equipment is fine, just be careful about getting too snap-happy in the control tower, we don't want to distract the people working there, or our tour guide.
Outside, the campus is shiny-wet and bright and flush with colour under a dim gray sky. Now this is a sky, this is a grand and mysterious sky. It is hazy, vast, and dark. There is a foggy feeling everywhere, but close range objects appear sharper than usual. The clouds have no border, just waves of thick and thin, as a hastily painted background. There is no source of light, there is just light. It isn't raining, the air just moistens everything that moves through it. The little hairs at the edge of my forehead curl in the damp. This is a sky that means a different time of day, one I've never come to before. It's not evening, or mid-morning. There is no name for this new hour. It creates the sensation of having nowhere in particular to be.
On the way home, I stop at the corner second hand store and buy four shirts for eight dollars. She also lets me keep the hangers. I am thrilled. I cross the street twice, turn into the alley; slick with autumn leaves. We are the third gate. The yard is wet overgrown grass. I climb the steps, open the door to the kitchen. Parisa is making a sandwich. She approves of my thriftiness, and we plan to meet up later tonight with Brian and Connor, who we met at Elwood's last weekend and discussed movies with at length, to watch the game. Calgary is playing Vancouver again, and Parisa and I agree that it's great fun to hurl insults at each other for the couple of hours our rivalry lasts.
Melanna emerges from her room and I show her the roaming legends shirt. She is fairly certain it will fit him, and that he will enjoy the animal's ferocity. She has been looking for weeks for a shirt with a cougar on it for Russ, who lives in Kamloops and whose t-shirts-with-Canadian-wildlife-on-them collection is missing said beast. The two of us go for coffee at Coco et Olive to celebrate. This is a very good place. There is art on the walls, dreamy panoramic sky-scapes. The tables and chairs are all antique looking and charmingly mismatched. The patrons are much the same, but with an air of intelligence. And the coffee and baked goods are a new brand of heaven. Melanna pays, to thank me for my keen shopper's eye, and we sit in the cafe for an hour or two drinking lattés out of bowls; laughing and talking mostly about sex.
At home again the three of us girls are getting ready to go out. Tomorrow morning Kevin and Stefano are leaving for a neuroscience conference in Chicago and won't be back until Thursday. In case we miss them Melanna writes this note and puts it on the fridge: YO BOYZZZ! We all look super hot. Too bad you missed it. Have a rad time being nerds. We'll be thinking of you. Love, Melanna, Emily, and Parisa. Melanna is meeting a friend in North Van, but we all leave the house together, and actually coordinate our exit out the back so that we are mid-conversation as the door opens, like we're in a movie!!!
Parisa and I walk down to The Shack to watch hockey with our new friends. We all chip in on beer and nachos, and watch my hometown outplay my new town 5 to 3. Hours of good cheer and merrymaking go by and around midnight we are ready to go home; I have to wake up early for my tour of the control tower, and Parisa wants to nap for a couple hours before she meets friends at 2:30. The girl is in every way a social butterfly, and she operates on a different schedule than most. Our evening has been for her something like brunch. We get home and stagger up the steps into the kitchen, where we find our note turned over and an answer written on the other side. It reads: WOMEN... You all must take good care of yourselves whilst we men are gone on our journey of adventure, in search of great prosperity. We will return with a large bounty of the finest grains, goats, and milk. In return, we expect you to bear us many children, and to look after the homestead once we grow old. Farewell fair dames. -The Men

My Soul, My Shelter

Standing by the willow tree, teeth-chatter shivering,

Brother’s arms around me, can’t stop me quivering,

“We’ll go home,” he says, “Ducky, we’ll head home soon,”

But for now time has stopped itself beneath the fullest moon.

My fingertips I cannot feel as wind contrives its form,

My soul my only haven my shelter from the storm.

“Open your eyes,” he pleas, “Home is very near,”

But my eyes clamp tighter still, amid the wind and fear.

Years later, I hear the question posed,

Years later, my eyes are tightly closed.

Warning

All persons are warned
against using this
bottle for maple syrup
Leslie, Dunham & Co.

Via: Sheaff-Ephemera

The Short Story

Anton Chekhov

You’ve probably read one of those stories where the emphasis is placed on a character’s psychology –their inner monologue– and not so much external detail or action. And you’ve probably read one of those stories where, instead of a fully realised mammoth-sized plot that ends with the resolution of all the loose ends and maybe a reassuring happily-ever-after, the narrative doesn’t seem to conclude at all: your glimpse into the life of the character is extinguished as though it had been lit by a flash. You had only enough time to catch a nuclear moment of epiphany in that one person’s life, and you're left ponder the ramifications on your own. If you’ve read Joyce, Woolf, Mansfield, or any other greats of high-modernist fiction, you’ve probably read one of these stories. Well, they all admired the writings of this scruffy Russian. You should too. After all, he started that stuff.

Chekhov had a tough life, being Russian in the late 19th century. As a kid he served vodka to foul customers in his dad’s shop while keeping up with school. The whole family fled from their small port town to a Moscow slum so Dad could avoid debtor’s prison after the shop went bankrupt. With Dad then taking up the drink, Chekhov had to both support his family and pay his med-school tuition by writing sketches and jokes for the newspapers. Once he’d graduated and become a doctor, he opened up a practice. The money came pouring in then, right? No, because he treated the poor for free and volunteered much of his time to helping out during famines and epidemics. He trudged on until, lo and behold, in 1898 he quit the practice and began living off his writing. Sadly, he’d contracted tuberculosis two years earlier.

Still, most of his best fiction and plays were written in the last twenty years of his life and, despite having alter-careers in medicine and theatre, he’d published over eight hundred stories by the time he died in 1904 at age 44.

The modern short story would be unrecognisable without him, so read some Chekhov. Show him the love. Not that he needs it: in a 1987 survey of twenty-five highly esteemed short story writers (including Eudora Welty and Nadine Gordimer) asked to name their crucial influences, Chex here came out on top with ten votes. Only ten? Well, Joyce and Henry James tied for second with five each. So decide for yourself if Raymond Carver was drunk (hint: he probably wasn’t) when he called Chekhov "the greatest short story writer who ever lived.” And if I decide to make this into a bit of a series, doesn't Chekhov just make the perfect start?

Chex as a young man. He's a med student, you know.

Brother

Wearing a tuque in his kitchen, looking at me blankly and expectantly:
How do you cook a salmon?

In the solarium at 11:22 pm with his new art supplies:
Can I paint a mustache, beard, and uni-brow on your face and take pictures of you?

In the Daytona at 1:56 am on the way to Denny's, while gripping the wheel with outstretched arms and accelerating:
TURBO, ENGAAAAAAAGE!

Walking along railroad tracks to an abandoned town:
What would you do if the crows were squawking: "Danger!" "Beware!" "Death Awaits All Those Who Enter Here!"? What if we see a man in the distance wearing a bloody apron and carrying an axe?

On the phone at 2:48 am:
Wanna go to Walmart? I need a shower curtain.

In a motel room in Summerland, after foiling an internet scam artist:
Let's drink all this complimentary coffee and stay up all night!

On the road to Kelowna, after careful consideration of his words:
Okay. Let's talk about what you want to see from the next generation of iPod. What features are you unhappy with, and what improvements do you think should be made?

Chatting on the computer, when I ask him what he wants for his birthday:
I want you to continue being happy in Vancoucher.

In his basement while playing his guitar at 12:37 am:
Let's write a song.

In a field somewhere outside Drumheller in the summer, and we have 5 cameras between the two of us:
Go climb up the wall of that barn... Climb more interestingly. I want this to tell a story.

90 km outside Calgary, in the Passat at 1:00 am, broken down on the side of the road on the way to Washington to see Kings of Leon play Sasquatch Fest, and it's freezing cold, while fighting back tears:
That's our trip. I'm so sorry. That's our trip.

Camping in Kananaskis after graduation:
I dare you to eat this giant winged ant. I will fire roast it for you. Wait, let me get my camera.

Poem

--------

Richard Cory

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Variations:

Propylaea: Athens, Greece (435 BCE)

Brandenburg Gate: Berlin, Germany (1791)

Pennsylvania Station: New York City, USA (1910)

Choice quotes from...

. . . my favourite radio show. Mind, a mere three episodes' worth. Each week is filled with quotable nuggets, so this is probably only part one of a series devoted to the wonder of Jonathan Goldstein & Friends:

"I watered your plants, though I can't imagine why you found it necessary, as one of them appears to be many years dead and the other made of tinsel."

"I'm too busy surviving to take serious your jabs."

"While you're in Montreal enjoying my sweet stick meats, something awful has happened."

"I gave it a nickname: Ragin' Rasputin."

"I've been sitting on the same tree stump for three hours trying to look like I'm in a state of cat-like readiness."

"I may have given myself tetanus stepping on a rusty sardine can in your bathroom."

"Perhaps if I go into Rage of God mode I'd have more success: I could use your advice here, pal o'mine."

"What are you, so jaded you don't think blowing up the moon's going to get people's attention?"

"There is a kind of hopefulness when you jump into a dumpster."

"Wait, you know someone named MacGuffin?"

"Peace is what, chirping birds and some crickets and some butterflies? I mean get outta here, who's even going to notice?"

"Just picture this, picture a stage with Julius Caesar and Socrates and Abe Lincoln and... Dwight Eisenhower, all of them on stage with U2 singing, y'know, We Shall Overcome."

"I was actually putting on skis in a ski lodge. I look over at this guy wearing a white flowing robe and long angelic hair... I just remember distinctly thinking at the time, after I left and I was out doing my business, I thought to myself "Ah, that guy was kinda like the Messiah". With the right brand rollout I think we could've reached a multi-national audience and he could've delivered the message."

The Grandaddy

"Who's that!" cried the American. "Us, with the vehicles," someone husked. "You might say --we got the collision."

The flashlight fixed them. The American gasped. A moment later, the battery failed.
But not before he had seen the two village lads jogging along with no trouble at all, easily, lightly, toting under their arms two ancient black bicycles minus front and tail lights.

"What . . . ?" said the American.

But the lads trotted off, the accident with them. The fog closed in. The American stood abandoned on an empty road, his flashlight dead in his hand.

Ray "Share the Road" Bradbury

(photo via: flickr)