Cajun Seafood Gumbo

Flipping through the Index of my Chemical Reactions textbook, my eyes are drawn to the "C" section where the top item listed reads "Cajun Seafood Gumbo, 954". Now being a hungry student in a food-free environment (i.e., library), my stomach got the best of me, and sure enough, there's a recipe for 10 quarts of traditional seafood gumbo hidden in Appendix H. I'm gonna photocopy this page and make some ol' Louisiana specialties for my next potluck. To add to the weirdness of the situation here are the previous entries in the appendix:
...
H.4 Underground Wet Oxidation
H.5 Hydrodesulfurization Reactor Design
H.6 Continuous Bioprocessing
H.7 Methanol Synthesis
H.8 Cajun Seafood Gumbo

The Elusive Sasquatch - True Events

This is possibly my favourite written effort. It was written over a year ago, but I met a man today who writes and is refreshingly less committed than the average blogger to staying current, an obsession which might have a place in the world of media but which does not govern it. I mean we are here to write, to celebrate writing, and to read, are we not? He also makes beautiful furniture. I thank him for the advice.

Hundreds of dollars are spent preparing for the trip. I buy new shorts. Levin buys a small folding table. We make countless lists. A master list, then one for each of us, items we are specifically responsible for. A driving itinerary. A grocery list. A To Do list. These couple days before takeoff are full of so many things. I find waterproof matches in the garage. How could we not have thought of this? We need this. Levin finds a vinyl poncho in his storage unit. Perfect. We are boy scouts. We are always prepared. We have a map. No, not a map, an Atlas. Important pages are dog-eared. I will be the greatest co-pilot the world has ever seen.
We are organized.
Five hundred dollars Canadian is 430 and change in American.
We are ready.
We are driving from Calgary to Washington State for three days of camping and one glorious night of music. Kings of Leon are playing. It will be legend. It will be history. It will be documented. After careful consideration I pack only five cameras.
It is maybe ten o'clock Thursday night and we're at Safeway with Claire, who is examining our grocery list and meal plans. She doesn't say so but we know she sees the sheer genius of meal plans. This is brilliant, guys, she is thinking. We know, Claire. But thank you. We are getting everything but milk here; they don't have the plastic 1 litre jugs, and the carton will get soggy in the ice. Sheer genius. We deserve this.
Levin: Six eggs should be good right?
Me: I don't think so, if we have two each for breakfast Saturday, that leaves only two for our omelet Sunday.
Levin: Couldn't we just have one each on Saturday?
Me: Yeah you're right six.
We buy twelve eggs and Levin packs the cooler in the Brentwood Safeway parking lot. I am conveniently on the phone. There are things to be said, last minute details to be clarified. We drop Claire off. I feel sad for her, that she will miss this. It is closer now. My bones are shaking, shouting at me. LET'S GO LET'S DO THIS ANYWHERE BUT HERE NOW ON THE ROAD NOW MOVEMENT NOW PROGRESS NOW.

We stop at my house to pick up the last of my stuff. I have to wake my mum up to get in, I have forgotten my key. Of course I have. How could I spare one thought for our return? She hugs me for a long time. She knows I will come back a different person. Me, but more worldly, more alive, more certain, more tanned. And with a commemorative t-shirt of some sort I can only hope.
Sasquatch is calling.
We have to remember the milk. We stop at a gas station; fill the tank, buy heavily caffeinated beverages. M&M's. These are crucial. We forget the milk. It is just after eleven pm when we leave Calgary. This takes several tries to get right (Star Trek character references are considered, and I have to be taught the terminology):
Levin: (KSSHH)Houston this is Passat, we are ready for takeoff.
Me: (KSSHH)Roger that Passat, you are clear for takeoff, please approach the runway.
Levin: (KSSHH)Roger Roger, counting down to liftoff. Liftoff in 10, 9, 8...
Me: 7, 6, 5, 4...
Levin: 3, 2, 1. Houston we have have liftoff.
We are golden.
We are brave adventurers.
We are on fire.
There will be plenty of opportunities to buy milk along the way. We play Kings of Leon loudly to stay awake. It is important to be awake, to remember as much as possible.

It is somewhere between midnight and one when 193 km outside Calgary, the car breaks down.
Levin is saying I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Emily, that's it. That's our trip. Are you joking around Levin? He does this. He jokes. But he is serious, and kind of shaking. I know it is selfish and stupid but I wish it were more dramatic. A crash landing. A blaze of glory. At least some air time. Something. But it doesn't even sputter, just sort of coasts dreamily to a stop. Oh, were you guys headed somewhere? I'm sorry, I'm just not really feeling it. This is my frustration speaking, really I know the Passat is sorry, so sorry Emily. The Passat speaks with a voice like Levin's, but quieter, slightly ashamed. Very soon Levin is calmer, in control again, and I break my silence and start being positive. But within these few minutes a part of both of us dies.
There is no service here. Or it is elusive. Levin gets out an emergency kit, one of those things you're supposed to never actually need. A little bag that says in this very cavalier italic font: Justin Case. Justin finds himself amusing. Ahaha! Wordplay in your desperate circumstances will lighten the mood! There is an S.O.S. banner with adhesive edges for the back window, but it is too cold and it doesn't stick. It is very cold. It is freezing. Save Our Souls Justin! We hang it out the back passenger window. Levin imagines a gang of adventurous youths stopping to help us. Your car broke down? That is a tragedy. Sasquatch Fest? We're on our way there now as a matter of fact. Say, we have some room, and you packed so efficiently, join us! We are even more powerful in numbers! The first two cars to stop have no room. They promise to get us a tow truck in the next town. We get out our sleeping bags and blankets and try to sleep.
Levin: Emily? Are you awake?
Me: Yes.
He is apologizing again. The noise of the banner in the wind woke him up, he thought it was wildlife. Bears. Levin has a healthy fear of bears. He will later tell me that for a few moments, he genuinely thought we were both going to die. I am glad he kept this to himself at the time. We drift in and out of sleep until about six. Levin decides we need a trucker, and they take a while to stop, so he gets out to go down the road a little way and flag one down. He is doing everything, I am too cold to move. He is a saint. I'm looking ahead and see Lev running to meet the truck that is pulling to a stop. I'm watching this interaction, thinking how funny it looks, tiny Levin looking way up at this enormous truck and talking, gesturing, like the truck is a live entity, with no need for a driver. See, it's like this truck. It is suddenly very quiet in the car except for a rustling noise. I am alone and scared and I slowly turn my head. It's the S.O.S. sign again. You have been of no use Justin. The truck has a driver, his name is Rick, and after some confusion we are both riding in his truck the one or two hours to Radium. It is now the opposite direction we need. Finally on the move again, and it's pointless; a ghost of a road trip. But Rick has a heater. I cherish Rick for this. Slowly the chill wears off and I fold up the blanket I brought. We arrive in Radium, and it's daylight now. I am instantly cold again. The slightest gust of wind rattles me. I wander into a coffee shop with the blanket wrapped around me while Levin calls his mum. He comes in and says, Will you take that blanket off? You look like a crazy person. He is right. My hair is messy and my eyes are tired and I am wearing a very old and worn light blue blanket. I am sketchy. We get coffee and Lev calls a tow truck. We wait for hours in the coffee shop. I fall asleep. Then Levin kicks me and we go outside to wait. Blanket on. A man walks by in shorts, talking on a cell phone. What is wrong with you sir? Can't you feel that soul crushing cold?
The tow truck driver is a large man with various items hanging from the holes in the neck of his t-shirt. He is at first all over the road. He actually says, it can be hard on this job, you get so sleepy. Then he begins making frequent stops for the washroom, smoking, energy drinks. He comes back sniffing and rubbing his nose. He is a better driver now. Over the long trip he talks about his son, his rebellious days, being in trouble with the law, his diabetes, the best energy drinks, his company and previous jobs. For the first hour or so his Ipod is playing all country. I think I might have gone my whole life without hearing 'Jukebox Junkie' were it not for this man. At one point when he is stopped for something or other, Levin says, we have to listen to this music for hours. Almost as if he heard this the driver, his name is Doug, eventually says you guys can go through there if you want, or if you want to put your own Ipod on, I like anything really, except the rap. I can't stand the rap. We play Kings of Leon of course. One side of me sees this as a small comfort. My negative side is quieter, but makes a solid point. It is almost a cruel joke.

At last there's a record that I love to play
Dreamin' 'bout a place I'll never see
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
BA-LUE-HUUUES

Hey what do you guys think so far?? Why am I doing this??

So we get back to the car, Levin gets to ride in it while Doug loads it. This makes Lev smile a little which is nice. En route to Banff to drop off the car. By this point he has arranged for Jack to pick us up there. Jack who would not loan us his car for this trip. A completely understandable and wise decision. We hated him for a moment when we needed to hate someone. But Jack is a good guy. This is not his fault.
Then there is a new development. Something wonderful. A miracle. Can we salvage this? How crazy would that be if we could salvage this??
Levin: My mom says she'll meet us in Canmore after work and drive us to Washington. We can't camp the whole time, she doesn't want to hang around, but we can go for the one night, see the show! What do you think? I know it won't be the same but should we go?
Me: Yes. Definitely. Obviously. We can save this. This is great.
We are golden again.
Or tarnished brass.
In Canmore we see a Volkswagen specialist. I'm in the cab watching his face. He listens to Levin's explanation, takes one look at our broke down spaceship, shakes his head. There is no hope for the Passat, he is saying. You were fools to think the Passat could manage this, he is saying. You were fools to think you could manage this, he is saying. Give up. Go home. I will not be your savior.
Levin is without a car now. Being a bus taker / cab payer I cannot pretend to understand this feeling. I wonder if it is like losing a pet. Or a sudden eviction from a kind of second home.
Doug takes us to Boston Pizza. The three of us are sitting at a table in a Boston Pizza in Canmore eating lunch like old friends. Levin makes conversation, but I can't help being quiet. I don't understand where I am. I am processing. Doug offers to pay. So nice. No really, you don't have to do that. It is decided that the car will be left in the parking lot of a Husky in Dead Man's Flats. Because Canmore isn't small enough. I don't know. But I must contend this town's name is appropriately depressing for the long wait ahead of us after Doug unloads the car, shakes our hands, asks our names, and goes on his way. It is midday and Holly (Levin's mum) can't leave Calgary until five. We are getting fresh clothes out of the car.
Me: I'll be right back.
Levin: Just change here.
Me: I'm a girl.
Levin: Go behind something.
Me: I want to wash my face.
Levin: Use the wipes.
Me: I just want to go to the washroom. We have been in some sort of vehicle for so long. We have been in transit so long. I want my dignity back. I want a moment to myself.
Me (really): I'll be right back.
We get out our cameras and wander, finding different places to sit. Over to a playground. I lie on a bench, Levin naps in a little play hut, then gets bored and throws pebbles at me. We sit on the teeter totter. What was that rhyme? Something about helicopters and a Mrs. Brown? On to the swing. This is a good decision. Swings are movement. Swings are not 'We are wasting every minute of what should have been a fast paced adventure in this tiny town waiting for a ride' . Swings are ' Higher and higher I'm flying I'm doing this I'm propelling this operation and I control it'.
MOVEMENT NOW.
The swings are a temporary solution.
PROGRESS NOW.
The best I can do under the circumstances.
There is a creek. We look for places to cross. I remove my flip flops for this. I have wandered away from Lev and am halfway across a log with the sun on my face and water rushing over my bare feet and I shout urgently, Levin! He comes running, and I feel guilty immediately. I am clumsy and he knows this. He probably thought I needed help and here I am standing on a log grinning like an idiot.
Levin: What?
Me: I don't remember.
I am a child.

We been running barefoot through the stream
We ain't even been to the ocean

We head back and stop in a little general store. There is a cat lounging on the shelves in the sun. I pet the cat then look up to see the owner with a veritable scowl on her face. The store has camping gear. We don't need this anymore. We are not boy scouts. We have nothing to prepare for. We are lost. Rambling, aimless. The store has second hand tapes for a dollar. They are all homemade mixes. I consider something titled 'R&B and others'. I wonder what was happening in the first owner's life at the time of this tape's creation. In the Husky parking lot we try to sleep again. I start to read, and the book I brought is too perfect for the trip this was supposed to be, full of travel, events, revelations, adventure. I give up and try for sleep. Levin is cranky so I sleep outside, in the grass. Then a honk wakes me up and Holly is here. We transfer necessary items to her car, but the passenger count has increased by one and we can't fit everything. Levin packs. I am torn between wanting to be of use and not wanting to ruin his efficiency. Levin is systematic, meticulous, logical. I can easily picture him moving whatever I put in the car to a more sensible location. He is separating the dishes, weeding out anything other than the essential. At one point he says, pick one pair of shoes to bring. I have a Safeway bag with my runners and other flip flops in it. I know it is small and could easily be stowed away just about anywhere, for my shoe choice convenience, but I comply. I think because he is making a point. Yes, we are doing this, yes, we will try to salvage whatever we can, but this is not the same journey we set out on. We have been dealt a crushing blow. Sacrifices must be made. Some shoes must be left behind. The results of this trip will be bittersweet at best.
We are in the car and moving again. My sense of direction and purpose is muddled, but I say to myself, this is good. This will get better. Somewhere along the way we stop at a roadside tourist shop with snacks and such to go to the washroom. There is a sign on the door, saying something like, please respect the proprietors of this store by not using the washroom if you are not a customer. There is a public washroom across the highway. We use the the washroom anyway. Holly buys a coffee but Levin does not, out of spite for the rule. He will not support this business if they are going to be so irrational. There is a playground we wander over to, until we see the sign posted, with several bullet points. After one bullet point: Children ages 2 - 11 only. We return to the bench.
Levin: This place has too many rules.
In the car, I try to read again. I look at it in a new way; the book is an escape, like it's always been. Stop trying to relate this to yourself, Emily, ignore the similarities, you will never do anything this amazing. Levin is in the back, on his laptop. This is not the same journey we set out on. We are broken and divided.
Around 60 km outside Canmore, this happens very fast:
Levin: SHIT!
Holly: (Swerves)
Grey Blurry Object (cement?): (Impact with the front of the car, on the passenger side, a heavy thud, then gone in an instant)
Me (incoherent): What... what was that? What just happened? (And quietly: Was that cement?)
Holly: (Still driving, begins hysterical laughter, then pulls over, still laughing)
The trucker behind us pulls over at the same time, as though we are a synchronized driving team.
Levin: We just hit a deer.
The trucker is climbing out of his truck. Our team mate. Maybe he knows what just happened. Wait, did Levin say...
Me: We hit a deer?
Levin: We just hit a deer.
Me: A deer?
Levin: You didn't see it?
We are out of the car, the trucker is coming towards us. We stand around in silence, staring at what used to be the headlight. It looks like someone broke several mirrors and threw the shards into the cavity in front of the bulbs. The fender is dented and broken. There is fecal matter sprayed in a graceful arc across the hood, the windshield, and the back door on the passenger side. As a final reminder of his existence, the deer has left two hairs emerging from the crud on the hood, sticking straight up, in a perfect 'v'. This deer, he is an artist. All this in an instant. Incredible. What a talent. The trucker has reached us now, he is youngish, in torn jeans and a hoodie. His belt buckle appears to be a set of brass knuckles. After a moment, he breaks the silence.
Trucker: Fuckin' deer, eh?
Too right, my friend.
Holly: Thanks for stopping.
Trucker: Yeah I just saw him doing cartwheels through the air into the ditch there... You guys alright?
What? You are telling me, you. Are. Telling. Me. Somewhere in the second or two that it took the deer to make a tragic canvas of our last hope, he somehow made time for gymnastics??
Fuckin' deer, eh?
Un.
Be.
Lievable.
There is more conversation, it is agreed that it is a good thing Levin shouted, because this is what caused Holly to swerve, and had she not done that we would have hit the deer head on. Holly's amusement at the (irony?) of this situation fades as she begins to consider damage, accident reports, insurance, etc. She gets the trucker's information in case she needs a witness. We are gathering ourselves, we have made our play. Good work team. Hands in.
Me: Are we still going to Sasquatch Fest?
Levin: We're not going to Sasquatch Fest.
We can't drive at night without a headlight. I'm an idiot. And slightly relieved.
Levin: I'm kind of at peace with it. With not going to Sasquatch Fest. We are not supposed to go.
Me: Yes.
We will drive to Cranbrook. We will stay the night in a hotel. We will drink. In a legion in the basement of the hotel. We will be told, live music! This will be two men on the small stage trying to remember the chords to various country songs for an audience of us three and the bartender. We will shower. And tomorrow we will gather all remaining scraps of our pride, whatever is left of our faded glory, our last reserves of youthful optimism, (Did you get everything? Check behind the bed) and we will go home.
We are defeated.
In the car.
Levin: Next year.
Me: Yeah.
Levin: But what if every time... What if it's like a curse?
Me: No way. It will be a challenge.
Levin: Good.
It will be history.
It will be legend.
Later we are looking at the positives:
We only bought concert tickets for the one night.
We didn't use any of our American money.
We will see Kings of Leon when they come to Calgary in August.
Rick and Doug. Nice guys.
The Swerve.
We could have broken down after crossing the border. We could have made it to the border and not been allowed to cross because they didn't trust the Passat not to break down.
We could have been mauled by bears.
We could have been robbed.
We could have remembered the milk. We saved four dollars this way.
We are taking this so well.

At home, I'm putting things away, I want no remaining evidence. Tent, chairs, gear, back in the garage. Quickly. I will deny we ever got it out. Twelve eggs, into the fridge. The carton is soggy from the ice and falls apart when I open it. Sheer genius. When this is done I put my dying phone on it's charger and sit on my bed, waiting to feel at home, grounded. It doesn't come. I am still floating, aimless, driving nowhere.

And I'll be gettin' out as soon as I can fly

Levin calls. He is having a barbecue with our groceries.
Levin: I'm gonna frame my ticket.
Yes. Of course I want evidence. Sheer genius. This is brilliant, Lev.
Me: Awesome.
We are golden.
We are on fire.
As soon as I can fly.

Me: What time?
Levin: Five or six.
Me: I'll be there.

Picking up heavy objects

When you pick up heavy objects, always bend at the knees, and not at the waist. The back is important; if you hurt your back, your life goes downhill from there. My doctors tell me that if you hurt your back there will always be that gingerness that remains, even after the most extensive physical therapy. Turn to the your right side. Good. Now, the other side. Mmhmm. Arch your back. Doesn't that feel good? Well it would if you hadn't hurt your damn back. Why the hell did you hurt your damn back? I remember I got a job interview question a few weeks back asking me where I saw myself in 5 years. I lied and said that I would love to be in their company. But I just want to lift pianos and sofas, futons and bookshelves, if it wasn't for my god-damn back.

Vancouver Groceries

1 bunch of carrots

3 heads of bok choy

1 tub of yoghurt

3 red peppers

2 green peppers

3 local nectarines

3 local peaches

5 heads of corn

3 kiwis

3 zucchinis

1 red onion

$14.39

And it has the ocean. Where else would I be?

Bags

My mother packs for England.
Only a few days ago she returned from the North, where my aunt now lives on what used to be Grannie's land, near Hay River. Mum brought back things for us, my sister, my cousin, and I. Loads of stuff that was hers, Grannie's I mean. Nicky and Pam didn't keep much, some pictures, a painting, a cigarette case from Spain. I have acquired a copper double-boiler, and an enormous collection of scarves. One with Roman landmarks pictured and labeled on green silk, another in gold, with Egyptian-looking symbols, yet another depicting a veritable African safari. I love her for keeping these. Mum showed me a picture of Grannie when she was sixteen. She is wearing her uniform from the Women's Land Army. At sixteen she was working on farms with strangers, doing the abandoned work of soldiers. She actually had tea with the Queen, before she was Queen, she told her how cider was made. When my mother was sixteen she was sent off to study in England, after spending her childhood moving from place to place, attending a new school every year or two. When I was sixteen I had the same good friends I'd had since elementary. I had braces, good manners, a sense of humour, very little grace, and no concept of how to grasp and claw and run at life.
My mother will be in England longer than I will be here, we won't see each other again until Christmas probably. She is packing very logically, if indecisively. She has categorized piles of clothing on her bed across which I am sprawled, disturbing everything. Her room is pale yellow walls, sun through white cotton curtains, shiny hardwood floors, and nice things arranged tidily on dressers. I have come home from work earlier than expected and am giddy about this. It's bright out, the golden hour. Mum's hair; chin-length, blond highlights, is lit like a halo by the window behind her and she is flitting around the room like a hummingbird - she does this - trying to decide what to wear on the plane.
- What do you think of the teal?
- My favourite so far. Looks classy. First class-y.
- Maybe they'll bump me up. But it's tight here, see? Nine hours of this?
- But there's buttons. On the back, you could loosen it.
- I suppose. Should I bring this skirt do you think? Oh and before I forget, what should I bring back for you?
- Good tea. And scarves!
- The problem is the shoes- could you stop rolling around on my things please?
I'm getting carried away because I am excited about tea and scarves. And about the sun in my drink, casting bottle-green shapes on the wall. And about my mother's suitcases and belongings spread out in an otherwise calm room, like a child I am excited by this. By the break from routine, the stir of her departure.
- What happened to the teal?
- I know but I thought maybe... The red, it's nice, summery but still nice right? You don't like it?
- I don't think it looks as nice with the dress pants, and it's funny shaped, in the front, here.
- No it isn't. Besides I can wear the white cardigan over it.
- True...
Across the hall, my room is pale blue, old lace curtains, two belugas swimming in turquoise water on the light switch cover, and various items ranging from very little to very great importance strewn about haphazardly, in makeshift containers and cluttered piles. Paycheck stubs and insurance papers mingle with bits of string, foil wrappers from rolls of film, and hair products. Clothes are thrown across stuffed animals and boxes of old books and school projects litter the closet. Camera equipment is jumbled in a laundry basket by the dresser. On a shelf behind several beanie babies there is a pile of rarely worn shoes, high heels mostly, and I take down a pair I got for high school graduation.
- Look.
- When did you get that dress? It's very pretty.
- A while back. I feel like I could wear it to a wedding. Someone should get married. Are you sure about that yellow with black?
- Oh that's right you don't like that. The bumblebee effect.
She looks down at the shirt in question and flicks away a piece of lint, thinking of things to be done, turning briskly back to her bedroom, sighing at the small mess I've made of her progress.

When I was little I wanted lullabies. Around the age of two, I'm told, I was especially demanding. My mother, while a great appreciator of music, is not the type to sing throughout the day, to hum or whistle, to entertain melodies in her head instead of more productive thoughts, and so my pleas caught her off guard to some extent and she would sing the first thing that came to mind. This was in most cases one or all of the following:
-Michael Row Your Boat Ashore
-Row Row Row Your Boat
-Oh Canada
But my very favourite, as Mum tells it, was Bags. I'm not sure of the actual title, but I called it Bags and I knew the lyrics, and she says I would mouth the words along with her. I would say: "Sing Bags, Mummy, sing Bags!" and she would sing:
"Got no bags or baggage to slow me down,
I'm a-runnin' so fast my feet ain't touching the ground,
Travelin' light, travelin' light,
Oh I just can't wait to be with my baby tonight."
And I would watch her with big eyes and shape the words silently with my lips while she sang.

I'm matching Grannie's scarves to dresses I have never had occasion to wear, and each time I come out of my room newly adorned I say "Look!"
- Yes, lovely.
She is packing Canada-themed gifts for the family in England. Maple candies, a red and white onesie for the new baby.
I am mainly twirling.
- Look!
She is wrapping Grannie's jewelery in tissue, to bring to Aunty Rona.
I am wearing a sunhat I found in the hall closet, floppy wide-brim straw variety, with a ribbon, because I think there are people who wear these regularly.
- You can keep that.
- Ha!
She is tucking her necklace under the collar of her teal shirt, smoothing her hair.
I am pulling the curtains out from behind the couch and spilling them over the cushions, crawling under them like a cape and looking out the window at nothing.
- Look Mum!
- I'll have to pay extra for this baggage I suppose- another one I haven't seen! How many dresses do you have exactly?
She is folding, sorting, arranging. She is moving forward every instant and I want her to sing Bags so I can watch her and learn it again but I don't want her to think I'm being cute.
When the sun sets I am lying on the kitchen floor, yawning and stretching and humming. The last of the light is flickering, reflecting gold on the tiles around me where I float and she rows swiftly by me, cleaning up after me, sighing at me again, lovingly maybe, row row rowing by. She is glorious and I feel like a piece of furniture. I'm thinking with a certainty I don't quite deserve that she doesn't know any other way to be. I am thinking that my mother does not know, maybe once knew, but has forgotten and in any case does not need to know, how to pull up the anchor and drift aimlessly on the surface, with great vast unsolvable depths below her, waiting for something she's never seen and isn't sure exists, waiting for someone to ask her something.

thoughts from a bus ride

i. rain in june

raindrops falling on the windshield black
steady steady ever steady
but suddenly
it stops, for one long second
while we zoom under an unseen bridge.
a tightrope of silence within a canyon of white noise, falling
gently gently ever gently.

ii. it's time to face the music, and dance

it's time to face the music, and dance
sweet steps over neglected dreams
crooked smile with missing teeth
nothing left but one lonely embrace
it's time to face the music, and dance

I want to bald gracefully

A colorful infomercial once told me that all men should bald gracefully. It is my desire to be a gracefully balding man. When co-workers discuss my hair behind my back, I want them to say "that David fellow, he balds gracefully". Within the first two dates, I want her to make a comment about my neatly-trimmed, closed-cropped hairstyle. (Extra points if all her girlfriends know as well!) I want to be my barber's magnum opus. I want strangers to ask and to touch my hair. I want my grandmother to boast about her grandchild's hair while she gossips while playing mahjong. I want for the waitresses to be able to say "that handsome man over there ordered rum and cokes for the both of you" while I smile and wave nonchalantly from across the bar. When I'm rollerblading with my dog, I want other rollerblading dog owners to talk to me. I want people to notice my defined cheekbones that has been enhanced by my hairstyle. I want poorly-balding men to tap me on the shoulder while I'm on the 107 and give me a thumbs up while I am in the process of removing my headphones, and I want them to envy me while they do it. I want my hair to remain perfect after I remove my tuque. I want a lawyer to lose his hairpiece as I'm walking by so that I can glance sideways at him and smile with pity. I want to be able to tuck my t-shirt into my jeans and still look the part of Upper Management. I want to be my parents pride, their joy. If only I could bald gracefully, I would be a happy man.

Cab Driver

I was talking to a cab driver to pass the awkward silence between Quebecois radio commercials. He spoke with an almost unintelligible accent so we started veering towards a Jacob Two-Two style dialog. When I asked him whether he had lived in the Saguenay all of his life, he thought that I asked him whether he had ever drove his clients outside of the region. He then explained a long-winded story about how an elderly couple, this one time, took a 2-hour cab ride to Quebec City. He kept glancing over, nodding and muttering "c'est vrai, c'est vrai" like I didn't believe a word he was saying. After I realized that he was answering a totally different question, to avoid embarrassment for the both of us, I asked him how many bags they brought with them.

Setting the Scene

On a recent trip to London, I was compelled to make a pilgrimage to Russell Square in Bloomsbury. I should say that, although not a terribly exciting park in itself, it is surrounded by shops and hotels, and is a javelin-throw away from the British Museum (don’t try this), so it sits amid plenty of bustle. But the area surrounding this West End garden square is characteristically littered with trivia that could go unnoticed by some oblivious idiot who hasn’t happened to have picked up on the slightly uncommon frequency with which the name comes up time and again in the stories of luminous Londoners and their city. I’ll assume this is you, so allow me to explain.

Leo Szilard & the Nuclear Chain Reaction.

My initial conviction to see Russell Square in person came upon opening Richard Rhodes’ Making of the Atomic Bomb (not to be confused with the helpful manual How to Make an Atomic Bomb). The first sentence reads:

In London, where Southampton Row passes Russell Square, across from the British Museum in Bloomsbury, Leo Szilard waited irritably one gray Depression morning for the stoplight to change.

Though it’s not a habit of mine, having read the first sentence of this 800-page book I immediately closed it again and set it aside. My short attention span had bound me to search for this mystical intersection over Google Street View, would that I might imagine it better.

Actually, this isn’t wholly true. I had to read a bit further, as the historical weight of the intersection only becomes apparent at the end of Rhodes’ paragraph:

As he crossed the street time cracked open before him and he saw a way to the future, death into the world and all our woe, the shape of things to come.

A condensed version of the story is this: On the morning of September 12, 1933, Szilard read a summary of a speech on nuclear research given by Ernest Rutherford to the British Association, who denounced any hope of harnessing the Christ-melting potential energy within the atom as “moonshine,” which is Depression-speak for stupid and impossible. Szilard read this, possibly in the bathtub surrounded by scented candles, while a guest at the Imperial Hotel overlooking Russell Square.


Rutherford’s proclamation goaded him, and so the gears in Szilard’s head set to grind that morning on the subject of nuclear physics, in which he was something of an expert.

When he left the hotel on one of his regular thoughtful strolls, his feet took him across Southampton Row to Russell Square. As legend has it, by the time he got to the other side of the street, he had realised that if one atom, when hit by a neutron, ejected (say) two neutrons, each of which hit another atom, both in turn ejecting two more neutrons which go on to hit two other atoms etc., one might just sustain a nuclear chain reaction and release untold amounts of energy; none of this having occurred to common yokes like Lord Rutherford. Thus, nuclear energy was unofficially conceived, as were nuclear weapons and the profound change in the scale of human (ir)responsibilty which they signalled for all time.

Which story gives off a cultural aura that I wanted to witness firsthand. But while we’re on the subject, there happens to be a few additional tidbits on hand that make this area of London even more striking to the nerdish tastes:



George Orwell & The Ministry of Information.


Not precisely on Russell Square but towering a little ways behind it, you’ll see a great behemoth of a building known as The Senate House. Today it’s the nerve center of the University of London, but during World War II it housed the Ministry of Information, propaganda base for the war effort. The story goes that George Orwell’s wife worked here in the censorship department, redacting articles and controlling radio broadcasts (or whatever they do in censorship departments), and as a result George-o got something of an inside look at the machinery of state propaganda. Inevitably, this insight burrowed itself into his mind and cropped up in 1984 as the infamous Ministry of Truth. To a diehard Orwell fan this information alone is enough to justify a quick gander at the place, which is at any rate a decent example of monumental classicism in architecture if you were looking for one –a ‘dictatorial’ building style (Hitler and Stalin were fans). If you find this the least bit interesting, then prepare to look suspicious, as I did, wandering impatiently back and forth trying to take a sneaky photo without coming off as a tourist or a spy.

T.S. Eliot, Faber and Faber.

The North West corner of the garden at 24 Russell Square, again a London U. Building, was back in the day the HQ of the squishy literary teddy bear T.S. Eliot: critic and poet extraordinaire, Nobel Laureate (for what that’s worth), and mild anti-Semite. He worked here during his highly influential Faber & Faber editorial years, where he published the hell out of Auden, Spender, MacNiece, Joyce, Plath and not-so-mild anti-Semite Pound, to name a few. Incidentally, while at Faber he also rejected Orwell’s drafts for both Down and Out in Paris and London and Animal Farm, which his fine editor’s sense evidently decided were “unprintable shit-uscripts.”

Legend has it that Eliot would often sit out in the gardens at Russell Square to enjoy a cheeky fajita and Sunny D for lunch as he ruminated on the best way to exact his organ-shrivelling rejection on the heaps of submissions burying his desk, while looking sharp in a double-breasted suit and bowler. He even earned the name ‘Pope of Russell Square’ among the locals, though he may have originated the term for himself while drunkenly accosting passersby from up a tree in the early morning hours, wrapped in blankets and brandishing a heavy stick.

At least, he never said he didn't.

Virginia Woolf & The Bloomsbury Group.

Along the same lines as Eliot, though more bohemian and rad, the Bloomsbury Group had a house not on Russell Square –in fact on a different square altogether, about two steps away on Gordon Square. It’s not even Russell Square! you say. What a stretch! Am I that desperate? No: sit near Russell Square for a while in the early twentieth-century and I guarantee you Virginia Woolf, or E.M. Forster, or John Maynard Keynes, or Lytton Strachey, or some other eminent Bloomsburian will walk past, and may even ask you to stop drooling on the pavement. We are in Bloomsbury, and this was its artistic Group, some of whom lived here before moving away to rural Sussex near a town called Lewes where there’s a lovely place to have breakfast called Bill’s, go there if you’re in the area. But I digress. With all these associations floating around, it’s a mystery how Russell Square hasn’t become a magical mile-wide golden oak tree from all the cultural monoliths that have graced it with their seedlings of fertility.


And no doubt even more things have happened in and around Russell Square. In fact, on a serious note, it was a bus diverted down Southampton Row that carried one of the four 7 July 2005 bombs, another being on the Piccadilly line train running between here and King’s Cross. Not an uplifting association, to be sure, but one worth remembering as you point and smile at the place where the atomic bomb was practically incubated, the inspiration for Orwell’s dystopian total-propaganda machine towering starkly behind you.

... young Beatles loitering happily. A photo of them walking towards
Russell Square along Guilford Street is among their most famous.

It's a neat London area, so take a stroll there someday like Leo did and maybe you'll get an idea.

Some good info shamelessly lifted from here and here.

Spring clean-up.

Where I Learned

Click pic to make it big.


For the final project of my Foundations of Digital Images course, we were asked to create a series of nine images which examine space and the way we see it. The aim is to present a new or unusual perspective; an idea which stems from the Situationists, who we've been studying this term. I'll write more on them later, because they are fascinating. We were allowed to use found imagery; the focus was on concept, but I'll take any opportunity to do a photography project. I decided to do something with the palace, and spaces within it which have a unique meaning for me. The goal was to make that meaning more apparent, and maybe remind the viewer of the weight of experience and how it shapes what we see. Anyways it's a little campy maybe but I'm proud of it, which is a new thing, for me, so here you go, blog, enjoy.

Ben

Copying Emily's Biography Style (EBS)

Benjamin Borden roomed with me for 84 days. He hails from Texas, but moved to Washington D.C. to attend boarding school before starting bouncing around and ending up at McGill University. Ben had many great stories, partially because he was older than I, and partially because he always was himself. Ben worked in the McGill Islamic Studies department, and therefore had a few samples from ancient hymns, which he always incorporated into his music. Anytime he was on his computer, he was always compiling his samples into new sounds and songs. He was the only real hipster I've ever known. He built his pink fixie and always whined that he wanted to go back to Montreal to ride that damn thing. He worked as a bike messenger back in D.C., and got hit by a car. He was never afraid to be himself. I remember about the 20th night of our encounter, he came back after a long night complaining about how he was dancing in south Beijing and injured his foot while jumping. I shrugged him off, but 3 days later we were at the hospital and the doctor molded a cast for him and gave him crutches. (It cost about $25 CAD for all that work). Thus Ben was now on crutches, but that didn't stop him from attending concerts, going around town, and just enjoying life. It seemed as thought all his clothes were just the surpluses from old conferences of times past, and he once told me that he only wore black skinny Levi'ses. He bought his glasses at this budget shop in South Texas for $40, everything included. Often he would walk out of the door with the same clothes he slept in. Surprisingly, his girlfriend was from Calgary, and I managed to briefly Skype her to reminisce about how close MacEwan was to Sandstone. She made modern art for a living, being funded by the Government of Canada and having some of her work being put in exhibitions. Ben studied in Urban Planning, and talked to me about his friends in Architecture: about the hierachy of the business, how to free-lance in China, and designing bathrooms in highrises. I was fascinated by everything he had to say. He looked 5 years younger with no beard, like his innocence was replaced every time he shaved. His favorite snack were those purple taro biscuits: spheres of taro goodness, wrapped in a flaky crust. I remember we once went to a bakery and just ate Taro for dinner. He was always in and out and I sometimes didn't see him for a few days, and he would reappear suddenly, telling me of a crazy story of him in a spa filled with naked men in some part of town. I remember when we went to a random metro stop and got off. To the left were grandparents doing Tai Chi in a park. To the right was an enormous building with the highest of brand names, only solicited by the richest of the rich. We danced until it got dark and then cabbed home. He once told me he doesn't use shampoo for his hair, however once I told him he could use mine, he admitted that he had snuck a little from time to time. When it was time to go back to Canada, we said our goodbyes and promised to meet up in Montreal. But as way lead on to way, we never did. He went to Toronto, and then Montreal, and then to Europe with his band to tour for a few months. I never really thought much of it until today. But when he comes back to Montreal to put on a show, I will be there, watching from the back.

Notebook Excerpt I

I was reading through my notebook the other day to discover a gem of a quote that I had penned in about 6 months ago. I scribbled it in very late one night, and thought I would transcribe it for you:

From James Cone's "Martin & Malcolm & America"
King attacked the Negro-white problem by advocating integration, which he often interpreted as Negroes having the same opportunities as whites, living with them, going to school with them, and becoming like them. He often communicated the idea that unless Negroes are in the same schools as whites and socialize with them, they cannot be free or equal to whites. But by becoming integrated with whites, a few (and only a few) Blacks acquired middle-class income, status, and values which separated them from the black masses, especially their religion. For integration, by its very definition, alienated blacks from their cultural history and thereby from those religious values that empowered them to fight for freedom. To be "free" meant to become white, and to be white in America has always meant the opposite of being black. King's American dream had to be universal, that is white, before it could capture the imagination of the majority of white people in the United States. In fact, the success of black persons in the mainstream of Americal is primarily dependent on their willingness to deny their African identity and become just an American.

Melanna

Melanna has an anchor tattooed on her right wrist. It suits her.
She grew up on a farm outside Calgary where she was home schooled. She is frequently brutally honest, and often charmingly crude. After a string of nomadic years in Alberta, BC, and Europe, she came to Vancouver to attend a college for holistic nutrition. In September Melanna hopes to attend UBC to pursue her lifelong passion for midwifery. She spent last summer fighting forest fires in Nelson, BC. She laughs entirely too loud. Sometimes Melanna eats grains of sea salt straight out of the jar like I eat grains of fresh ground pepper. We will do this at the same time some days, like the yin and yang of flavour addicts.
Melanna is one of the few people I've ever met who still speak as though words are a gift; as though through them truth is achievable. On more occasions than I can count, she has kept me sane; anchored. On as many others, she has made me delicious healthy meals. She makes miso soup so divinely comforting it wraps your insides in a blanket and you huddle instinctively and humbly around the bowl like it holds salvation. Imagine this liquid gold being brought to you when you are sick. Melanna does this. She also dances; in her room she cranks Matisyahu or Miike Snow or Frightened Rabbit or Kid Cudi or Pheonix or gratuitous club anthems like that one about the Sexy Bitch, and just jumps around. Sometimes I join her, and we wholeheartedly shake and jump and yell and twist and flail all thoughts away with no concern for grace or pride until Sexy Bitch starts to sound like perfect innocence.
Melanna looks like the best Sunday you ever had, and like nature. She leaves for a few days at a time every two weeks or so, wearing cowichan sweaters and hiking shoes and a backpack, to see Russ in Kamloops, who is a mountain biker and easy going the way flannel is comfortable. She sounds like sleepovers, momentous revelations, and fire. This is also how she eats; with steady fervour. She smells like home and joie de vivre, and best of all, coconut. I've never met anyone with such a healthy awareness of freedom, and of exactly what she wants and needs, so much so that it feels healthy just to be around her. She is as much an anchor as she is the perfect lack of one. She gave me a bracelet for Christmas. It sits on my wrist right where that tattoo sits on hers, because I want to be reminded of all of these things, because they seem significant to me.

Some choice quotes
Upon returning from a trip to Victoria, when her still-packed backpack falls to the floor with a sharp thud:
(GASP) MY COLESLAW!
Showing me a bottle of pills on her shelf in the fridge:
Emily I want you to take one of these every other day on an empty stomach. I stole them from Whole Foods, they'll really help keep your energy up, and they're probiotic.
To an inebriated stranger, on a dare at the Cambie one night, for which I bought her a coffee every day for some time, followed by a suddenly sober response, and then we high fived and laughed for five minutes in the washroom:
Are you too drunk to get a boner?
In response to a listless comment I made lying on the floor beside the fireplace:
You're very poetic when you're depressed.
Out of nowhere:
There was a paperclip in the washroom at the airport, I knew I should have taken it.

Conversation Over Dinner

a- What are you making?
b- Just some pasta and stuff. I'm gonna put these beans in. I bought this '18 bean mix' today, pretty excited about it.
a- Eighteen-
b- I love beans.
a- -Different... Beans...
b- These beans- I've had the beans soaking for a while. They're good for you, I mean-
a- Beans is a funny word.
b- Beans is?
a- Yeah, beans IS. Beeeeaaaans iiiiis.
b- That's just 'cause you're saying it a lot.
a- I'm not-
b- Happens with any word.
a- -saying it a lot, wait. I'm not to blame here.
b- Blame?
a- I didn't buy the '18 bean mix'.
b- What? What are we blaming me for? This-
a- You're bean-obsessed.
b- What?
a- Bean lover.
b- Am not.
a- Earlier you said: I love beans.
b- ...Jesus fuck. You're right, I said that.
a- YEAH.
b- Why are you doing this, why are you being so-
a- Why am I BEIN'? You're not even rational anymore.
b- Oh that's cute.
a- Why don't you start wearing a BEANIE everywhere and sitting in BEAN-
b- You're embarrassing yourself.
a- -bag chairs collecting BEANIE bab- WHY DON'T YOU MARRY MR. BEAN?!
b- Pretty proud of that one eh?
a- You guys can go around telling people where you've BEEN-
b- Look just stop, stop, stop... Stop saying beans.
a- I will when you stop requiring eighteen varieties of them.
b- Seriously. There's other stuff... in here, so...
a- Alright.
b- Just-
a- Alright what else? What else is... cookin' here?
b- Well. I've got some chopped toms, got a little cheese, fried up some zucchini and mushrooms, got some steamed kale. The sauce is kind of a blend I-
a- Kale is steamed.
b- Well that sounds, kinda general, you know, not all kale has to-
a- Man, Kale is so steamed right now.
b- ...Yeah...
a- I've never seen Kale steamed like this.
b- But- I mean like, what do you mean by that?
a- WHAT HAS GOT KALE SO STEAMED??
b- What do you mean by the things you're saying.
a- Sorry, just... You know when you said that, it reminded me of my fake brother.
b- ... ...Levin?
a- No, Levin's real, he's just not my real brother.
b- So he's your fake brother.
a- Right. I'm talking about my FAKE brother. Kale. I couldn't even imagine him steamed, I always imagine him being extremely mellow. He gives surfing lessons, you know?
b- I am... just so lost.
a- Well see, my fake family owns a surf shop in Tofino. It's called Wavelengths. Kale teaches surfing out of Wavelengths. I help out with the shop, a lot, you know, and-
b- Okay, I'm just- gonna pick one- thing here, why Kale? Why would that be his name?
a- Same reason anybody's named anything right? Our fake parents. I mean yeah, sort of an odd choice on their part, but that's Thatcher and Zinnia for you, HUGE hippies you know, never let-
b- Wow.
a- Yeah! They never let us call them mom and dad, either. Something about freedom from unnecessary and ancient societal conventions that restrict... freedom...
b- Right, so you would call them...
a- Thatcher and Zinnia.
b- Wow.
a- Of course those aren't their real names.
b- No, that would be absurd.
a- I mean their original names, like from birth, they never told us. They didn't want to be associated with other peoples' intentions for them; didn't want any negative-
b- Hold on-
a- ...name energy...
b- Do you mean to tell me, that neither you, nor your fake brother Kale, are aware of the real names, of your fake parents?
a- That's a fact.
b- Is it? Sort of depends on the phrasing... I guess...
a- Anyways what is 'real', you know?
b- Do you?
a- I mean they got them legally changed, so that even by society's standards, they'd be who they wanted to be.
b- And they wanted to be Thatcher and Zinnia. God I am just, I just can't stop thinking about your real parents right now.
a- What? Why would-
b- I've met them. They're nice.
a- What do they have to do with anything?
b- Maybe I should send them flowers.
a- Can we get-
b- Or an apology...
a- Let's get back on point here. They chose. You know? They gave themselves the right to choose their own identities-
b- Fake identities.
a- They made use of their own personal power, which I always admired, for sure I did. Thatcher, he just wanted to get back to a simpler time, you know, back to the basic things in life. See, a long time ago, people didn't have last names, so to distinguish amongst themselves they would say their occupation after their name, hence like Smith, Miller, so forth...
b- How much time have you spent with your fake family?
a- So it evolved, like from: "Hi, I'm William." "You're William? I just met William, down the road, he was... taller, and I'm confused now."
b- Wait, sorry, pause. Which William in this scenario is your fake dad?
a- Neither, what?
b- ...tall William, or?-
a- No this is an example. You're missing-
b- Mmkay, maybe just, continue and I'll catch on.
a- K so short William says, "I'm William the Thatcher. Like William comma Thatcher. William Thatcher."
b- Why not just William Short? Like William comma Short.
a- No 'cause I thatch. Like with roofs, I do the thatching. I'm a thatcher.
b- Right, so fake pops is a thatcher.
a- Oh... No, there's not really a market for that anymore. He runs the shop.
b- Oh yeah, Wavelengths...
a- ...Does a little farming, in our yard... as well.
b- Sure, sure, sustainability...is um, is key...
a- Beautiful carrots.
b- Wait what about your fake mom? Why Zinnia? Is she-
a- Why the FUCK, right??
b- -like attention starved, or...
a- Kale and I think so. She's always speaking just slightly... too loud. Thatcher says she's fragile. How are those beans?
b- ...Diverse.

Sunsets

As the orange sun passes over the orange hills, the skyscrapers transform from blue to black. Gradually the shadows lengthen and grow, stretched out to an infinite length, stretched out until they are fully strained and ready to break at any instant. And finally they do. Light struggles and whimpers to its death, like a hoary television turning off. The shadows mock the light as it flees, and then firmly envelop us. One by one tiny lights shine. The yellow warmth coming from homes uncountable and the clinical white of the office towers busily work to restore our faith. Street lamps are tiny dots in the expansive darkness. But why should we grieve for the light? It shall return in the morning, and in the morning the light will be as bright as today. But the night feels so long, so long, so long.

Travel Passtimes

Planning how to survive a jump from the moving train to the ground; making a list of situations in which this skill would be useful.

Photo Life

Episode 2

Forever Ago
It was most likely made in 1945, in the Czech Republic. The Meopta Flexaret. Not exactly a notable brand as tlr's go, but this one is well preserved. It sits on a table in the Sunnyside Hillhurst community market surrounded by others; all of them beautiful specimens, but the Flex is the oldest and most magical machine on display. It calls to me, and so I shell out fifty hard-earned gelato shop dollars for this, my first real camera.
I call Brother right away. He'll remember what it was like, in the beginning, and I hope this memory gives him the patience to walk me through the beginner stuff. He does this wonderfully. He confirms what the man at the market taught me about all the functions, knows from the expired roll of film he gave me where to go for usable film, figures out how to load it, cleans the lenses, and even replaces the old eroded mirror with one he takes from one of his mother's compacts. Just like new. He sits his little brother down at their kitchen table to be my subject, and when Keir gets bored of this, sets up for me an array of objects; figurines, half a green pepper, until I've used up the first roll.

-------------------------------------------------------------

I remember how it felt looking down at that little movie screen those first few days, as though just by framing what I saw I was creating something new. I remember trying to memorize the physical presence of it, this brick of a camera with all it's gadgetry; knobs, winder, little metal levers and buttons, even the fonts used. And the leather case, its rusty colour and worn edges, the stitching and the sound of the snap closure. Maybe it's an overly sentimental attachment, or maybe I'm just good at knowing when something is going to be important, because when I held the Flexaret, I cradled it like you would the beginning of anything.
Since then, I've acquired (and in some cases lost) nine other cameras. I no longer depend on the Flex, but I still bring it out sometimes. When I do, I silently thank it, and the man at the market, and every circumstance that brought me to this hobby that now seems to be the shape of every plan and goal I have. And I thank Brother, whose help, criticism, and rare praise have been an odd and obvious motivation, and who, like the Flexaret, is not the reason I started, but is most certainly to blame for much of where I've since been.

Not only triangles

If the n-sided polygons made a god,
they would give him n sides.

— Montesquieu,
after he applied inductive reasoning

Vector Field

f(x,y,z) = sin(x)
g(x,y,z) = xy
h(x,y,z) = yz
Vector density: 10
Vector scale: 1

Unusual Literary Form of the Day

Review of an imaginary work.

The author invents an entire novel --characters, setting, plot and all. Then, instead of undertaking the long hardship of writing it, he/she writes a critical review of the book as though it already existed. Dig Borges:

"It is a laborious madness and an impoverishing one, the madness of composing vast books --setting out in five hundred pages an idea that can be perfectly related orally in five minutes. The better way to go about it is to pretend that these books already exist, and offer a summary, a commentary on them." (foreword to Ficciones)

Like The Approach To Al-Mu'tasim.

Lesson: Sometimes brevity breeds the best of both worlds

Mellisa's Apartment

This is where Mellisa lives.

Rhyming Haiku

An ode to quirky plumbing:

Glory days of heat
Though forgotten now, were sweet
Warmth pooled by my feet

Now the ice comes out
From my mouth springs forth a shout
Get in and get out

Autobiography

Actual personal biography submitted to the Quebec Engineering Competition Innovative Design Category, held this year at Sherbrooke University from January 21-24.

1.3 David Ting

The son of two engineers, David has continued the family legacy by enrolling himself into the Chemical Engineering program at McGill University. Born and raised in Southern Alberta, David was raised alongside the cattle and the horses at Angry Cowboy Ranch, located at the outskirts of Lethbridge. His parents knew David was destined for engineering when, at age five, he built a contraption that facilitated farm-wide manure transportation. This was indicative of David’s burgeoning interest in design and fabrication. His decision to move to Quebec marked a tumultuous time in David’s life. After being exiled from the ranch for bartering two cattle for the lowly price of 20 bushels of wheat, David packed up his belongings and flew to Montreal before enrolling in McGill. He, however, could not shake his Albertan roots. His choice to enter Chemical Engineering was in hopes to gain a job in the Albertan Oil Sands and to eventually reclaim his family’s reputation for shrewd bartering. His interests in Chemical Engineering are diverse: ranging from the 7-times tables, to manure production, to manure consumption. David has always wanted to be innovative and his interest in design made the Innovative Design category an obvious choice. His interests outside of university include square dancing, horseback riding, and bone-hockey (an Albertan variant of hockey played with cow bones instead of sticks).

Do you like pictures?

Brother can snap 'em.

Back Home

Soundtrack A: All You Ever Wanted - The Black Keys
"Take a step before runnin', yeah,
Take a breath before you die."
It's still dark out when the cab pulls up. Everyone is asleep, I said goodbye last night. From this moment until the one where I see my father I'm in what I'm told is called liminal space. Supposedly such a state of transition creates an attitude, perspective, or state of being that will never exist outside of this stretch between point A and point B, life here and life there, so that what is said, done, or thought by a person in this space would be unlikely to occur elsewhere. When this was explained to me, I was thrilled to come to a new understanding of why I love transportational vehicles of every variety, being awake at odd hours, being in a foreign place, being underwater, and swings.
Last night I couldn't sleep. I was completely packed, and lying on the couch just blinking and waiting for time to pass. I'm feeling it now, in the cab; fatigue and simultaneously, a complete lack of desire for sleep. There are people I need to see. I miss a certain fellow and the curls under his hat. I miss Brother and other friends, their easy smiles and inside jokes and, selfishly, their notions of me. I miss my family. I miss being surrounded by people who have abided all my mistakes and will continue to do so because they can't help but love me and if they could help it they wouldn't. But most importantly, in recent months some things have happened; ugly, sad, natural, and phenomenal things that have wreaked havoc on the part of my brain that tells me my family is a secure and unmovable thing. It turns out we are movable. This is harder to bear from a distance, since I can do nothing but talk and listen and hurt from very far away. These things are all braided together, into a rope that is pulling me home. I am nervously eating the snacks that Melanna packed for me.
"All hands on deck now,
The sea is getting rough again."

Soundtrack B: Home - Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
Taking off is a wonderful thing. Your spatial relation to your environment changes so smoothly, but so fast. A minute ago you were sitting on the ground looking at the men in reflective jackets with their hand-pylons, then a powerful thing happened, and now the entire city is minuscule and you are leaving it behind for the clouds.
"Home, let me go home,
Home is wherever I'm with you."
I start to feel optimism and excitement seeping in slowly. It's in the recycled airplane air. I know this partly because the flight was delayed almost three hours, and I should be accordingly frustrated but I'm not. They are pumping us all full of it, the tainted happy-hopeful air, and when we land, it will spill out the doors along with us and dissipate in the frozen air. I pass the time by listing in my head all the people I aim to hug and the most probable order in which I will hug them, and following that I rank their respective hugging styles and effectiveness. I'm glad my dad is picking me up from the airport, he really puts his all into it. Number one on all three lists. I imagine a dramatic scene in which I see him looking around nervously from across a crowded arrivals area, shout "Poppa!", and run to meet him. The actual high probability of this makes me chuckle out loud, and then glare at the nearest flight attendant. It's not right drugging people like this.
Out the window, I can see a miniature snow-covered Calgary and area, as though it were carved from a Willow tree; a vast expanse of white cut into by the black grid of roads and the edges of little black roofs. And there are mountains here too. They always mark my place like pins on a map. There is a jet of air from the engine moving across my field of view that blurs some of the image beneath it, and suddenly I'm watching a little movie shot with a tilt-shift lens, and I make a note to tell Brother about this. We will go shooting again, and we will go to Wal-Mart in the wee hours again, and we will sing in his car again, and everything will be like it was but also new.
"Man oh man you're my best friend,
I scream it to the nothingness,
There ain't nothing that I need.
...
Home is wherever I'm with you."
Landing is almost as good as takeoff, because everything is shaky and when the wheels hit the ground it's like you're careening down the runway holding down the brakes and hoping for the best. It makes you realize how fast you were going, and also how much you are expecting.
Aisle, bridge, gate, terminal, baggage, doors, a deep breath of cold crisp dry Calgary air in my lungs and a big blue sunny sky then Dad.

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Soundtrack C: The New Year - Death Cab For Cutie
"So this is the new year,
And I have no resolutions,
For self-assigned penance,
Or problems with easy solutions."
It's an evening flight this time, a careful step in the planning of a return on New Years day. I can feel my pulse under my temples, pumping bittersweet feelings, exactly like when I left only the bitter has switched places with the sweet, and this time the after-effects of alcohol might be slightly involved. It's dark when we take off, and the city recedes again but it's a different movie at night. All that white white white replaced by black and lights lights lights; kind of like a computer chip, and it's mapping where I went and who I saw and what I resolved and what I didn't all in different colours. I feel healthy. Christmas does that. It's all the family, I guess. All the gathering, and goodwill. The whole time there was a consciousness of the window between arrival and departure, which might have made things clearer, or maybe that's my imagination. I'm having a casual conversation about New Years exploits with a guy next to me who I would probably never talk to under normal circumstances, and I'm wondering if ever in life there is a peaceful balance, or if you always miss a little bit too much of where you're not.
"I wish the world was flat like the old days,
And I could travel just by folding a map,
No more airplanes or speedtrains or freeways,
There'd be no distance that could us back."
For me the best part about this is that I have to believe it was thought up on an airplane, speedtrain, or freeway.

Soundtrack D: Wisconsin - Bon Iver
In the cab the driver is asking me about my holidays. I seem to have arrived during some sort of heat wave; the windows of the taxi are open to allow the sounds of seagulls and the warm, humid air to rush in and cloud my mind with the salty, damp smell of ocean and moss. This scent has no place in my thoughts and now the driver is saying in the mirror, "How were your holidays?" He can see I'm distracted and is not annoyed by it, just keeps asking things and waiting patiently for my vague and abstract answers; faltering stabs at conversation. He must know the distraction is a sad one. He must know I'm trying not to let my mind wander. It's too soon to be missing the place where I was, mere hours ago, but I can't help it when the cutoff is so abrupt. The rope that brought me home was a reassuring thing, it was strength and direction, and now it's been loosened and released and I'm floating in between. I can't decide if this trip, there and back, is the best of both worlds or the breaking of them. I'm happy, and lucky, I think, but there are things I can't bring with me and don't want to leave behind. I'm crossing my arms and folding my hands, but I can't get rid of the warm, shadowy feeling on my stomach where his arm was, forever ago or seconds ago. And I don't know how to bring it with me, but I can't get rid of the shape of his shoulder, or those fuzzy hat-head curls, they're etched into my hand. We pull up in front of the palace and through the window I see Parisa dancing.
"That was Wisconsin, that was yesterday,
Now I have nothing that I can keep,
'Cause every place I go I take another place with me."

Soundtrack E: Is There a Ghost - Band of Horses
Kevin and Parisa help me bring my bags up the steps, and I get inside and say brief hellos to everyone before tearing off layers in my room. It is so hot I can feel the red when I touch my face. The house is a mess. My room appears thankfully untouched, however, even though I left my doors open and my mattress in the upright, house party condition. Stragglers from last night's New Years extravaganza have carried the after party well into the following evening, and have since started again. I visit in the living room for a while, until Parisa tells me Melanna is home. When I knock on her door, she looks shocked to see me, and quite suddenly I'm overwhelmed with the relief of her company. We sit on her bed and the stories come rushing in rivers from our mouths. It's late now, but seeing Melanna again feels like sunlight. This is not hard to imagine in her bright room with it's sky-blue walls and the warm breeze drifting in through the open window. She gives me a bracelet from Nelson, which she excitedly assures me will fit my tiny wrist, and tells me I look healthy. She says I am glowing. Eventually I say goodnight, return to my room and throw myself into unpacking.
I remember the feeling I had the day I moved in. It was thrilling, not exactly like this, but similar. For the moment I am happy to be here, and to have been where I was. I want it to last as though every day is the day I get back. I work until there is nothing left to do, and when I finally lie down, it is the night before I left. I blink and wait for time to pass.
"I could sleep,
When I lived alone,
Is there a ghost in my house?"
I have not yet arrived. I don't know when I will. Vancouver is calling me back home, another life here awaits my return, and it seems I am not waiting to fall asleep as much as I am waiting to wake up.
"I could sleep, I could sleep, I could sleep, I could sleep,
When I lived alone,
Is there a ghost in my house?
When I lived alone,
Is there a ghost in my house?
My house..."

Travels

Papaya Dog, New York, New York

Liberty Bell, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

BJ's, Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania

National Christmas Tree, Washington, DC

Peter Pan Buffet, Fairfax, Virginia

Shenandoah Caverns, Quicksburg, Virginia

Chesapeake Bay, Baltimore, Maryland