camel attack!!!

party picture!

2012-02-01T18:49:00.000-05:00

mirage, some thoughts from a Victorian gentleman

2011-12-04T18:42:00.017-05:00

Walking home yesterday I found a pile of books and magazines on the sidewalk. Old Architectural Digests and paperback thrillers mostly, but also one really weird-neat thing. As far as I can tell it's a self-published journal written by one James Charles Simpton, about whom the internet tells me absolutely nothing. The book runs from 1860 to 1874, sometimes entries happen daily (or almost) and sometimes, mainly near the end, there are huge gaps (hello June 1872 to January 1874).

He never mentions working but seems to have money that he spends mainly on religious icons and statuary, illegal pornography, and food. A lot of it is vague and I sometimes wish he had more specific things to say. About this Elizabeth Morris woman specifically, rather than just writing more shit poetry about her ashen face and blood red cheeks. Woo woo, racy!

It's neat mostly because it's there, a person from a different era complaining about stuff (train was late, winter turnips are the worst, etc.), and I guess in that way we can draw some blog parallels.

HOWEVER, there are parts where he does more thinking, his take on religion being a good example. To Mr. Simpton Christianity is number one and Catholicism number one within Christianity, although at the same time he considers defending a specific religion as the "one true" anything to be beyond practicality. He likes Catholicism best and everyone else is free to dance beneath a full moon at their leisure. Fair enough I say, a reasoned personal argument on his faith and the belief structure he takes most solace from. BUT THEN he footnotes a few suggested changes to the traditional Latin mass; everything looks largely the same - church, robes, incense, chanting and whatnot - but instead of everyone listening passively, the service is more like an elaborate orgy pantomime (fair enough) with only very brief and seemingly unsatisfying sexual contact. What's the point of that bud?

I don't know if he ever figured out what is obviously a complex relationship with his faith, but in the book's final entry, and the apparent end to his diarist career, he expresses some very specific feelings about the economy (SPOILER ALERT: he isn't super positive). I've typed out Simpton's thoughts around what he saw emerging from the thick smog of a nascent industrial London. I'll let his words stand alone, and leave it to you to decide how exactly one goes about having dreams like the one he describes near the end!

-----

January 23rd, 1874

On St. Helen's day past I was the proud recipient of C. Dickens' book The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit but have only just now finished reading it. Rather, re-reading it, as it passed before me two decades previous. Reading this time I was struck by a shockingly clever, but inevitably hopeless, scandalous ruse executed by one of the characters, a Montague Tigg. The purpose behind the plan is to become exceedingly wealthy and to explain it I will generalize away from the book's particular example. To become rich in this fashion one must first establish a club or a fund where members are offered returns from some ephemeral, and often unspecified, investment, preferably one that sounds very exciting but is also very difficult to confirm as an actual thing. Investing in an imagined gold mine on an obscure and far off island is an ideal example. The gold mine does not exist and therefore any profits used to demonstrate the project's viability must come from somewhere else, namely an ever greater number of new investors.

The system seems to work and can provide handsome profits for those looking to make withdrawals so long as new gullible entrants can be found to contribute their monies. If no one new can be found, or the new wealth does not match withdrawals, the entire scheme fails. It should also be noted that whatever group or individual initiated the scheme is most likely taking their pound of flesh the whole time as well. Oh wealth!

The whole thing is of course highly corrupt and morally bankrupt, but hardly a new idea. As preposterous as it might sound, a similar system was used to prop-up the mighty Roman Empire long after it should have died, succumbing to its over-reach, resource depletion and a Sybaritic lifestyle amongst its ruling class. In the Roman case, however, the noble offer of citizenship was extended rather than the crass gleam of gold. Of course with the advantages citizenship provided around taxation, access to markets and mobility a promise of increased wealth was implicit in the offer. Oh wealth! Its promise is enough to encourage obeyance and render barbarian and Imperial interests as one.

It is revealing that an Empire grown too big, unable to sustain its borders and economic networks, thought growing those selfsame networks and borders, increasing its population and bureaucratic apparatus, would solve its problems. People are blinded by greed, and in this situation those in charge ignored that the behemoth they sat upon had long ago ceased its rattling and wheezing death throes. Unable to grasp reality they tried to grow through a difficult spell, but their system only worked so long as their were more people willing to join. Once conquest became too difficult, or the newly conquered recognized it was an animated corpse they had been subsumed by, there was no interest in contributing sweat and gold to imperial coffers. Citizenship means nothing when the nation supposedly granting it relevance is but a miasmatic fog.

People realized they were better offer pillaging the Empire rather than joining it, and in that respect they were doing what the emperors, senators and equestrians had been doing for centuries. One group used swords and flame, while the other used laws, bureaucracy and tax collectors.

Given the eventual results, the leaders of Empire might have been better to share their wealth,
but they were blinded, not by greed as some might suggest, but by the fear that in sharing what they had amassed they might lose their vaunted status and moneys. Living a life of opulence and excess disguises what life for the lower strata of society is really like. It provides ample opportunity to misapprehend the life of work and getting-by led by many, creating instead a terrifying imagined reality where life is dirt cake and urine for wine. Although centuries before Malthus these people must have grasped what he put to paper, namely that there is only so much to be shared and if you get more then certainly I must expect less.

I write at length about the Roman Empire because it is highly illustrative of humanity's abilities at self-deception and delusion, particularly when greed has taken hold. A man stands in the market collecting gold and silver from his fellows and as a wall behind him begins to crumble he does not move to safety, so focused is he on money, only perhaps commenting on the strange clouds that have appeared to make his counting more difficult.

I wonder if we can ever learn from our history and build a better future. Today the actions of those who rally and struggle for the rights of workers, demanding equitable distribution of wealth, might present some promise. But even now I look at this nascent movement and have my doubts. As leaders come to the fore won't they inevitably demand a greater share of what is produced so they can insure the system, under their bold leadership, will continue to function smoothly? Are there truly pure people in the world who are immune to wealth, or more realistically the comforts and satisfactions that wealth can so readily provide?

In my idle more than once I have dreamt future nations into being where many peoples led themselves into communal, cooperative perfection. Even in my dreams though, as the nation strove to greater wealth those who had once led as equals became more thoroughly entrenched and controlling of political, military and economic spheres. From outward appearances it seemed they had learnt from the past and were willing to share their nation's riches with all their fellows, but in the end it was a mirage. The mirage wavered but broke as people multiplied and resources dwindled, it could no longer hide the few who held true wealth and power. To stave off the inevitable, instead of citizenship money appeared, shuffled and created from thin air. Just as good as the old money, better, they said, but newer and there's more of it. Apparent benevolence and distributive largess told people they had a chance for their own wealth, a home, but the gift was instead a final frenzied orgy of distraction. Accumulation for those who could grasp the strongest, knew what they were seeking and what held true value.

To bait with a home is a dangerous ploy for in the home one finds a wattle-and-daub, brick or wood womb of a person's dreams. To snatch it away destroys a man leaving him worse than if he'd been homeless his whole life, the lost home becoming a tomb where hope and your future lie dead and only the screams of nightmares dance. And so the dream ends, a nation of people no longer willing to sign on to the moneymaking schemes put forth by their leaders, ready to turn their energies, as we saw with Rome, to more destructive ends.

Thankfully I am a light sleeper and have never seen to the end.

I don't know if Mr. Dickens imagined such darkness when he was writing his pretty little book, but one's mind can wander on these rainswept nights and dreams can leave a man fearful for humanity's future.

Oh wealth!

St Petersburg

2011-05-16T17:11:00.003-04:00

Ever been to Russia? I haven't, but with the power of the internet I can pretend.

WARNING! Do not use this map for navigation purposes. The scale is all wonky and I forgot a bridge!

Grandma is a matchmaker

2011-05-11T22:59:00.000-04:00

I'm experimenting in faster writing, with less editing time. Hopefully the result remains clear. Enjoy!

------

Grandma is a matchmaker.

One day we, me and my brother Leonard, were playing in our garden. We have a big garden and there are always big fat slugs crawling over the lettuce leaves. Mama gives us pennies when we catch slugs, then we take the pennies to the store on the corner for candy, or sometimes use all our pennies together and share an ice cream from the man who sells strawberry or chocolate from a big ice box on the back of his bike.

We hadn't found any slugs that day. My brother was lying on the little grass hill on the edge of the vegetable patch staring at the clouds and he told me that Grandma was a matchmaker. When he said it I thought he meant she made matches, like the ones I'm allowed to use to light the old stove at our cottage when we need to burn all those mini-cereal boxes we only ever eat there. The ones with white tips on red that smear across the black iron, strike anywhere matches. Leonard lit one on his zipper once.

As a matchmaker I picture her sitting at a large wooden desk, from the back. She has a bright light shining on her. On the desk to her right is an enormous pile of neatly stacked wooden sticks and she pinches one in her fingers, bringing it to a tiny red and white match cap that she pinches from an equally large pile to her left. Time after time. And if I imagine her face she has one of those one eyed glasses pinched in her right eye, and there's a magnifying glass so when she brings the stick and match-head together the pieces are easy to see and her hands are not just too big but look fat and ungainly. But they still make the same small connection, again and again. It's like she's a jeweler at work, except she's working from the wrong end of the periodic table.

The periodic table is where all the world's elements are listed with all their specific details, and some of them, depending on what they look like and stuff, people pay a lot of money for. It's a bit confusing because there are a lot of numbers but I like science and my brother tells me about it and lets me look at his books from class.

That's wrong though. Leonard told me she's a matchmaker because she knows who should get married. He figures in a few years grandma will probably tell him he's meant to marry Janet, some girl he goes to school with. He also says my old babysitter Joyce just got married to Lester Jenkins just because grandma said she should. They barely knew each other and I heard Joyce say once that she liked a boy named Tom, but they're married now anyway.

It's really confusing because I thought when people were in love, that's when they got married. I asked grandma and she asked me if I make my shoes and I laughed and laughed. I don't know how to do that. Then she asked me if I cut my hair. I do that sometimes, but Mama says I look silly when I do it and I think she's right so the barber does it. Grandma explained it like this:

You probably think you know your own hair better than anyone else because you're around it all the time, but other people see it more than you do. You need a mirror to see what it's doing, but others have a different perspective and can look at it in a different way than you. A barber cuts hair all day long, everyday. He sees all sorts of stuff and gets a good idea of what looks good. If the barber sees a fat headed child with red freckles and pudgy cheeks that squish his eyes closed he knows that boy's curly hair needs to be cut a certain way, and when a skinny older man whose hair his half grey and thinning in the middle sits down the barber knows that man needs something else to look his best. People might think they know what they like, and maybe who they want to marry, but they don't see love enough. They only truly think about love when they love and people can only love so many times in a life. Certainly not enough to be an expert. I think about love all the time. I know how certain kinds of love work for some people but different people need different love. And sometimes people might think they need love but what they really need is someone with a good job, or a person who loses their keys constantly, a husband with a short fuse but likes to go dancing on Saturday night, or a wife who cries horribly when she thinks the meatloaf is burned although each week it inevitably turns out more delicious than the one before. It's my job to know what people want and need, even if they don't.

What Grandma said makes sense I think. Mama and Dad are funny. Sometimes they yell or argue, but they always like to hug afterwards and give big kisses to each other. I thought everyone had parents that acted that way, but they do not. My friend Cal's parents never shout but I've seen them stare really mad. Their eyes can be mean. I guess that's what Grandma means. Mama and Dad like to yell, and like it when someone yells back. If Dad had married Cal's mom by accident they wouldn't be happy. He'd be yelling but she'd just be quiet and cross and staring at him and then no one would be happy.

humanist philosophy

2011-05-01T23:17:00.005-04:00

Inspired by Dan Beirne's fine fan fiction (and here) on Said the Gramophone I've been working on this for a few days. Had to get it out before the election.

Apologies if the format is wonky, it looks way better in pdf format.

                               Humanist Philosophy

By

                                  Camel Attack

              Sainted Strings of a Harp: an unauthorized biography
           (unpublished)

   INT. GENERAL-PURPOSE ROOM IN A CHURCH BASEMENT -- 1986

          The cinder block walls are painted yellow and mostly bare.
   Beside the door there is one large bulletin board that
   overflows with paper; fire procedures, upcoming socials and
   garage sale notices jostle for space. Another section of
   wall is covered in children’s art; smears of colour,
   abstract dogs and dozens of traced hands cut out and
   decorated. The only window in the room is at ceiling level
   and it is night outside. There is a table set up with mugs,
   coffee and two plates of sad biscuits.

   In the middle of the space chairs form a rough semi-circle.
   Some are empty while others are filled by eight men and two
   women. The people are from fat to thin but tend to be
   gathered at the poles. They seem weary, sick, depressed or
   all three; defeated by life and the world. One man, PRESTON,
   sits in the group, pale like the others but with eyes that
   are bright and alert. His head bobbles precariously on a
   long skinny neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple bulge. He
   wears a blue suit that should be smaller and needs pressing.
   In front of the chairs, watched by the gathered sunken and
   darkly-ringed eyes, two men stand:

   TED is the only person with colour in his face, thanks
   largely to a rancid orange tanning cream he has applied
   religiously for the past 3 years. He glows, exuding support
   and kindness looking towards STEPHEN.

   STEPHEN looks nervous wearing an unflattering sweater and
   blazer combo. His brown hair is thick and wavy but poorly
   cut. STEPHEN’s blue eyes move between the ground and TED
   until on a nod from TED he speaks:

    STEPHEN
  My name is Steve and I am afraid of
  ghosts.          

     GROUP
          (together)
  Hello Steve.

      TED
  Would you like to share a ghost
  story with the group Stephen?

    STEPHEN
  Yes. Thank you.

TED takes a seat in the semi-circle of chairs.

    STEPHEN(CONTINUED)

  I’ve only ever seen one ghost, and,
  well, I haven’t been the same
  since. It happened in 1984 when I
  was still a student, at the
  University of Calgary...am I meant
  to say that?

      TED
  It’s alright Stephen, tell us
  whatever you’re comfortable
  sharing.

    STEPHEN
  Well, I was working on an economics
  paper in the library late at night.
  Paranormal activity had never been
  a thing for me, and the library is
  a new building, so I wasn’t even
  thinking...I was just worried about
  my deadline.

Some of those in the chairs are nodding their understanding.

    STEPHEN(CONTINUED)

  I remember looking up from my books
  and being surprised because
  suddenly there was no one there. It
  was well after midnight and I
  suppose everyone had gone home, but
  I hadn’t noticed them leave. I
  didn’t even see a librarian at the
  circulation desk. I felt very
  alone.

STEPHEN stops for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing
deeply to compose himself. The meeting congregants shift
uneasily in their chairs. Even TED’s orange skin greys
slightly.

    STEPHEN(CONTINUED)
  I knew it was against library
  rules, but I had a ham sandwich and
  thermos of coffee hidden in my book
  bag.

      GROUP
  Knowing snickers and quiet laughs.

    STEPHEN
   (stares coldly at the
   gathering before him)

  It was a thermos of coffee.
   (looks at the ground and
   regains his composure)
  I decided to eat my sandwich and
  drink some coffee. I was flagging.
  No one was around. I didn’t even
  try to hide what I was doing.

  I had finished half my sandwich, it
  was a ham sandwich, did I mention
  that?

TED

  Yes. Go on Stephen. Take your time.

    STEPHEN

  So I had just eaten it and had some
  coffee when I heard a noise behind
  me. I turned and there was
  a...a...I still don’t know what to
  call it. It was an orb of light
  floating in space. A ghost.

       CUT TO:    
INT. LIBRARY STUDY AREA -- TWO YEARS BEFORE

STEPHEN sits turned in his chair. On the table, to his back,
sprawl a mess of books, a half-eaten sandwich and a thermos.
He looks the same, perhaps slightly younger and is wearing a
button-up shirt. He is staring incredulous and frightened at
an apparition. His words describe the scene.

    STEPHEN(V.O.)

  I stared, I don’t know how long,
  and it didn’t do anything, really.
  Just moved back and forth in front
  of the humanist philosophy section.
   (long beat as 1986 STEPHEN can
   be heard struggling with his
   emotions, 1984 STEPHEN is
   frozen in fear and confusion
   and the orb continues to do
   nothing except slowly change
   colours red, orange, green and
   back)

       CUT BACK:

INT. GENERAL-PURPOSE ROOM IN A CHURCH BASEMENT -- 1986

    STEPHEN
  Oh God! It didn’t DO ANYTHING! But
  that’s why it was so terrifying.
  Just a glowing ball, something you
  could never quite come to grips
  with or focus on, indeterminate and
  ominous, like it could turn into
  anything at any moment. The best
  thing I can say is it held
  potential. A horrible potential
  that was vaguely threatening. Am I
  making myself CLEAR? There was the
  possibility of looming DISASTER!

   (his voice is increasingly
   ragged, tears build in his
   eyes, and his face quakes. He
   has lost his cool)
  Then it was gone...and a librarian
  said they were closing...and I
  shouldn’t be eating or...drinking
  in the library.

STEPHEN breaks down and collapses with a whimper. TED has
anticipated the fall and is already standing to catch him.
TED’s orange seems to strengthen as he guides STEPHEN to a
chair. The shot stays on STEPHEN who is quietly crying.
Someone hands him a mug of coffee and a biscuit.

SLOW ZOOM ON STEPHEN

    PRESTON(V.O.)
  My name is Preston and I am afraid
  of ghosts.

     GROUP(V.O.)

  Hello Preston.

    PRESTON(V.O.)
  When I was 15 I went camping with
  my family in Tennessee. On that
  trip I lost my virginity to the
  ghost of a Confederate general’s
  mistress.

A DISCONSOLATE STEPHEN IS NOW FRAMED IN AN EXTREME CLOSE-UP.
STEPHEN sadly bites into his cookie and wipes his nose with
the back of his hand.

       FADE TO BLACK

     THE END

conversation

2011-03-28T17:47:00.006-04:00

When Jonathan talks to you he formulates a plan of attack. He generates rules for a game and the game provides the structure for a conversation. Jonathan does this because he likes boundaries and the sense of control they provide. The structure is not obtrusive though, and often puts all parties at ease whether they recognize the rules or not. For example:

the interview is a very simple form for a conversation to take. As you would imagine it involves Jonathan asking questions, with the answers he receives leading to the next question. Alternatively, questions needn't connect one to the next, instead being asked from a preconceived pool; what do you do for a living? do you have hobbies? etc. This conversation format is well paired with:

tell me more which ensures a conversation has linearity in its evolution. This conversation can also be called and then. Most simple for this format would be Jonathan prompting a day-in-the-life talk where waking leads to breakfast leads to ping pong leads to emails leads to some sort of macaroni lunch, and so on. Helpfully, if a tell me more conversation should move to an unsustainable tangent, returning to the main narrative is simple and avoids most awkward pauses. Tell me more and interview are both about extracting information rather than providing and will at times appear very similar, but:

all about me is the exact opposite. As the name suggests Jonathan uses this technique to talk about himself and his accomplishments, real or fictitious. He uses it in two distinct but related situations; meek, when trying to impress those whose accomplishments and bearing intimidate him; strong, when trying to impress those who he feels superior to in some way. Meek is employed with the other parties in mind, an attempt to prove to them Jonathan's right to be at the table. What other people say is vital to which anecdote or comment Jonathan says next. Strong, however, is dismissive of the other parties and is often delivered via an overwhelming staccato incorporating what the other person says only so far as it lets Jonathan tell another story from his life. In the most extreme situations strong becomes little more than a glorified stand-up routine. From one extreme to another:

the passive conversation needs minimal or no input from Jonathan. He need only be in proximity to others having a conversation so he can appear to be participating, even if he never speaks. Although this conversation seems simple it cannot be executed with complete strangers or Jonathan appears to be a weird creep. The too stoned variation facilitates a passive conversation where Jonathan wants to provide explanation for his silent observation. In this case Jonathan simply informs the people he's very high and content to just listen, relieving them of any obligation to incorporate him and providing the social credibility of drug use in the process.

Go with the flow is not one of Jonathan's conversation types. He finds its free-form nature terrifying and doomed to failure. While trying to maintain an unstructured conversation Jonathan tries to anticipate pitfalls, distracting himself from what's at hand and eventually generating too much self-fulfilling white noise to continue.

eyes closed

2011-03-25T18:05:00.003-04:00

As a child, usually on the way home from school, Dennis would walk for as long as possible with his eyes closed. It was a self imposed terror where each step meant one fewer until he tripped, hit a tree or stumbled into traffic. As he walked the tension from counting down to an unknown endpoint would ratchet ever higher, his leg muscles would tighten and each step pulled itself closer than the one before. When his nerve failed, usually within twenty paces from starting, he would open his eyes disappointed, still distant from any danger. Dennis' favourite subjects at school were art and recess, but a bodily understanding of probability and calculus was evident.

As an adult Dennis found himself blocks away from his last memory, looking up from his phone's screen, his thumb numb from the cold task of texting. His eyes had been open the whole time, just not looking or remembering past his hand while he'd navigated tracks of darkened sidewalks, avoiding people and poles, to get where he was. After a brief nap, beer, weed, vodka and Ritalin his steps were fluid and careless. For the time-being Dennis was unworried moving forward, whether he looked where he was going or not. He knew the thrum of dread that normally sat gently on his life could easily be resumed tomorrow, from whatever point he'd left off.

7 poems - 7 days - Day 7 REDUX

2011-03-21T18:07:00.005-04:00

Remember when I wrote poems? That was fun.

Well my pal Meghan H. (a published poet I'll have you know) was kind enough to go over a few of my bon mots and give me some feedback. She did this a long time ago and I am finally getting to it now. I feel the tying of loose ends is part of my growing up process that today also included finding a dentist!

BUT enough of me being smug about my teeth. Here's a second attempt with a new title. Original here. No promises on when others might get another look.

---Illiterate---

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another damnable attack

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I had was a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry and

rife with white bread sandwiches

There were stories there

and they trace back the same

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

No shorthand for history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Science can't help

with its stories told from a lab

book of hard truths and fact

A space clean, fluoresced and sharp

whose lights shine too self

confident and important

Words that might be explaining the universe

but fucked if I understand.

So I stare at the brightly lit and obvious

An opiate's stories

chanting electric prayer into the living

room

Burn and hide to dim the light

and the obvious becomes less and more

an archetype.

What I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

projects of others

2011-03-03T12:12:00.003-05:00

Here are some things friends have done/are doing.

The After School Club series has its first episode up. Get on the train now while it's still in the station.

Equally exciting Do Whatever! has its first three episodes up. That link takes you to episode one, but make sure you watch all three, especially the third one. It's my favourite.

And finally, if you're reading this today...March 3rd! you should come out to the Feint Of Hart show tonight. Penultimate! (that means second to last).

10pm in Hart House and it's free. But things start to fill up around 9 so get there early and often.

FoH EPISODE V RECAP from H F on Vimeo.

sticker collecting

2011-02-23T15:37:00.000-05:00

Sticker collecting.

Dismissed as a child's obsession for too long, this noble pursuit needs to be acknowledged for what it truly is: a pastime for the wise, an obsession for the erudite, and a vital cog in contemporary international travel and commerce.

Stickers are undoubtedly a valuable and unique teaching tool for the younger set. Buying an album and methodically filling it with hockey players, ponies or dangerous sea creatures helps to grow one's body of knowledge and develops tangible skills. What better way for a child to learn about perseverance than methodically buying just one more pack as the rabid narwhal sticker continues to elude? And nothing heightens fine motor skills like the intense pressure found in evenly placing each image inside lines. I would even posit that scratch n' sniff root beer or popcorn stickers are a child's first chance to learn some of the inevitable sadness and desperation of life. The first scratch n' sniff is so good they keep coming back, hoping to recapture the same sensuous experience. No matter how deeply they sniff, or how raw their fingers are rubbed it's never the same, and they learn important lessons about addiction, impermanence and death.

To leave sticky picture papers behind for the youth is a fool's strategy, as stickers' lessons and benefits extend into the adult world. Most obviously stickers are vital cogs of commerce, providing easy access to price per product ratios at the shop, for instance. Whether on car or cake mix a sticker needs only to be lengthened or shortened to hold the requisite information. Or, in another context, how many times might I have eaten spoiled animal flesh if a sticker hadn't been there to direct me away from risky meat?

Wonderful stuff though it can be.

Today, some of the world's fancier stickers facilitate international travel. Imagine the confusion if we didn't have a system of visas, beautifully crafted of stencils, inks and holograms, to stick into our passports. People could be anywhere! The government wouldn't know and that just wouldn't do. It's all so helpful, and I might humbly suggest, underused. Visas and official passes should be extended down the ladder, as it were, away from international borders into provincial, or even county or neighbourhood divisions. Imagine the graphic and societal possibilities that arise when people are forced to collect stickers just to leave home. Wonderful!

Truly, I had never fully considered the benefits of stickers until a minor incident at the airport brought it all into focus.

Do you have any fruits and vegetables? said the kind bearded American, sitting behind his desk in a Canadian airport.

I do, an apple and some orange slices, I said. Being as honest and forthright as I knew how and unaware that my entry into American legal space was already happening.

Does your apple have a sticker on it?

It didn't and with a red mark on my card I was sent to see his mustachioed co-worker further along the line. This guy was a real prick, but rightly so. I didn't know that without a sticker saying my apple was American it posed a significant security threat to a country I wouldn't be entering for a few hours and only after a plane had carried me the 200 km necessary. And the dangers posed by citrus? Not even a sticker would allow my cut and bagged orange past this devoted guardian's desk.

So stickers, obviously, can't solve every problem, but with a proper collection strategy one can at least avoid losing an apple and being unnecessarily threatened with thousands of dollars in fines and a 3 month jail term because you aren't up to date on produce restrictions or aware of how impinged your nation's sovereignty has already become.

Raw denim

2010-11-29T20:43:00.009-05:00

I don't want to do posts that recount my days point by point, listing my accomplishments unless I'm doing it in some sort of splediforously absurd, creative or well-written manner. It feels too much like shouting into the void, and hoping someone shouts back saying, What you're doing matters.

Scratch that, it doesn't just feel like that, it is that (until the blog is read by a bunch of strangers. Right? Logic is a strange beast).

Dilemma: But even if it's pointless, I still want to shout.

I already started this post trying to validate it's existence by framing it as a war story, or at least a lesson in strategy, wherein I battled the dastardly forces arrayed against me. General Glumness and his army of sad faces had allied with Viscount Blaah and his hussars who were poking me with various sharp sticks. It was as good as it sounds, and yet right now you're reading something else. Odd.

We'll try this. I'll cut the pretense and just provide a list of what I did with a bit of exposition, writing more where the mood strikes.

Experiment COMMENCE!

Went to the Whodunit? Mystery art sale: a whole bunch of equally sized graphic art in various media gets put up around a room, with no names visible and people buy what they want at $75 a pop!

I bought number 57.

And number 705.

Obviously for very different reasons. Still need to get them framed and on a wall.

Afterwards, instead of the planned full on vintage shopping I just went to the Sally Anne, bought the first atlases in a while (nothing special) and a blazer, before biking to the first Border Patrol reading series event: one Canadian and one American author read their written words. It was nice. Pasha Malla's story, Dancing with my father (if memory serves), was great. Touching and evocative. Adam Levin (doesn't have a website) read excerpts from his novel, The Instructions. It was only okay. It seemed amusing, but wasn't doing it for me.

More excitingly I met Lida, an Iranian translator (literary and court). We had a nice chat and subsequently she sent me one of her translations for perusal. I like editing, probably for a similar reason Lida said she enjoys translating; it removes the looming violence of a blank page.

So that was Saturday. Welded to the couch that night. Sour about something most likely.

The next day I kept pushing the fake it 'til you make it strategy against the General and the Viscount. This time I made it to the vintage shops, and after a far longer time than expected, I successfully bought a shirt and tie at Badlands Vintage and a cardigan (I've been hunting one for a while) at the mysterious Penny Arcade.

Nice, huh? Talk about an outfit! I suppose I could put a body in the clothes for a picture, but it seems too much lake vanity and work. Pile is the new fashion.

And that sweater only cost me $4 000!

How the poor clerk rang in the 3 and 9 I don't know, but Visa was unimpressed. They were equally unimpressed with the actual $44 price we tried to ring in afterwards. So they called me. End result, after some button pushing and a brief chat I got the sweater for $20 because the lady felt bad about the whole incident. I found it amusing more than a bother but who am I to turn down a spur of the moment 1/2 off sale?

And then I even made it to meditation with Daydream. I recommend it whole heartedly. Silent meditation, some chanting and singing of ohms, and a brief walking meditation session all left me feeling fantastic. Followed by dumplings and two hours of writing? Well yikes! I also think meditation was responsible for leaving me lying awake in bed until 3, however. Just too pleased with the world.

And that's a weekend. There was also a book sale I went to on Monday at Knox College. I bought the biggest/heaviest atlas I've ever purchased there, and observed the vagaries of the book trade. To be a book dealer I need to be a man (check), have a few cardboard boxes (check), and be able to mumble Those are taken at people leering in my boxes as I rummage through more piles of books (seems doable).

But this post needs some thoughtful content, and...wait, what's the title? What could that possibly mean?

Well I'll tell you...creatively.

---

The store is new. Searching for its address online turns up a computer shop. The shelves at the front, the only ones I notice, are rough wood and layered with jeans. Grey, black and dark blue denim. A Japanese brand, something I've never heard of, is too expensive. Underneath it are jeans unmarked, only a blank leather patch on the waist. They are more my price range, but I'm not buying today regardless.

I select assorted of cuts and colours and move toward the change room, a heavy curtain that is untied and pulled around the circumference of its rope when needed. Removing my shoes and pants the gaps in the curtain become more apparent although being seen isn't a concern. Regret is. Fresh socks and underwear still lie, dismissed, on the floor at home, victims of their own preciousness. Wearing fresh seemed wrong that morning when I was only going out for a walk.

These jeans are heavy. The denim is thick and stiff, not hanging on my legs so much as undulating over them in a series of dunes. It scratches coming up and has little give beyond what the seams are set at. Unmarked jeans do not have one percent spandex.

The helpful woman outside the curtain peppers me with questions about the fit, how I'm doing and whether I need any sizes they might have in the back. She never says it, but I feel she wants me to open the curtain, so I do. They fit well apparently, told so quickly I assume she's selling. They fit exactly like a snug 32, with no room for error.

Those look great, she says. I think that's the size.

What about the hems? I ask. They are bunched around my ankles. Can I take them to a tailor?

She suggests putting on shoes. It will look better with shoes on, she assures me.

I ask for a 33 and return to my den to compare cuts, fits and sizes. I like mirrors. I turn and look over my shoulder repeatedly. Mostly right shoulder. Pulling on and taking off is no small task given the immalleability and fit. A moment of distress for my thighs as I pull the waist across them seems a small price for fashion. It will only happen twice a day, I tell my thighs. If that.

Outside a conversation has begun. A couple - possibly early thirties, but they carry themselves with mid to late wealth and dilemmas - come in to say hi to a man who'd been standing outside his curtain. The men are friends, but haven't seen each other in a while. The couple has been married since the last hello, a small ceremony followed by a bigger party. The solo man is also married.

The discussion is:

Solo talks about teaching, but does not have a job right now. He is qualified for high school history, and holds a Master's degree that lets him teach the same in college.

Couple man is excited to be working from home again soon. The commute to a east end studio has become a drag. He thinks he might be just as far ahead to live outside the city, in a small town or nearby city, and commute in. The prices for large Victorians in Hamilton relative to Toronto is mind-boggling.

Solo agrees. He's from Toronto, but has no connection to the city. He lived in Montreal for 10 years. He and wife have discussed smaller possibilities as well.

Their excitement for small town life amuses me. Not that they are misguided or wrong in their desires, but they simply don't know.

The discussion is abstract: laced with romance, tightly knit communities and a small, local bakery known for its delicious muffins on Tuesday.

The discussion is real: underlaid by marriage, careers, money and the ability to carry a mortgage.

The problems all 4 of us share are the same, just at different points along an axis. But one has to assume they're wearing fresh socks. Also wearing: thick-rimmed glasses, dark blue denim, checked shirts and a cool cap that covers a bald pate.

How are those? I have the curtain open to show her again.

Okay. A lot more room in the waist. I lift my shirt and pull the pants out to show her the room and my underwear band.

Are you a person who puts their jeans in the dryer? she asks.

Yes, I say.

Maybe you do need a 33 waist, she says, continuing the fold the shirt in her hands. Whatever I have on is the right pair.

I quickly change back to myself. I'm not mentally equipped to buy today, I assure her. But how much will they shrink? So I have a better idea when I come back.

It's now she informs me about some subtleties of raw denim; its sturdiness, need to be worn for three months before an initial wash to break it in, and the risk of shrinkage. She emphasizes the 100% cotton part of raw denim.

Doesn't washing break the denim in faster? She doesn't answer because it's a week later and I'm writing a blog post.

When you wear it in the denim adapts to your body, how it's shaped, it's temperature fluctuations. How you move and live in your skin, she says.

I nod.

If she's disappointed to not make a sale she doesn't show it. Still folding shirts, she is helpful but distracted to the end. I'm leaving. It doesn't matter.

I bought the cardigan on my way home, from Penny Arcade on Dundas, and meditated afterwards. Walking there I went through the new Dufferin underpass again. It's lights are bright.

Have I mentioned I like infrastructure?

source

Any questions

2010-11-29T16:03:00.001-05:00

Any questions about what the show was like can be answered here, courtesy of The Untold City. My ugly mug is all over the place.

concert review (question mark)

2010-11-27T21:47:00.004-05:00

Despite the herds we run in that provide the sensation of small town Toronto - where you bump into someone ‘new’ but quickly discover they know someone who knows someone who ate someone’s lasagna while making out with your Uncle Bert - there are a lot of distinct communities in this city that have little or nothing to do with one another. Look at the recent municipal election map showing voter preferences. Talk to me about the number of poppies one sees riding the Jane bus around Remembrance day. Or heck, for me walking into the Eaton’s Centre after a long absence can feel as discombobulating as exiting a 10 hour flight. All I’m saying is that the city has lots of communities - religious, ethnic, economic, whatever - and although I obviously fit better into some than others I rarely feel completely settled. Undoubtedly this has something to do with my and everyone’s attempt at personal distinction, but I also suspect I am a weirdo.

But this post isn’t about that. This is my attempt at a concert review! Have you figured out that I’m not a music journalist yet?

I went to a show at the roundhouse beside the CN Tower last week. Maybe I should call it The Roundhouse because it’s a VENUE, but there’s only one down there so whatever. My intent was simply to take advantage of some face-dancing-off time, and although I planned to go alone a last second cancellation saw Fashion Friend make it a posse of two.

Now is probably a good time to re-emphasize that I don’t know how to write a concert review. I know I mentioned it a couple lines above, but still...

I’ll set the scene by saying the night was advertised as UNSIGNED artists doing their thing.

I’ll also set the scene by saying that I wear suspenders now. Not all the time, just every day since I bought them last Thursday. In I stroll, sweater comes off, sense of fashion is revealed, straight to the front to listen to the first band, DVAS. You can read about these guys on your own time but what I saw was one man on keys and one on drums.

The keyboard player/singer was of indeterminate age. He could have been a well preserved 35 year old, or just as easily a decade or more younger.I think his bone structure was throwing me; cheek bones that somehow seemed too sharp to belong to a younger man. Does that make sense? Does one find a keener edge on an aged cheek?

Here is a video I think is nice wherein none of the comments about his age bending appearance are substantiated.

I assume they played this song. Wasn’t paying attention. Just dancing. I was dancing reasonably aggressively so my “review” of this part of the concert is, the music must have been good!

I should clarify what I meant above by my sense of fashion. It’s one thing to rock up to a show in jeans, a tight green t-shirt and suspenders, but it’s slightly different to dress like that, push your way to the front of a staid crowd and dance in the manner I call dancing.

The crowd at this early stage of the evening was still filling in, sparse, towards the back, and in general swaying more than dancing. There were a few older people who I pegged as parents, but I wasn’t paying much attention to those around me yet. During this set Fashion Friend joined me and immediately after it is when I started text/emailing myself little notes and astute observations that inspired this post. Clever? Maybe.

In general terms the audience coalescing around me was “young professional.” I think this was the point of the prologue. I’m not a young professional. I don’t know what I am. Hipster? Bohemian artist? War monger? Why must I label everything I see, and yet am sadly left without a proper noun for myself? For the most part the crowd looked younger than me, had made a decision post university to get real jobs and buy condos downtown. Not real jobs that pay a gazillion bucks mind you. This was an inexpensive Friday night concert at a cool venue, featuring underground indie bands. Or that’s what the poster was trying to imply I think...I’m never sure how trustworthy posters are, or how each individual chooses to read them.

Reviewing things is tough, eh? I want to express opinions but don’t want to come off like the holier-than-thou snarky asshole I fear I must be. All these comments are aesthetic and personal though, and based on thoughts I had. Thinking about them that way means I get to say whatever I want because I'm just expressing opinions. Everything I say can also be dismissed of course. Good. As long as it starts a conversation wherein people call out my most egregious bullshits, start a debate and I become a wiser person. Hmmm? I’d best stop thinking lest I figure out the internet is full of windbags. Back the the concert!

So. There are young people there. They want to find something to do that makes them feel hip, happening and part of popular culture. Hey! This isn’t my crowd but they sound awfully familiar.

Scenes seen. Frozen in the concert’s lights.

Drunk dirty dancing. A boy and girl, (man and woman? When does that shift occur?) grinding and loving life. He is particularly happy, his face a lop-sided grin. So happy. Best night of my life the droopy smile whispers in her ear. Too bad I’m too drunk to enjoy it later.

The prettiest girl dances past, but her arms are dead. Limp eels hanging at her sides, flopping while the rest of her dances.

For sure that one is on M...maybe not. But the green LED, shooting up the pole, creating a pillar of light on wood. The light. The LIGHT. THE LIGHT! She is dancing with it, an intimate, inanimate stranger that gives her all the love she needs.

The second band, Young Empires, brought their own fans. I noticed them because they were taller lads, square of jaw and solid of back. Jocks I believe they’re called. They pushed to the front with their beautiful lasses and left me aghast, without much space in which to dance. It turns out, however, that if you dance in a spazmodic and aggressive fashion, where it looks like any one of your moves might result in a gouged eye or shattered nose, people move away, and I had more room to maneuver by the third song.

The band was okay. Once again my assessment of music scale based on dancing saw me dancing. Therefore, dancing. But this band needed drums. There were no drums. There was a drumline coming from the keyboard, but...I don’t know what it was exactly, just that having fleshy bits attached to sticks hitting drums makes a difference. Maybe there’s a very subtle off-beat rhythm that happens when a person is involved, no matter how good they are, that I was craving.

Members of Young Empires also LOOK like they are members of a band. When the guitarist strode on stage - and that’s the only word that can describe the movement of a man in black boots, tight black jeans, black tee and hair gelled up to frosted tips before a crowd - I noticed. I thought he was an amusing roadie. He was not. He was a rock star. The lead singer was also a lead singer, a wee bit too self aware. And the bassist, he was a bassist, ie in the background, just happy to be there.

The crowd had definitely filled out by the time YE took the stage. I didn't see how those behind me were grooving, but the jockish types in front were having a great time, judging by the fist pumping. It startled me to see this maneuver exist outside the television set, but the aggressiveness with which it was carried out and the apparent lack of movement anywhere on the other side of the shoulder joint left me entranced.

I then moved my feet extra fast, just to make a point.

No one noticed.

Then the last break and while standing around waiting for Rich Aucoin to take the stage I observed something interesting. Men were suddenly shorter and chins became softer. Is that how you know when a crowd’s indie? The change from rock hard jock fist pumping to the softer pudge that began crowding round was striking.

Before Rich - we’re friends online so I think it’s okay to use his first name - took the stage they needed to get some corporate stuff out of the way. I was worried about buzzkill, but they kept their thanks to whomever mercifully short and by the end I was very caught up in a fantasy wherein the corporate shill (but that’s a strong word, she seemed like a nice lady) was actually a world class beat-boxer and her speech was simply to lull us into a trance before she unleashed a violent tirade of dance into our very souls.

That didn’t happen, but Rich showed up and he did it instead.

What to say about Mr. Aucoin? Audience participation. Lots of visuals. Words on screens we are instructed to read (always a few read through practices before a song). Instructions on appropriate dance moves, often JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!

This video features one of Rich’s songs. It’s also a trailer for a movie featuring some pretty amusing people.

My personal highlight of the set came after a parachute was unfurled and he instructed people to join him and his strobe-light underneath. People must have missed the instruction because no one moved. Fools, I thought! And dove past the 3 people in front of me as he made the request a second time. Everyone else piled in then and the happiest, friendly and aggressive mosh pit took place underneath a brightly striped parachute that reminds everyone of elementary school gym class.

That’s the party Rich Aucoin provides. Good.

And then I wandered around the outdoor parts of the train museum for a while, jumped a couple of benches (learned some ninja kicks and spins) before calling it a night.

MUSIC!

Now to wait for Rolling Stone to call with the job offer.

Things to do with your old ballrooms!

2010-11-22T23:07:00.003-05:00

Check this out!

Build a house out of an old ballroom and you get this for a living room. Well done. The Guardian does a casual real estate section that I peruse from time to time and that's where this came from. Nice to know what my options are when the wealth arrives.

There's also a boat!

Holy jumpin'!

2010-11-18T20:38:00.003-05:00

Just when the internet is getting you down it shoves something in your face.

Deconcrete, a blog far better designed and probably just plain better than mine, decided to show me this.

Talk about disassembling the urban!!!

I'm not going to repeat what they say so succinctly. Just suggest you have a look at the pictures, and the article they link to. It's in French, but it's time you learned.

writing

2010-11-11T12:06:00.009-05:00

Blog posts: easy. They flow off the keys to be released unto the internet, without a care in the world. What's the internet, but a place of noise, regardless of quality.

Also, I've assured myself this blog is an exercise in writing. More a matter of getting something done than doing it to perfection. Of course I edit and try to ensure some clarity but I don't hoard. Instead, writing gets released to the world and I get over my sense that it's too precious to be shown. Hold everything close, bide your time, and eventually sell it all for millions. I think that's how the logic went. (Past tense used in the most hopeful manner.)

Possible reasons for the dearth of posts of late:

-Shouting into the void was starting to wear.

-I simply wanted to escape my digital shackles. As a rule I'm in front of computers far more than I want to be.

-There's also the possibility that any benefit the blog as a writing exercise gave was being usurped by the less healthy blog as place to attempt expression of my personal value, self-worth and existence in the world. In short: self-worth defined via blogged experience and thoughts, where doing it counts for nothing until it has been shared.

(Note: I'm not commenting on blogging generally, just personal tendencies)

Forest for the trees kids! I never considered it consciously but maybe taking a step back from relating individual instances of being might allow the whole self to be revealed. Or something.

Maybe.

(Note: and after writing this post and re-reading it and editing it, maybe the effort I put into these doesn't match the reward, which I'm sure is directly tied in to what I consider the value of a blog post. Maybe because I dismiss my blog posts of holding any "real" value even before starting to write means the results will inevitably be dashed off and of lower quality? Heh, I'm going to stop thinking about the value of blog posts right now.)

Short stories: of late they're alright provided I sit down to do them. The ideas come and I write, but this is a recent phenomenon and it's pretty exhilarating. Instead of having to contemplate where everything is going before I start, I've started to just write. If the story takes a page, great. If it starts to grow, also great. Now that I have mostly removed the expectation of immensity these are more relaxing and fun. I can play around with words, narrative and narrator and lose nothing if it's a disaster.

I'm not churning them out every day, but I'm not a professional writer so whatever.

Poetry: I don't do this much and it's not a huge concern at the moment. I guess the odd tweet could still be considered poetic but I've certainly not made a concerted effort. There are a few I did write during the week of poems that I quite like. I've even had some feedback. What I haven't done is take that feedback and look at it alongside the poems in an attempt to improve and solidify my poetic chops. Eventually? Hope so, because poems are fun.

Non-fiction/essays: Eeeeeeeeee. As a recovering grad student there should be something more here. I guess this is what I was doing with some of my blog posts. Once or twice, not recently, I have tried to start a paper based on my thesis research. There has been no success on this front. Part of my dilemma is that I like to be right. If you put out an opinion, people might tell you that you're wrong. If you don't put out an opinion, there's no way to be wrong. Right?

I also like to take everything into account...read: EVERYTHING. If I start a position piece I often find myself wandering hither and yon, laying out opinions on too much. I also start to consider possible counter-arguments. Sometimes they make me doubt the entire premise I'm working from and other times I'm left with so many dragons to beat to death that any concision in what I was writing is lost. I guess my main problem with this type of writing is when I do do it I'm too scatty and unfocused, but that's indicative of my brain as a whole.

Personal essays from life are something I haven't done much of (certain blog posts, maybe?). Although I did write a piece while in France about a lady on plane. I talked to her in the most casual fashion and mulled over all sorts of tactics to further engage said lady in conversation. I didn't and in frustration wrote up the incident, with humourous asides and commentary, instead. That piece has subsequently been fictionalized and incorporated in the latest attempted novel.

Real life essays are something I'd like to try more of. The narrative and character(s) are already in place, so I'd get to invest all my energy into crafting words. That can only be good.

Scripts: I'm working on a short film. Not much to say about this. Periodically I find a story I think would be suited for such treatment but I haven't tried it enough to know where I'm at from a skillZ perspective.

Novels: SO BIG. I started writing this post because I had yesterday off. It was a good day. Arose at a reasonable hour, made breakfast and ate it while making soup (gingery butternut squash from Simply in Season for those interested). After lunch I proceeded to set up shop in U of T's Robarts Library to write the afternoon away. NOTHING HAPPENED. I wrote a little, but more importantly I sat a lot. I stared. I mulled. And slowly, over the course of the afternoon my mood became foul. There was also a nerd crush on a map librarian, but that was so clearly going to happen it barely warrants mention.

The day was still a good one. I'm always interested when I note a change in myself when it happens (mood, behaviour, etc.) because so often the changes pass me by. If I notice though, next time a similar situation yields similar results I'll know to avoid or enhance as required.

The personal personality puzzle, solvable one piece at a time.

And after the library some walking and talking with Daydream in the glorious night air cleansed my head and left me pleased again. Also, I rediscovered jumping over park benches. Hurdling is fine, but a two-footed leap, that is how we SOAR!!! The best is when the launch spot is slightly higher than the bench and the landing pad. When I do this at work over the rail fence while wearing my Inverness I feel like Batman.

But this is about writing, right? Novels!

Because a novel is substantial and has a long way to go, the characters' actions now will have repercussions down the line, everything I write feels weighted with meaning. Decisions on direction and scene crush my being and what ends up on page suffers as a result. I get too tired and frustrated before I get to the actual scene, then write something that skims and skips over what I'm trying to say as a result. The world I create is shallow and blah, not immersive and YAH!

I want to be able to write novels with the freedom I have when sending an email. Stream of consciousness wonder that is practically barfed from my fingertips. It's important to have goals, and mine happen to include fingers that puke.

But, at the same time, one must remain positive lest the darkness swallow you whole. A novel is a big thing and I'm learning to write the form while learning to write the write. Or learning to write as a writer more advanced than I might say. Slowly, creepily, things will get done and then I get to type it all up and commence the editing process. And that ladies and gentlemen is gravy, because even if you need to rewrite a whole scene, it's a whole scene in context of everything else, rather than the current case of scenes in a swirling void that contains only hints and intuitions of the universe I'm trying to create.

I've started novels before, but never finished. If I look back I probably stopped writing them around this stage of the process. The opening is there, the characters are fleshy, but the real guts of what needs to happen hasn't been dealt with yet. I'm at this wall again but pushing forward instead of wandering off.

I've been thinking of my thesis writing experience recently and how it compares to the novel process. That was a big thing. There were lots of ideas that I needed to pull together to lend coherence to a whole, and I got there. Eventually. When the writing was done I remember days of editing from printed sheets, rewriting sentences and whole paragraphs, rearranging the puzzle pieces until it all fit and made sense. To a degree of course.

A MASTER'S DEGREE. See what I did there? Without editing the world would have been worse for lacking that joke.

Writing, huzzah!

I could have written all this in a book and never revealed it, but if I did that chances are it never would have been finished.

Full circle: blog.

map

2010-10-14T18:25:00.002-04:00

Hi blog. Here's a thing. An attempt at showing depth and differing heights for both buildings and geography. An interesting experiment that didn't end up as magnificently as hoped. Still, pretty neat and I learned a lot about pens...those numbers on pens don't translate directly into how wide their nibs are.

Also, it kept smudging like crazy so I stopped elaborating it with pencil. I suppose I still might go back and add more but it looks alright like this.

HUGE PRIZES for he or she who can identify the city that inspired this map.

embodied Tim Knowles

2010-05-17T22:12:00.006-04:00

Here's a fun post I found on F.A.D. (Free Association Design).

The post is about an artist named Tim Knowles and his work exploring and experiencing the city and space more broadly.

I like the long exposure adventures across fields at night.

And the windwalks he takes and subsequently maps.

More Tim Knowles and a whole whack of interesting projects here.

Dude draws with trees!

That's all I have. Time for shower and bed. Suffice to say lots of people are searching for their bearings in the world, trying to represent themselves and their embodied wanderings. My data collection continues apace and given all the juicy creative outputs that are around, eventually I'll come up with something to do with it!

Oh, and clown is fun. I need to come up with a 1-2 minute presentation for Wednesday. Nothing yet, but something clever this way comes no doubt.

and that other thing

2010-05-12T23:32:00.003-04:00

First this link. It's a show entitled Whose Map is it? I don't know the answer, but it's a bunch of people subverting "the socio-political structures and cultural hierarchies that traditionally inform mapmaking." Sounds like something I'd try to do.

Anyway...someone should send me to London.

Also, for those who follow the ol' tweet machine I promised a tale from yesterday that I forgot to include in my thrilling recounting of my walk.

Leaving the practice space I saw a pretty lady across Ossington, heading north while I strode south.

I crossed the road and as I did I glanced back, catching her making a similar neck rotation (romantic notions just ooze from my word choices).

Who knows why I caught her eye, the point is it happened. And yes, she might have been looking past me, but what's the point in assuming that?

The glance-back-sync-up is always fun, although I never know quite what to do with it.

In this case my response to the situation was two-fold. Step one involved mumbling babe, babe, babe under my breath as I continued walking, passing other people on the sidewalk. Step two was me thinking I should probably look back again, because if one glance-back-sync-up is fun, a double whammy would probably be époustouflant (it's French, look it up).

So I looked, and I couldn't see her because the girl who I had just passed, while mumbling babe of course, was blocking my sight line. Also, lady the deuce doing the blocking had turned to look at me for my second glance-back-sync-up in a row.

Two in a row!

So what if the second was unintentional on my part. She now has a tale of passing romance to tell, or she's writing an entry on her blog...The Weirdos I See Outside CAMH.

a walk

2010-05-11T21:25:00.003-04:00

Just walked Daydream to band practice in Clint's space. It was my first time going there and it's pretty fantastic. Apparently formerly a wood workshop, with low ceiling and a general crap feel, now, and increasingly so, a cool venue with proper ventilation, sound-proofing and a middle of upgrading feel.

I'm now having ideas for a show I could put on. I still don't think my performance is anything people would make a special effort to come to, but I'm thinking if I can get a few more of my maps finished, and some maps from my collection presented/mounted, I might be able to at least provide the backdrop for an interesting spectacle.

Nothing much to say about the walk except for a few things.

One: Daydream's off the cuff suggestion about me getting a pedometer makes me think I should get a pedometer. Easily incorporated into my data collection which is right now a lot of words. I can send daily ped.dates on twitter or here. Ped.dates being updates but for your feet and from the future.

Two: Bought some scooby road atlases.

Three: Drum circle starts tonight apparently, despite the rain. I realized it's just a group improv activity where group-think is responsible for what's happening, when to speed up, stop, etc.

Four: Stopped to watch a ladies softball game. It's interesting to watch people playing in the cold rain for no 'reason'.

But they have plenty of reason, of course. It's their thing. The thing they do to get away from work or family or whatever. They hit the ball, run the bases and cheer each other on with classic phrases like 'good eye' and 'way to waste that one', as well as a never-ending stream of platitudes telling whomever that they're doing great.

It's nice.

And it's interesting, seeing those ladies. Ladies whose body types would leave me, in passing, assuming little more than a walk from the couch to the fridge as exercise for the week. Let's be happy we aren't all so judgmental. They swung with intent, ran the bases, played hard and then, I assume, went home cold, wet, but surely satisfied.

People are weird.

Tomorrow if I see one of the softball players I'm likely to look past without a second thought. But tonight, with the steady rhythmic worship of the drum circle coming from the dog bowl, their patch of illumination in an otherwise dark, cold park drew me in and I watched. Pitches hummed, bats cracked balls, the rain was back-lit as it fell through the lights, while the team in grey had a tidy inning, scoring 3 runs.

space and time

2010-05-10T21:05:00.004-04:00

Went to Kingston this weekend on a spur of the moment road trip with Entire Cities. They really need to update their Myspace.

Anyway, post show, sitting on a porch, time and space struck me. As in, I have spent a lot of my life in Kingston. I have walked through the park I was looking at too many times to count. I even have a vague memory of attending a party in the house I stayed on Saturday night. Yet sitting on that porch it was all different.

It's true, I have geographic knowledge of the city and it grants me an ease of mobility I would be without if it was first time visiting. But all the extraneous things - emotion and life...context - are different and that makes the place unique to this visit.

A memory of wandering to the farmers market through the park on a Saturday morning holds a different meaning in my life than this Saturday did; observing the same park at 3 in the morning after driving from Toronto, watching friends play a show, lugging a guitar amp from the bar and having a shared futon to look forward to upstairs.

Different.

The next day we went to a new little grocery store at Barrie and Clergy that specializes in local nummies. The building a dirty convenience store when I inhabited the geography last. Ms. Kelly, who was kind enough to let us hunker at her place the night before, works there, so we all trundled over to carry out chairs, set-up tomato plant displays, and so forth. The place has the same swinging, prison-like solid slab of steel for a door, but inside instead of under-priced pop there were enormous carrots and the best custard doughnuts I have ever eaten.

Space and time, time and space, and enormous carrots.

data maps of the Brit election

2010-05-10T20:54:00.004-04:00

See how much fun data can be!

The Guardian has made these awesome maps with their data.

They've also done some fun stuff with the data and listed it here.

Or if it tickles your fancy you can get an entire spreadsheet with all the data here. Votes, swing that took place...anything you could want!

My data collection is coming along. So far a bunch of street names, but it's a start.

Also, isn't The Guardian just an awesome news entity? The things you can do with a little distance from the market and its profit generating mindset.

(Also, more here.)

Bhutan jacket

2010-05-09T21:26:00.002-04:00

There was a guy wearing a Bhutanese jacket at No Frills today.

That is to say it was a jacket coloured as a Bhutanese flag and it said Bhutan.

I tried to take a picture but was being watched too closely. Also, I was there late and didn't want to waste time lest they close the shop as I was choosing between tins of beans.

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck may be finally trying to make contact.

Call me Dragon King!

tracerouting with gps

2010-05-04T21:45:00.003-04:00

This video was done over 5 years and 8000km by a cyclist who had a GPS affixed to his person at all times.

Originally found here.

Pretty neat.

I have some ideas about making maps based on my movements throughout the city.

Initially they were about tracing my meanderings onto an already drawn map, but that quickly shifted to something like this where the city, or at least my city, emerges from a blank canvas. The second idea seems much more suited to encouraging discussion on what a city really is.

Can you consider it a part of your city if you've never seen it? Maps give the impression of knowledge...how is that knowledge compromised by walking a street again and again? Never having actually been somewhere? Only having driven a road, never walked? ...And so on.

My mapping project also leads to all sorts of fun considerations around how to map my movement. Just a foot map? If it includes cycling or public transit how are those recognized? Do I try to draw the map to account for speed? For time travelled? Distance? For experience and depth of engagement with a route or destination?

I think the solution to all that might be to simply start a journal, or just have a sheet of paper on my room wall where I make notes whenever I get home. Recording my movements, modes of transport, experiences had or shared...whether I was walking alone or with others is a good stat too.

Or I could cease being Ludditic and get a GPS machine of my own...along with a notebook for all the mushy non-scientific stuff.

Anyway, the point is collecting the data.

And the video also made me realize why facebook, google, etc are all excited about data. Data is the hard part. Once you have it, there are all sorts of things you can do with it, but you have to collect it first. As I consider this project the data collection is the part that strikes me as daunting...the aftermath of expressing it in whatever form or forms, that's just exciting. There are so many ways to go about it and if I mess it up or do something I don't like the data will still be there.

No one will possess more data on me than me!!! I'll commercialize it and make so much money.

Clowning tomorrow. Also a full day at work. Good times I hope.

Lists are the thing

2010-04-16T16:58:00.005-04:00

I've been keeping myself busy of late, and perhaps that's why I haven't been on here too much. I always talk about the blog as a tool I use to ensure I write on a semi-regular basis, but when I find other creative outlets I suppose it falls by the wayside. Or outlets of any kind of activity really.

Black Creek is open for schools so I'm working there a few days a week, learning the Many Hands program and doing tours. We have three stations in Many Hands - spinning (and wool more generally), baking, and the workshop. Because I'm a fella I'm usually in the workshop. Historical accuracy and all that. It's fun and I still get to eat whatever is left over from the baking, so that's good. It's also fun to tour at this time of year when the village has no one else in it. You can talk in buildings for as long as you want and if the kids feel like losing there minds I can even send them running.

I've also been transcribing, doing taxes, drawing, reading and sometimes writing.

For the last while I've been listing what I want to get done and have been putting write/draw at the bottom of every list. Some days I get to it, others no, and I've been choosing draw most times when I do. I'll get back to the novel soon, no doubt.

Lists have been great as far as getting me to get things done when I have the time. When I run out of jobs like taxes and transcribing, hopefully my lists will see me writing and drawing all day long. Fingers crossed! They've also been helpful in sending me to bed at a reasonable time. If I'm tired and the list is done I go to bed. As simple as it sounds it goes against my normal tactic of finding activities that keep me awake.

Maturity (no matter how smell the steps in that direction are) is weird.

I was drawing last night, sitting on the couch and making little mistakes as I went. I'm inking pencil lines so I really don't want to be making mistakes at this stage, but I just couldn't stop. I was in a tired/out of it mindset where I convinced myself to keep working, and not make the tiny effort necessary that would make the working situation better. In retrospect I should have moved over to the table, set up a light and continued apace. Oh well. Next time. And looking at it now the mistakes aren't the end of the world.

Who knew being crunched up on a couch wasn't most conducive to tiny, detailed drawing?

I also have another show tonight. 8:30 at the Bad Dog Theatre and pay what you want as you exit. You should come. If I don't post this blog before the show, I wonder if I will remember to edit this part. MYSTERIES. (I'm going to make it!)

And I've signed up for a clown workshop, starting in May. That should be a real gas!

Maybe another improv class too, but I've also applied for a couple more jobs - more museums! - so I'm not going to rush at anything too forcefully.

Finally, look at this.

It's from my shower curtain, and it tells me one thing: polyester will bring the world together! Unless you use a different alphabet. In those cases I guess we're at war.

Sorry guy.

Home Easter visits!

2010-04-07T16:45:00.009-04:00

What a sunny and warm Easter weekend that was.

Holy jumping! I'll take the heat as long as the rain comes with though. Not too much precipitation this past winter and the soil shows it. How do I know so much about the humidity levels of dirt you ask. Well, it's because I did a lot of digging this weekend. A lot of hands on knowledge from the garden.

I cut down trees. I moved trees. I raked the lawn. I turned over dirt in the vegetable patch (after picking last year's carrots of course). Here are some pictures of me tearing out trees at the bottom of the garden.

My mum took these because she wanted me to post them to the blog. She likes to interact with the internet, just a step or two further removed than most. Also, she was very concerned that my readers know what a hard worker I am.

Here it is folks. Proof! Proof that I have a lower back!

The visit home was a good one. They're all nice but this one left me in a particularly positive frame of mind. I think it was because I was outside lots, barefoot and labouring, and didn't waste a lot of time watching TV or on the internet. Having a crummy computer and a slow internet connection at home means I get frustrated much faster. Webpages sometimes take a long time to load, so a video had better have an amazing description or I'm not even going to bother.

That and the computer's in a cold basement!

I also had some time visiting with friends, which inevitably meant heading down to Jason's Pub (aka The Pube. We're a witty bunch). Well, we tried to go to the pub, but the people there were the regulars. Fortunately the regulars included a man playing pool who must have been 400 pounds if he was 10, dressed in matching bright yellow shorts and t-shirt. I have called him 'The Sun'. Also there was a little fellow I see around town with a funny scrunched up nose and really squinty eyes, dressed head to toe (including hat) in turkey hunting camouflage. I have called him 'Turks'.

I don't know about you guys, but I for one cannot wait to read the next thrilling episode of Turks and The Sun as they troll around Owen Sound looking for one more beer and fresh turkey.

I should point out, there's no shortage of "characters" at Jason's, these are just the two that caught my eye as I walked through.

After Jason's we went over to The Dark Side, that being a concert venue (?), literally across the hall. I didn't know it was called that until this visit, but it has definitely been called that for as long as I've been alive. Both of these are of course in Jason's Road House, which features rooms for rent upstairs and a reputation for dirt (of ALL varieties). I could go on but I'm sure you get the idea.

So off to The Harb it was! And by off to The Harb I of course mean the line outside the bar. There are only the two bars in the city, the Harb being the dancier one, so sometimes there is a line.

The police car is just there because if something's going to go down, it's going to go down here. A few years ago there was a do in the city because of a few rowdy nights when the bars let out. The Owen Sound Sun Times claimed people were coming into town from kilometers away for 'fight nights' and local entrepreneurs were selling pizza from the trunks of their cars to spectators.

Classic.

Beach Brothers used to be across the road from The Harb, but it was torn down a few years ago, and with competition like this across the street is anyone really surprised?

There is another bar, Smuggler's (more commonly Smugg's, or the local stripping establishment) above The Harb, but I didn't go. I was intent on chatting with Dank and he was anchored in the line by his fiancee, so there we remained.

Wish I'd gone upstairs though, just for the adventure. I wasn't drinking, but beers for $5 in a strip club? Maybe I should have been. Chatting later with people who had gone up I heard the normal banter about which dancers might have been pregnant, etc. and an amusing tale of a greeting dismissed.

Upon getting into the bar my friend Bustin' saw a mutual acquaintance from high school. Let's call him Jason, because that's his name. Bustin' first instinct was to say, "Jason!" in his normal slightly excited greeting voice. Jason's instinct was to turn away and ignore the greeting, pretending he didn't hear in the grossly underpopulated bar.

My commentary is this. If you're in a strip club, whatever. If you're in a strip club by yourself, whatever. If you're in a strip club by yourself in your hometown and someone from high school, even if said someone wasn't your friend or in your main group of peers, says hi, don't be a dink and ignore the situation.

I'm probably being too harsh. Maybe he was just feeling shy or embarrassed. Or maybe he was thinking Oh this loser. What a loser this guy is. No way I'm talking to him. What a loser. I'm going back to watching this possibly pregnant lady dance instead.

So, waiting in line was fun but eventually, after seeing a woman leave the bar, obviously pregnant, probably hammered and definitely smoking, we went back to Jason's (nothing to do with that Jason guy I mentioned above). By then demographics had shifted and we had people to sit and talk to. And so the night went.

Home was also good because my mum was in fighting form. She was riled up over recent changes to abattoir regulations, changes that are causing smaller operators difficulties as they are forced to spend precious resources to meet new, seemingly arbitrary regulations.

Bureaucrats at work!

Read this.

Small locally-owned and operated, provincially-inspected abattoirs

are a key ingredient in safe, local food. They provide a crucial link

between livestock farmers and the local food movement.

As farmers, meat processors and consumers committed to local food, we

are afraid that small, provincially-inspected abattoirs are

disappearing from our communities. As the Minister of Agriculture,

Food and Rural affairs we are asking you to help save the small

abattoirs across Canada.

Now do something about it people! By sending letters to this lady.

Hon Carol Mitchell
Minister Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs
Public Archive Building
77 Grenville St., 11th Floor
Toronto, ON M5S 1B3

I was sent south with a stack of cards printed with the above message and a pile of stamps to make sure they got where they needed to go. Daydream was kind enough to distribute a pile at chef school, but if you want to do something, you have all the info you need above. And if you want an official card I'm sure my mum will hook you up.

And then it was over. Delicious lamb supper on Sunday then on the bus bright and early Monday morning with about 20 Mennonites!!! This was pretty exciting for me because a lot of them seemed pretty excited to be travelling and I had a whole bus ride to make some observations. I wasn't staring the whole time, but this is what I noticed:

Everyone has their luggage tagged.

Except for one older fellow most of the riders were young (18-28) and everyone seemed to be married or at least paired off. There were also some very young children/babies along for the ride (all girls I think) and a few boys that looked early teen-ish.

Everyone had great skin. Not a blemish in the bunch. My theory on this is that they are doing what young people are meant to be doing, ie having sex and having babies, so all their hormones are in sync. Also, they are working outside a lot and mostly eating what they grow and prepare so don't have a lot of excess crap in their systems.

I like how the ubiquitous male bowl-cut swoops out at the bottom because they wear hats all the time.

They became excited at two point during the journey. Once when we were driving through Holland Marsh, where there is lots of farming activity, all the men got right up against the windows. A second time as we passed a livestock truck they all crowded to one side to see what was inside. The answer: pigs! I have nothing grand to say about this, except it shows that people are interested in what they do and know.

BUT what I really want to know is why they were all going to Toronto? Was there a Mennonite convention of which I was not made aware?

And to close with one last thought. Cold lamb is great. I should have taken more.

Jeremy loses his glasses

2010-04-05T21:48:00.003-04:00

So many wonderful people in this city doing their wonderful things. Some things are big, bold, mind shattering and earth changing. Others are smaller, less demanding of your time, attention or brain cells, but still a real pleasure.

Such categories aren't hard and fast of course.

And it's all the opinion of the audience.

But, since I'm the only member of the audience writing here I declare the following GREAT.

Courtesy of one Mark Andrada.

post Rama show show

2010-03-31T21:40:00.003-04:00

I should also mention the 400 class show that I had in the evening after the casino went swimmingly.

I could have used more stage time, but what's a fella to do? It does seem a bit unfair though. I mean I was responsible for about 50% of the audience in attendance. 7 friends, SEVEN, were awesome enough to come out and see the show. The people in the class who invited no one, couldn't they have just performed alone in their bedroom or something? Why do they always have to piggyback on my notoriety.

Heh.

A great big thank you to all who came. And as a special treat I was even given my first pre-performance flower. And by flower I mean balloon with a green pipe cleaner attached. HAL had received a birthday balloon bouquet earlier in the day and was thoughtful enough to bring a similar gift to the show for me. She even came on stage for one part of the show, meaning I'm now allowed to say I have performed with her, thus upping my standing in the improv world (until people see me perform).

Of the two scenes I had one that involved speaking which was with a fella I have a hard time performing with sometimes. It went okay though and as usual was a good learning experience. In this instance we early on established that he was my father, we were in Vegas and he had recently killed mom. That last bit, one would think the most important part of the relationship we were trying to establish on-stage, was quickly forgotten. Oh well.

My other scene was a physical gibberish number and THAT I can handle. It felt really good. I even died in a satisfying manner. 2 minutes of stage time never felt so right.

2 major realizations came from doing the show:

1 - I have now performed improv shows twice and I get freaking hyper when I'm done. Mega adrenaline.

2 - We were talking to people on the casino bus about what we were up to that evening and it was awesome to be one of those who had a show that night.

Both things make me want to find more chances to perform and continue to improve.

I'm still up in the air over whether I want more classes, but I'm sure all that will sort itself eventually.

A day at the Rama

2010-03-31T16:59:00.007-04:00

I have now been to four casinos in my life.

Gananoque is always a good place to start one's gambling life. I won playing roulette. Thousand Islands Casino as it's officially called, is a tiny box off the 401 with a soaring sign and a performance room in back, about the size of my bedroom, where a Blues Brothers cover band was belting it out.

I lost a bit of money at Casino du Lac-Leamy in Hull. I was there celebrating a one year anniversary. Relationships! We were down a bunch but then I noticed there had been 6 reds in a row on the roulette wheel so I bet $50 on black and won. Odds and logic not in support of the decision, but who cares.

Then there was the spur of the moment, let's drive 2 hours and across the border to Akwesasne Mohawk Casino just south of Cornwall because there's some sort of poker tournament on. Didn't win the tourney, lost more playing poker later and I think I lost at blackjack too. More importantly I learned a valuable lesson: don't loan money to gambling addict friends in a casino. Sure he paid it back, but I felt bad for enabling (also I didn't really realize what was up until the evening was drawing nigh and I was able to watch how he *ahem* played).

And now with a visit to Casino Rama this past Sunday we can make it four!

The casino trip was part of the increasingly infamous Swimprov class. Said class started as a way for musicians and non-improv performers to play and learn in a low pressure, high fun setting. Of course it's helped along by having two of the best improvisers in the city, HAL and Kayla, as coaches. (HAL is a great nickname for a number of reasons, but we'll see how it holds up, and Kayla will get one soon. I'm still searching for inspiration.)

We were at Rama, in part, to celebrate HAL's birthday. Her birthday isn't until June 6 of course, but why should that stop us from boarding a bus filled mostly with seniors? Oh, that's right. We took one of the subsidized casino coaches that had been organized through HAL's condo. Worried about fitting in we were costumed, approximating what we felt casino-bound retirees look like.

HAL had even gone so far as to have a 45 minutes chat with Betty, a condo stalwart and organizer of the trip, beforehand so we had all the hot tips.

-visit the buffet early, because it gets busy

-the Canadian buffet is vastly superior to the Chinese option

-the bread pudding is an absolute delight

-the 5 cent machines are fun

-if a machine isn't winning, try another one

-25 cent machines are actually 25 cents for each wheel, meaning they're actually 75 cents

And that's just a sampler of the tips!

Betty was right on almost all counts, except the bread pudding was a bit disappointing. The buffet as a whole was great though. I ate THREE butter tarts.

I should also mention, that after paying $6 for the bus, we were given a $10 credit on our players card, so everyone was making money. Then we left the restaurant and hit the floor.

After being confused for a while we figured out the 2 cents machines and went to town. Some of us more than others. You'd think with a 2 cent machine the games would last forever and at a low cost, but no. In order to win the big bucks you have to max bet, and that of course means betting up to 125 credits (aka 250 cents) at a time. Some people in the group were good at keeping their bets small, others were not.

I was in the latter group.

I can't help myself (those are good words to say around gambling!). I'll throw a few small wagers in, enjoy the lights and patterns, but inevitably think, Hey, what if the next one hits big and I don't max bet? Basically I'm a casino's dream customer, except that I can usually just stop. Especially when I know myself and am able to plan ahead, taking money from my wallet before leaving the house.

It's also interesting to watch some of the other people play. They might lose as much as me, but they aren't doing it try to win a pile in return. They were doing it because there was a machine in front of them with fun lights and noises and buttons that NEED TO BE PRESSED!!!

Speaking of slot machines, this was the first time I've played them since I dropped a single loonie into a machine at Lac-Leamy. The machines at Rama don't take coins, only bills and tickets. You buy in and the machine calculates how many credits you possess. When you're done playing, if you have money left, you print out another credit ticket that can be used to gamble more, or can be cashed out using a cashier machine, or even, dare I say it, a live cashier. Weird.

All the machines have trays underneath that could conceivably be used to catch untold riches in coins when you hit the big one, but instead just sit empty. When you win there're some fun tunes that play for you, becoming slightly more excited the longer the credit count up goes on. I don't know who wrote those, or how much research went into them, but they are great and have the, I would assume, desired effect of making the player want to hear more of the same.

Maybe it was just me and an irrepressible urge to dance though.

And while many machines have arms on the side that can be pulled, most people opt for the buttons up front that make all whirlies spin.

I've decided I'm not a slot machine fan. I don't have the patience to bet small for long enough that I get to play the novel bonus games they have. And I don't have the money to bet big for long enough to access the same games. Also, I don't know what the odds are set at, and while I don't think for a second it's set at ZERO CHANCE there's something alienating about having the fates controlled by an unknown algorithm. The fact you don't need to pull the arm, your wealth is tracked on printed slips and the machines feature useless coin trays is alienating as well.

I'm well aware that I'm describing modern slot machines as alienated from the human condition, just as Marx intended, but seriously. Those trays were designed to maximize the noise of plinking coins for crying out loud! Such a waste.

Table games at least give me chips to fiddle with, but when the minimum bet on those is $15, they're a big no no. Poker would have been nice, but there are a lot of people that felt the same and the poker room was rammed. That and it was a class outing that would have been defeated if I'd wandered off to play alone.

We were definitely the most 'dressed' people in attendance. I was expecting a certain amount of ridiculousness as far as good luck trinkets, funny hats and the like, but was grossly disappointed. The red bulldog I had hanging from my pocket all day not only did not bring me luck, but drew all sorts of odd stares from the hardcore gamblers around the room. Maybe it's because there's a preponderance of rural Ontarians in the crowd and you don't get the flash and sizzle of Vegas grannies.

Few people looked excited to be there. Perhaps the excitable people were at table games, but amongst the machinists if we made too much noise or were having too much fun people generally moved off or glared.

At the same time when we were getting all bent out of shape because one of us was up $4 people would sometimes appear. On more than one occasion a Chinese family arrived, different each time, but always composed of a couple aged 50-60 and a significantly older, presumed mother (in-law). At other times it was lone women who would hover, eying their chance to jump in on a winning machine. When they figured we were making all that noise over less than $5 they tended to leave.

The day's most confusing look, however, came when we were celebrating a modest uptick and I commented that I couldn't believe Kayla was up $30 000 playing the penny slots. A woman a few machines down turned and eyed us all. At the time I though she was either a) mad we were making noise, or b) trying to assess the veracity of my claims. Subsequently, I think it's something else.

She was sitting in front of a machine that has buttons and lights. She had probably deposited a pile of dough and had been moving her finger a minute amount, again and again, for hours. If that's what your eyes and brain are focused on when you turn to look at people it's not surprising that your face is blank and your eyes are empty. She probably wasn't thinking anything about us, and sure enough turned back to her screen in short order.

And I just remembered I've been to one more casino. It was the Circus Casino Edinburgh, but I can hardly count it because I was playing poker there and for me that's not gambling.

Then I lost.

fun with screen shots

2010-03-27T03:14:00.001-04:00

Or, you should be asleep young man.

My class is having a show

2010-03-25T17:25:00.006-04:00

Hey gang!

As some of you may be aware I've been doing improv for a wee while now and I have finally finished the "beginner" levels offered at Bad Dog Theatre.

And what better way to celebrate the accomplishment than with a class show?

I can't think of one, that's for sure.

Here's why you should come to this show:

1) I haven't talked to most of the people in my class for a few weeks.

2) I haven't done any improv in weeks.

3) All day before the show I'll be at Casino Rama and I'm liable to be tired.

Who knows what state I'll be in at show time???

Basically what I'm trying to say is there's a chance my performance will be an unmitigated disaster!!!!! Those are the best kind, so you should all come out!

Also,

4) Because you love me.

And remember, even if I'm a wreck, there's a whole other class of people who will be there to entertain you. So, really, you can't lose.

It's a pay what you can event.

Bad Dog Theatre is at 138 Danforth Ave. and it's just east of Broadview subway station.

The show starts at 8:15 pm this Sunday, March 28th. 1 hour long.

This is in the actual theatre space so let's fill 'er up!

I don't care how the show goes...well I do but more than that I want it to succeed or fail in front of more than 2 people.

I'll likely be sending out a reminder about this again before the day, but you should add it to your calendars now.

bed part two!

2010-03-24T22:10:00.007-04:00

After more effort than I should have exerted my bed is now dressed in sheets!

First things first though.

I figure I'll be sleeping on this mattress for a while so I obviously want some form of protection. Growing up we just used an extra fitted flannel sheet underneath the regular fitted sheet, just something to add a layer between body and bed. We never had any deluxe, made for the job covers.

No luck finding such simplicity, and why would I want to when there are proper, expensive products to do the job. Uggh. How I love spending money when I'm not totally sure it's necessary. Oh well. I was at Sears and they had some fancy-pants covers 40% off, from $100!!! Too much, so I ended up grabbing a more generic version. It claims to be cotton and easily washed. Huzzah!

While looking at the mattress covers though an older lady appeared and I decided to ask her what she knew on the subject. Asking old ladies for advice in bedding departments was one of my themes for the day.

She knew that mattress covers shrink when washed, which she finds a bother. She also knew that the waterproof ones can feel sticky and gross. I'm not planning to pee my bed, so I knocked those off the list. I think she felt a bit uncomfortable, really trying to make it clear she was no expert, so I thanked her and toodled off.

I then had the great idea to mass text and see what feedback I could get that way. This was my second theme of the day; standing around in bedding departments for extended periods of time, trying to look busy while actually just texting or waiting for texts.

Thanks to all who responded, and to those who didn't, I'm sorry if I confused you. It's called outsourcing and it's for everything, even decisions.

It turns out no one has particularly strong passions on mattress coverings that aren't sheets. Some people (one person) seemed lost even with the basic notion that you'd want something else between you and your mattress.

That's kinda gross if you're keeping your mattress for any length of time. You're gross that person.

Oh well, a decision was made, and then it was off to Honest Ed's for the cheapest sheets in town!

I puzzled for a long while before selecting some 100% cotton sheets. The advice I got from both my mum (hi mum!) and an older woman who was also sheet shopping, was to go with the cotton-polyester mix. The main reason for this, APPEARANCES! You don't need to press the mix sheets after a wash.

Well, I guess I'll just have to start ironing my sheets more regularly. That is, if a wrinkly bed becomes a concern.

All the other advice I received, from the younger generation, was focused on the fact that cotton breathes. That appeals to me. Also, it turned out the colours/patterns I wanted were only available in 100% cotton. Form over function? Sure, why not.

The lady who I started chatting with at Honest Ed's was great. I think she was East Indian by descent and we went through all sorts of sheets trying to find nice ones and looking at the different materials used to make them. She didn't have her glasses so I was reading labels for her. We found a microfiber sheet option at one point. Neither of us was sure what that meant, but she gave the fabric a rub and declared it a good sheet right there.

In case you were wondering.

She was really interested in a pink set of queen sheets that were on sale, something nice to put on her bed for Easter, but she wasn't sure. They were 100% cotton and she don't want to have to press them after a wash. After talking to a sales person and determining the sale would last until Saturday she decided to come back later. Sleep on her decision, and possibly later on her decision, if you will.

AND YOU WILL.

But her advice was mostly about material, and I still needed to choose colours (I am good at making things last longer than they need to). I asked 4 young lasses, I would guess first year university, who were shopping for toga sheets, which pattern they liked of 3 I had pulled from the pile. They all chose the one I thought most lame, so that didn't help.

Because I live now, I took a picture using my cellphone

and emailed it to niXon rather than explain what the colours looked like in 140 characters or less. She chose the sheets I was already most fond of, saying "I think the sillier the better, really," before warning me that "sheets may be a deal breaker."

Oh well. That's a risk I'll just have to take.

And how could this bedding break any deal?

Oh man. That's great! 300 thread count of wonderful.

It reminds me of an 80s cocaine baron??? Don't ask me why this is or to support the statement in any way. Also, I'd need my bed to be round, and have polar bear and/or tiger skins for blankets.

Good thing I still need a duvet!

and because it makes me smile

2010-03-24T00:12:00.003-04:00

Someone lifted my words in the best way possible; with full attribution!

It's nice to have something you tried to say good appreciated.

I'm worried that good's intentionality isn't obvious enough.

Now it is.

The Bob and Becky Cabaret

2010-03-23T17:40:00.008-04:00

I've been going to a lot of shows of late.

Most of them comedy and most of them improv. Also, most of them Catch 23.

That's been a treat of a show for me (so much good improv) and I've even been working the door from time to time. Double fun, because I feel more a part of everything that's going on when I'm asked to help. And I get into shows for free!

Giggles.

But last Saturday I went to the Bob and Becky Cabaret.

Fun! (I don't know how to write a show review so what follows is just things that I thought about while watching or am thinking about now while I rewatch the show in my head.)

Bob Wiseman is a musician and film maker but has his fingers in all sorts of pies. Delicious and creative pies.

Becky Johnson has a poorly written Wikipedia entry, so I'll link to Sweetie Pie Press which gives you an idea of some of her crafting passions, and maybe if you look hard enough her many other things will become apparent. She's an improviser of no small skill for instance.

Bob and Becky combined to bring together their respective worlds of music and comedy, and introduce some new and fantastic things to one another and the audience that was smart enough to show up.

It was the first time I'd been to The Theatre Centre and it was awesome. You enter through a cafe and come into the space on a darkened balcony with the well-lit stage and seating below you. The result is an instant feeling that you're going to see something mysterious and significant. I'm not clear on why this was the first notion to enter my brain, but I think it's all to do with light and shadow. Standing high above in shadow grants the audience member a sense of power and agency through anonymity. They could remain in the darkness, watching the performance and never need to reveal their identity to those on stage.

The prospective inductee will be tested, put through the rites of our sacred and distinguished order, watched - and judged - from above until such a time as the elders deem their efforts satisfactory or beyond hope for success.

You know, that sort of thing.

I made a comment to Kayla (nickname to emerge in time) about the vibe and she responded jokingly with something along the lines of, "I know, I'm not sure about being here anymore." At first I thought it weird that another person had the same instant sensation of the space, but then I noticed there were two naked dudes, standing motionless on the stage below. She might have been referring to that.

Whatever was going on, the feeling only lasted a moment before we were descending the creaking, wooden, spiral stairs to the seating. And now that I'm thinking about it, we were underground. Just in a big, finished pit with wooden causeways surrounding us. Cool.

I need to remember all this for when I'm creating a religion. There was so much vibing through the room that I feel some aspects of it could easily be played with and made into part of a temple or some such thing. I should mention the religious plans are for a novel (the main deity is a wild boar!) and I am not recruiting followers.

(Although as always feel free to send me money and gifts at your leisure.)

The naked fellows were the first act, John Oswald and Sean Ling. The piece was all about tension and anticipation and also an aesthetic appreciation of the human form. The whole thing took place vary slowly, except for one brief 'fall', and there was really nothing else for it but to watch the muscles at work, doing what they're meant to do. Simple, interesting and not destined to become a feature length film.

Also, it reminded me that nudity has it's place in art and the world at large. So, to all the people who have expressed concern about my past exploits, maybe I just needed a better venue. Well, I definitely needed a better venue. One with fewer than 8000 seats ideally. And I'm not saying the pants are coming off any time soon, it's very likely that they never will, just that sometimes pants come off.

Facts of life people!

Bob and Becky did little performances, along with their hosting duties, which focused on combining comedy and music. There was one live duet with Becky sleeping and playing the accordion while Bob played guitar and sang, but my favourite was the video duet. Bob exercised some of his filmmaker chops, playing live with a bunch of edited Beckys on screen who handled percussion etc. The multi-media nature of Bob's performances always pleases me (well, the two times I've seen him perform I've been impressed).

Hmm, I don't know how to segue here. How about you go to the next room and when you come back I'll be talking about another one of the acts.

John Porter makes 8mm films and performs along with them. I don't think I can evoke the hilarity of a man in a cowboy costume with cap guns having a shoot-out with a lady on screen, you just need to know it was great. As were his other bits of wonder. Sure, many people today can make a youtube video and post it online, but the theatricality that comes from watching a short film live with other people while it interacts with a performer on stage...it's something else.

Helen Donnelly was there to do some of her amazing clowning, on this evening appearing as Foo. And oh man!

I've been developing an interest in clowning lately, both because of the physical nature of the performance and what I've learned about how one develops a clown character.

Physical performance intrigues me. I don't know if I'm better at physical or verbal performance (how distinct can they be?), but I know I'm more likely to commit to physical performance. I haven't done any purely physical performance so the assertion is largely based on how I dance; i.e. with a certain vigor. I don't second-guess myself when I'm dancing and accept every move I make, even the stumbles. And if I figure I'm being watched that's likely to make me put even more effort into it.

That sort of freedom and comfort is what I hope to eventually achieve with improv as a whole, but in the meantime, clowning seems to provide a chance to explore the physical side of things. It might help me with nuance so my physicality is about more than just gigantic, ridiculous moves, impressive simply because few others are willing to try them.

Oh, and it'd probably be good to learn how to interact with someone physically too. While I can dance there's not always the highest degree of control. Put another person near me and there's a chance they'll get cracked in the skull.

The other main interest I have in clowning (besides the nose) is the character development. To my understanding one's clown character is meant to be an extension of the performer. As a performer you do your best to find a core essence or trait and then you emphasize and expand it to absurd proportions.

A lot of my performance work in the past year has been about trying to find out more about me and get better at things that I feel deficient in. I'm still not totally clear who I am (whatever that means), and while I'm not saying clowning will be an epiphany for me, it should be loads of self-exploratory fun.

Foo's performance was great by the way. It was the story of a clown and her sausage and it did a wonderful job of revealing what clowning can be when done well. Given an absurd premise, a skilled clown goes about telling a story that entertains, but also revels in honest emotions.

What is LIFE if not a bucket of ridiculousness that's been left to fester on a porch for too long on the hottest day in the summer? I ask you! Clowns take that crazy shit we all deal with, dial it up to a billion six on the nutso meter, then deal with it using the same gamut of emotions us regular people have available.

CLOWNS ARE A WINDOW TO THE SOUL OF HUMANITY.

I've been trying to explain this with more clarity and less schmaltz for half an hour. Basically, we all deal with the ludicrous in our daily lives and all we can do is keep moving forward, forming relationships, being with one another, living, loving and all that jazz.

Good work clown.

Beautiful stuff.

Phew. I'll close by saying everyone in the show was great. It's always cool to see people creating and giving their all.

...and I just remembered two more things I need to mention.

PDF Format was great and even if his music was crap (it wasn't) the fact he's written two complete rock operas is awesome.

And I would be remiss not to mention Kathleen Phillips. She did a character piece, a dead singer from the 70s, who revealed the secret of life to one and all. Heaven, it turns out, is a waiting room where you sit until you're called to meet God (I've forgotten his name, Doug or Dan or something). God's job is to send you down a chute in a potato sack, and after riding that chute for days, weeks or however long it takes you'll arrive backstage at a show; one that you'll be performing at.

You go out, you do your ten minutes and that's the end of it.

It turns out life is about making sure you have 10 minutes of solid, ready to perform material so when you die you'll be ready for the final show. Go practice everybody.

I do no justice to the brilliance on stage that evening. Support your local arts scene!

bed

2010-03-22T23:42:00.005-04:00

Having a blog is great because there is always something to say.

Here's some of Toon's fine work. Sheesh, it sure was great when spring was here.

Oh well. Soon enough it will return.

Maybe those glasses, with that mustache, not such a good idea?

Big news for me today is of course the purchase of a bed!!!

I took a photo but it looks like nothing special and I don't feel inclined towards a proper photo shoot, so instead I will describe the bed.

First it isn't actually a bed. Just a box spring and mattress. This constitutes 'bed' in my mind because I have spent so much of my life on a single mattress on the floor. Also, my new sleeping height will be higher than what it was with my previous, little bed. Two good reasons for declaring bed-dom.

Both box spring and mattress are a pleasing shade of blue. The bed's size is "double" or "full". Basically a queen that is less 6 inches for both length and width. I bought it from the Thrift Store (NEW!) for $250 plus taxes. What a deal!

I know this because I went to both Sleep Country and The Brick to determine their wares and consider pricing. The best I found was $580 ish plus taxes. Not really worth it, especially when I don't understand all the high end technology I'd be paying for. Mattresses with reinforced edges, silver oxide (???) to stop dust mites and body smells, and a variety of coils and squishy bits for oh so much comfort.

Do you know there's a mattress called The Concrete that was introduced to the Canadian market around 1997 when all sorts of Hong Kongers were coming here; a group that carries a demographic preference for a really solid sleep platform.

After being offered a rolling fashion rack to transport my purchases home, and deciding against it, I was given Kimo's number. Kimo delivered me and the bed home.

Kimo's normal gig is delivering vegetables and fruit, hence his large truck (still with a few veggies when my bed went in).

Kimo often delivers to restaurants. Sometimes they need tomatoes, sometimes they need potatoes. Kimo will be there.

Kimo usually finishes his food industry work around 2.

Kimo sometimes moves couches from the Thrift Store, sometimes beds. Whatever.

Kimo bought the same bed a year ago and he is very pleased with it.

Kimo feels fuel prices are too high and is happy to have a diesel truck (1999 model, bought used).

Kimo has some friends who worked on this building:

View Larger Map

It's a new building. I assume he was telling me this because of its Victorian architectural features.

Kimo did not reveal how he became the default Thrift Store delivery man.

I enjoyed my brief encounter with Kimo and hope he continues to enjoy what seems to be a tremendous existence.

Tomorrow I plan to buy proper sheets. Also an under sheet.

To dispose of my last bed I set it out on the street. Toronto's garbage pick-up is great. You just leave your over-sized trash on the street and they pick it up! Probably easier for the city to do that than fight random dumping.

I left the bed standing tall, thinking it would be more visible to prospective walk-bys. The wind blew it over, however, and Annie found it leaning against a car when she went snack shopping. Leaning right into the dents it had made.

After much soul searching and rounds of advice that all pointed toward saying nothing, I did just that.

Sorry friend. Cost of owning a car I suppose.

I guess, now that I'm writing I may as well mention other things going on in my life...I did some shifts at BCPV over March Break. In costume! Long days but fun. Maybe I should write a blog post on the fun I had. More work coming up.

I've also been going to lots of amazing comedy and theatre shows. Maybe I should write a blog post on one of those as well.

Holy jumpin', once the writing starts, look out!

patience

2010-03-10T10:04:00.008-05:00

A quick heads up before we begin, there's a whole lot of self-indulgent self-analysis in here. A lot of words too. No pictures. You have been warned.

-----

Patience is a virtue, I want to be virtuous, therefore I need to be more patient? Flawed logic and mathematics!

I'm experimenting with patience of late, and it's tough, but I figure in the long run it should be beneficial.

The way I figure, developing better patience will help in a bunch of ways, but mainly it should help me deal with my ongoing dilemma of how to exist in now time.

When making a choice the past sometimes has too much say, while possible futures emerge in a cavalcade of thunderous distraction, too often leaving me lost and with no decision at all. Patience, hopefully, allows me to make decisions on a shorter term and utilitarian basis, or even just let me sit in the now and enjoy more moments as they happen.

The future will arrive regardless, and I need to stop running at it and letting it over-influence decisions. Especially since most of the possible futures I come up with aren't set in jello, let alone stone!

Zing.

Let's illustrate with examples shall we?

With improv I've recently chosen to sign up for a class that might not advance my theatrical aspirations **cough** as directly as another. As per usual these aspirations are vague; get into the Macro Neato cast in the short term and just get better at improv in the long term. Realizing that working toward these things can't actually be rushed took a lot of pressure off my class choice, and let me take the one I wanted for other reasons.

Now I get more time to play with friends on Sundays; salt water pool swims, saunas, all the stuff that's important in my life right now.

It also helped to realize that my internal debate was prefaced by the false notion that I KNEW which class would be better. I didn't and don't. Alongside patience, constantly reminding myself how little I know about all aspects of life seems like a good idea; just because I think it, doesn't make it true.

On a slight side note, I've also become more realistic with where I might go with improv. I remain positive about it but also know that I need to treat improv as a fun thing, not a "gotta be the best at this now" thing. Too often I've watched amazing improvisers and wonder how to get that good fast (the whole distracted by the future problem), until recently when I started getting my head around the reality that these people are not only talented, but have been working hard for WAY more than my 8 months. Obvious, I know, but ol' lizard cerebellum has never been one to care about reality.

As straightforward as it is, it's about patience and hard work, and whatever skillZ I have will make themselves apparent in time.

Patience is also great when it comes to my reading habits. For the past few months I've had a heap of books beside my bed on a variety of topics that, while interesting, were starting to stress me out. There were just too many pages!

Despite previous efforts I now understand I likely won't ever know all of all. I'm just not that clever and my eyes just aren't that big. So, the new patient plan is stop going library crazy, read when I have time and interest and not force myself into something that I think I should know.

Why was I reading a blog about Yemeni focused foreign policy for months? Why did I think an intense week's worth of reading and writing poetry would move me forward in a significant way if I was going to burn myself out and revert to a null-state immediately after?

I don't know.

And finally, patience might come in handy mit die Frauen.

I realized recently I haven't had a proper crush in a while. I'm wary of crushes and can't bring myself to trust them. Let me see if I can explain why and then make a guess as to how patience helps with these most pressing dilemmas.

At times, crushes, healthy or not, arrive and leave like farts in the wind, but other times they maintain and embed in my skull. Even when I can rationally recognize their hopelessness, certain crushes become self-perpetuating and drive me to actions and decisions that don't make sense and I have no desire to participate in. These eventually end when I'm inspired to do something so dumb that afterwards I feel like a being made of nothing but awkward ridiculous, and as a result I'm finally able to move on because of the sheer self-embarrassment of it all.

They start for all sorts of reasons. Physical attraction, an amazing personality, what someone is doing with their life, or my favourite, those that stem from my amazingly susceptible to suggestion self:

You say she likes me? I've always hated her soul, but maybe...

On top of this, if the person is already a friend I get to hack my way through all the above while considering the relative benefits, or not, of changing or risking pre-established relationships. And ALL OF THIS doesn't even consider what the crushee might feel about the whole thing, how they might react and so on.

Basically I get stressed because I'm never sure if a crush is a legit feeling or an infatuation that will be supplanted at any moment; am I interested for the right reasons, or am I going into this lying to her and myself from the start?

This is not an exhaustive list of what I take into account, and it varies from case to case, but you get the idea. After all, I'm sure you all have similar fun-time mental parties too.

I figure though, once again, patience can be a great help in all of this.

Wait it out a bit and shallow infatuations can reveal themselves. Or maybe the crushee ends up with someone else. THAT'S ALWAYS SO MUCH FUN.

I'm not saying I should pine from the bushes until the moment is lost. Instead it's about accepting that not all needs to be clarified immediately. In the past the urge to clarify something, discuss it with friends, look for advice, and act (always act) hasn't helped. It's like once the possible future has been imagined I want to make it real or destroy it as fast as possible.

If it works out, great, but if not then at least I have narrowed an infinity of possible by one.

And even if patience solves nothing, or only reveals the futility of a notion, at least it allows me to live in a moment for a time. Crushes are great because they hold so much promise. When you're sitting in their midst you get to revel in the magic and take time to imagine what might be. By forcing a resolution you miss the chance to soak.

If nothing is going to come of a crush I'll find that out eventually, and in the meantime I get to discover what's great about a person, laugh at their jokes, be amazed by their passions, and maybe, JUST maybe, share an amazing kiss that was months in the making.

Sigh.

Heh, and again, when you don't know what you want it's tough to ask someone to be interested. Unless they're into ephemeral boyfriends.

Frantically trying to find the way to an unknown goal doesn't help.

Breathing helps.

Observing helps.

Learning helps.

Realizing that no matter what opportunities were missed in the past and what the future might smack you in the jaw with there will be another day to sort it all out helps.

Unless the earth explodes.

map cuts!

2010-03-09T18:32:00.006-05:00

Holy smokes! So many people are into maps. It's great!

Daydream sent me this link from boingboing.

This Karen O'Leary lady has done so many of these things I don't know where to begin.

Here's a Vancouver piece from her Etsy page (Etsy of course being an online fashion/art/handmade stuff marketplace that comes highly recommended by Ms Fascinator, amongst others).

On this one it looks like she has used an actual map and simply cut out all the bits that aren't roads, really showing how it's the roads that tie the city together. Cut the other way and remove the roads and all you have is a bunch of squares floating to the ground.

But if it's the roads that are holding the city together shouldn't we be making more efforts to ensure roads are given over to people, not cars? Of course we should. It seems dumb to exclude the actors that bring life to the city from the physical space wherein the city's component parts are secured to one another. I'm not saying ban cars, just think about it for a moment and you'll catch my drift.

According to her description this map of Paris is made with heavier stock, watercolour paper. I assume she traced everything on then went about cutting it in the same way.

And again, something similar with New York. This is one from a set covering the whole city and is apparently done on lighter paper.

There are a whole whack more of these on her Flickr.

NYC again.

Keen, really just keen.

She also does some in pen and paper.

Great. And then she can put them onto cards, magnets, etc.

I'm super glad this was sent to me. These pieces are great and show me some possibilities. I've been chopping up a few things lately (I need a better knife and chopping surface) but the idea to remove most things and leave only roads in situ never crossed my mind.

I skipped right past that step and have been thinking about manipulating roads. Cutting them from their surrounds but instead of leaving them, changing their configuration, hopefully so that the roads themselves are still recognizable while their form has gone haywire. I suppose that might mean they will become unrecognizable, but I guess that can be part of the fun too. Make an interesting and aesthetically pleasing image, using a map as material, and only later upon closer inspection will people realize that they're looking at something familiar.

Heh. I should DO that, then I won't need to wonder such things. I wonder if that idea would work better with a a provincial road map or a city street? Oh! Or if I used one of those map books for a city that are done with a large scale. Go from page to page, following a road, then mounting it somehow. Anyway...thoughts from my brain.

I'm reading a few of the comments people are posting below the boingboing article, asking whether the pieces are diminished if they were laser instead of hand cut. I don't have an answer to that, but I'll admit there were moments when I was drawing this map

that I was wondering if it wouldn't be better to just learn AutoCAD instead. Probably not. It's about the process after all and it's not like I'm interested in efficiency! Although now that I have my map in digital form I'll likely manipulate it eventually.

I suppose if I keep going with evenly measured maps then a computer construction might make more sense, but it's not like I could make this with a computer.

Why would I want to? As this marker on construction paper monstrosity and Ms O'Leary's efforts at hatching a city show, there is so much fun to be had with variety in making and manipulating maps. So, computers? Whatever!

That's enough from me, but in closing I'll mention that I recently made a connection between why I like maps and how I interact with the world more generally, but I'm not telling you yet. Hint: it's about the big picture!

Maps I have dug out

2010-03-08T17:14:00.006-05:00

Clean wall in the living room needed some decorating and this is the result.

After much searching I settled on this map of Morocco.

Look at those big bold colours.

I also cut this little dootle bopper out of a larger tourist pamphlet.

It's in a frame but isn't hung yet. We'll figure something out, although it looks lovely just like this.

I also found a really great early 1970s street map of Chicago, but it is too big and a bit flimsy for a wall hanging without modification.

That's the tough thing about some of these maps. I have them in a box and they should be seen, or else what's the point? But is it worth displaying them if they might be damaged in the process? And some of them are really big and not suitable for normal sized walls.

I liked the Post Houses series above because I cut it out of a pamphlet that would have been too big to show otherwise. I'm going to continue doing this, cutting interesting portions from boring maps and displaying them either alone or perhaps start working on map collage projects.

Experiments!

Man am I lazy when it comes to blogging. I have a post I've been working on about patience, but it's taking me forever to finish. So, I guess...keep waiting for it?

Heh.

In regular life I was fitted today for the costume I'll be wearing over March Break at BCPV. Bring on the wee ones!

Daydream brought me too much meat from chef school and now I'm tired. Stupid late afternoon meat naps. THE WORST!

First improv show

2010-02-27T03:31:00.002-05:00

So that went pretty great. Nothing more to add.

Norway?

2010-02-26T16:01:00.002-05:00

Apparently.

Hi Norway!

Here is your flag.

I have never been to you but I hear good things. Also that you are expensive. It's your oil wealth that does it.

Good work in the Olympics Norway.

Woah! Lillehammer hosted the Olympics and it's smaller than Owen Sound. That's nuts.

Here's a project for you Norway.

(Mum, don't look at the proposed project. You won't be impressed with your son)

Talk to Sweden and Finland and make a hilarious country that looks like a cock n' balls. Or just talk to Finland and stick with the skinny shaft.

Talk to you later Norway.

winter is over

2010-02-25T17:22:00.012-05:00

I know there's a storm rolling in. And I know the sky is still grey. And I know February isn't over and neither are the Winter Olympics, but I just shaved off my beard, so winter is officially over.

Why change this handsome bastard? Boredom mostly.

But look at the results! You even get to choose your photo progression favourite. Two stages or three!!!

My only concern is Enzo started trimming my mustache. I think he was excited because the Juventus game was on. I think I preferred it with just a hint more bushiness. As D-Hammer said it looks like a cop-stache now. Oh well, that's what my genetic make-up is for. Grow hair grow!

And if you want to see what I look like in real life, without a bunch of poor edits breaking up my face, I don't have any ideas.

I don't do much these days

2010-02-25T00:48:00.003-05:00

Not particularly inspired by anything. Except improv, but there's sadly not enough of that in a week.

Olympics are on.

Meh and Angry Meh would be my main emotional descriptors of late.

Got out of the house today, saw some kids throwing snowballs and that was pretty great. Two kids were on top of the slide and had a toboggan, or maybe just apiece of plastic, as defence. All the other kids were throwing snowballs at them. Everyone seemed pleased.

Then I found a chocolate museum. Then I bought groceries. Then I found a Winnipeg atlas at the Salvation Army store that is a consistent source for random maps and atlases.

Oh, and I also got a membership at the Trinity Community Centre. $40 for 3 months, what have I been waiting for? Holy smokes. And they have a pool!

I did this thing.

Inspiration from Toulouse, Sauveterre-du-Rouergue, Istanbul, some book with pictures of an Italian town (upstairs, too lazy to look) and other stuff.

Sorry about the glare. You're smart. You'll figure it out.

This is not an unvitation

2010-02-23T02:33:00.004-05:00

Ever wondered what I'd look like doing stuff while you sat in a chair close by? Do you sometimes think you could do with listening to me talk about things that may or may not make sense?

I didn't think so.

BUT, if you want something to do on Friday at 8:30, you should go to That Friday Show! at the Bad Dog Theatre. It's pretty good, pay what you can as you exit, and best of all you can watch me perform in my first real improv show...EVER.

I might be good, I might be awful. You get to find out!

Please come! However - the unvitation part - don't feel obliged, by any means. I'll let you know when I have a show that I would be personally hurt were you not to attend. This is not that show.

Just bear in mind, if you want to be able to say you've seen every improv show I've ever done then you have to start this Friday.

Olympics

2010-02-13T01:15:00.007-05:00

I used to be big into these things. Really big. I remember 1988, going with my mum to her hair appointment when I was home from school one day. While she was permed I coloured Calgary Olympic bears skating, sledding and skiing.

Mrs. Farrow and Mrs. Cole were intent on discussing Ben Johnson's Seoul in grade 2. I dutifully sat on the carpet.

Barcelona was Tewksbury, and Albertville was hockey disappointment. Or was that Lillehammer? They blur. Although I do remember, at some point, being pleased that an Olympics would begin arriving biennially.

During the Atlanta games in 1996 I hauled my family's black and white television into my room and set it on a stool so I could watch it from my bed. And I did. I would be awake for 9 and watch until 5 when CBC briefly paused sport so they could go to news and supper. Their supper break allowed me to hop on my bike and pedal furiously up Inglis Falls hill and out into the countryside. Sometimes when cars swooshed past I imagined them imagining me. Inspired by the Olympics they would think. Someday we'll see HIM on TV.

That was nice of them. But that wasn't my dream, I just wanted to feel less gross before going home for supper and more Olympics until I went to sleep at the end of the day's coverage at 2.

I was the winner for those games.

Somewhere along the lines I lost interest. When Nagano was happening I was in the midst of army training. I remember sitting up late in the Barrie Armouries to watch hockey before thinking better of it and crashing out on a cot. 4 hours of sleep is more than 2 hours of sleep after all.

Sydney was first year university. I Saw Simon Whitfield win gold from a Montreal hotel room. Later in the games I tried to stay up for a basketball game that was on in a residence common room. The girl I had a crush on was watching too, something I remember more than the game.

I even got to kiss her...

5 years later.

Salt Lake City was me in an empty house over reading week.

Athens, heh, that was me slipping into my girlfriend's house every afternoon (and morning?) while under-employed by the university's housing department.

Beijing was Beijing and honestly feels like 30 seconds ago. I must be getting old.

Now Vancouver. I always felt the Vancouver selection was made easier because of Toronto's repeated snubs, or maybe awareness of Olympic politicking has just jaded me. Not that Vancouver didn't deserve the games, and I'm sure they're ready to go, it just always felt rushed to me, a bit manic. And then with the economic collapse and all the snow melting...

Well, it's too bad they scheduled this right in the middle of an El Nino. Now we get the environmentally 'green' Olympics where we collect rainwater and heat buildings with sewage, but because the environment is green and not white we are bringing in snow via helicopter. It all feels funny.

I wrote a lot more about the Olympics, Canada and what the opening ceremonies and commercials on the television mean for both but I've left it all out. It was a bit too confusing and lacked anything but my brain as proof.

For the time being I'll just hope for the best; that the snow arrives, events run smoothly and Canada does well. I'm even pleased that they're mentioning periodic protests on the Olympic coverage, something that I wouldn't have been surprised if they had ignored entirely.

And if our big finale for lighting the Olympic flame is Wayne Gretzky riding in the back of a pick-up truck, at least we haven't lost our national sense of humour.

The King Mother

2010-02-09T18:38:00.015-05:00

They call her the Queen Mother,

but she's really the mother of the current king, Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck,

and first wife of the former king, Jigme Singye Wangchuck.

Two men who know how to wear a gho.

(Thanks for the pics friends!)

So really that makes her a Queen and mother, or Bhutan's King's Mother. The King Mother is a great title. Not in terms of who your son is though, I just mean, if you walked down the street and people were shouting, "Hey King Mother! What's going on?" that would be a pretty great thing to happen.

Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuck is quite the lady. As should be expected from a lady who is the mother of one Dragon King (Druk Gyalpo) and the first wife of another. First wife because she and three other sisters are all married to the king as queens.

Also, she's a big Elvis fan.

Good ol' Bhutan. Did you know "India is 'intensifying military penetration' in Nepal and Bhutan...[because] the Himalayan Kingdoms have become theatres of conflict between military strategists from India and China?"

Well, believe it!

Also, India is encouraging Bhutan and Russia to get together on military matters. Makes sense when you think about it. Russia and India share a lot of concerns over a strong China, so they should team up. Moscow can so easily be distracted by Europe so it's good to have an ally out east keeping an eye on things.

And Bhutan? Well, like always they're going to play it smart and milk all sides like a a bunch of over-filled yak udders!

----

For those interested in who your fellow readers are, we continue to diversify and can now count Japan, France and Brazil amongst readers. I tell you, from Ajax to Islamabad and from Port Elgin to Belo Horizonte, with some Montbeliard and Hodogaya thrown in for good measure, we're doing just fine.

And while I still love the British Indian Ocean Territory, Nunavut's my new passion. It's a Canada thing I guess.

Or perhaps a narwhal thing.

Skip-Skip-Skip to my letterpress and poetry

2010-02-05T23:28:00.002-05:00

So remember back when I made this?

Good times, right? Well, check this out.

Imagine all the pebbles and battle beasts I could store in those jobbies. Too many!

The photo is courtesy of The Sweetie Pie Press, and is taken in the workshops of the Trip Print Press. Self described "Practitioners of the black art, letterpress."

Scary!

And fantastic.

Mostly fantastic, because those are not just wondrous wall decorations, no sir. Solely a great place to store toys? NAY! (Although they could do that.) We are of course looking at a lovely set of type trays.

You know how you scroll through your word processor options and can make words look however you want? Well, in real world publishing each of those choices would mean an entirely different tray with a pile of each letter in a particular, coherent style (a font if you will) so you can say whatever it is you want to say and make it look nice too. And of course there are different sizes, so there's that to consider as well.

I may be mis-placing certain terms in the description but I'm hopeful the people that are wiser about these things will lodge their corrections in the comments section.

It's all pretty straightforward, but I'm still excited because this reminds me of the time I spent standing and staring at all the toys in the Black Creek Pioneer Village printing office prior to Christmas, fantasizing. And I'm pleased that such things still exist as viable entities in the real world. There's no reason they shouldn't but like a lot of stuff, until a functioning letterpress is shoved in my face, I don't think about it.

It all makes me want to get married, just for the invitations, or successful enough that I need business cards.

Hell, I'm just really jealous of their drafting table and gigantic rules. Everything is relative of course, and I'm calling them gigantic because I've just spent the last 30 minutes scratching and re-scratching the same, almost 3 mm twinned lines into my next drawing. 3 mm is too small, the margin for error on length and angles too big.

Mercy. I need a drafting table, or a bigger pieces of paper and a regular table would work too.

One day I might put words to paper, rather than just screen, but in the meantime here we are. So why not tack on a poem a poem to the post? It's my blog, so sure!

Here's one that's part of my spit it out while the spitting's good and call it poetry because you're still not totally sure what poetry is or what constitutes good poetry so you may as well show the world what you wrote and maybe the world will tell you it's all right or maybe the world will tell you it's complete crap but it'll be good either way because then you'll know someone read it poetry project.

This particular poem was belched upon the paper in a furious scramble of penmanship, followed by minimal editing. Hopefully said belching is something more than white noise.

-----

Backpack full of groceries

My arms are buzzing

below, above

everything there is to think of

a mash of tortured

black & white

in a world that's the grey clarity

of a nuclear powered mud storm

Malleable is an intention

but to

fight & struggle

against the brain

seems,

feels,

wrong & tiring

So much effort except when

walking & walking

and all the problems are there

but fine,

far off at the

destination & nothing

until it's reached.

Maps and architecture and cities and me and an artist named Alice

2010-02-02T20:56:00.020-05:00

I'm never sure how I get onto things, but at some point I found myself on this blog, which led me to one Alice Aycock's website. I thought some of her stuff looked really neat, and not just because she is using a grey background on her page and an awesome orangey-yellow colour for her main title. I'm also excited because her work ties in, however tangentially, with some of my interests in art, urban form, architecture, etc. that I've been reading and thinking about of late. (All the pictures I show below are from her website, where you can find more of her work and lots more information.)

Her stuff is farther down but first...

I recently finished this:

That is a drawing of a city. It's pencil on paper and as you can see my efforts at going over the lines were more aggressive in some parts than in others. I think I might do a series of these, maybe start inking them.

In my map I've largely blocked in spaces in terms of grass, concrete or water. There is also just a bit of detail (roof lines and some differentiation for docks) in some of the 'built' blocks. I've added some colour below so you can see what I'm talking about

For the most part, the areas without colour are human structures of one form or another.

This blocking is similar to how a Toronto mapmaker dealt with the problem of describing a city in 2-D from above. Leaving most blocks as blocks and restricting built detail to the ghosting of large institutional footprints. No little lines for house roofs in this one.

But then I came across this image on Aycock's site. What would I do for a building with a hat on?

Low Building With Dirt Roof (For Mary), 1973

I never considered how green roofs or any rooftop park would play in a map until I saw this picture. The traditional top-down view for maps works because things are simplified, often with the notion of single land use. But when there's a significant built park in a city, even if it's high in the air, it needs to be acknowledged. People following a 2-D map and finding a building where they expected green space would be surprised, so there needs to be differentiation of some type, whether it is colour, shape, labeling or something else.

And if I decided to take on a utopian mapping project (I quake even at the thought) I would need to consider the mixed land use that might be taking place on a very fine scale. Methinks I need to start drawing on bigger sheets of paper. More to follow on this theme, no doubt.

"The City of Walls", Isometric, 1978
The Garden of Scripts (Villandry), 1986

Maze, 1972

Walled Trench/Earth Platform/Center Pit, 1975

A Simple Network of Underground Wells and Tunnels, 1975

Project for a Circular Building with Narrow Ledges for Walking, 1976

I like these pieces because they are able to experiment with ideas of structure and architecture, without being concerned with eventual tenants. It's like she gets to play more freely with the signs and signifiers (pardon my weakness in semiotics) of architecture because she's building in farmers' fields. I'm sure she still takes human form into account, but unlike a 'proper' architect she has fewer restrictions. An architect must consider daily human use and if they don't think about how people will live in their built spaces, said spaces stand a good chance of failing.

Looking through the site, I'm definitely a bigger fan of her earlier work. She seems to focus more on architecture and structure than in her later stuff. Starting in the 80s her work begins to take on a more sculptural and decorative air. By decorative I mean there is less concern with function (as vague as it might be) and more with aesthetics. Her sculptures are still fantastic and full of use, it's just that the architecture that remains as a theme in some pieces is often more abstract and less obvious.

I'm always wary of venturing opinions on realms foreign to me (at least in writing, when speaking I venture insupportable opinions on things I know nothing about all the time). I worry I lack the vocabulary to express my notions accurately. Oh well. No offence intended anyone!

Functional and Fantasy Stair and Cyclone Fragment, 1996

And I'm not saying her sculpture is bad. Just that I like the themes she's exploring in her earlier work more.

If someone knows what I'm talking about, feel free to tell me.

Also, everyone should look at the artist's site. There are so many cool things there, even a machine that makes the world! In the meantime, play on this...

The Game of Flyers, 1980

Note at the bottom (that is here): I did an experiment and didn't promote the previous post. The results of the experiment tells me no one has looked at it. If you're interested, it's there and it's about food!

Ruminations on the brunch industry, etc.

2010-01-30T20:53:00.000-05:00

The Hoof Cafe is right around the corner and it took a while for me to get there, although it has now been open for a few months. Lawyer is the expert on this sort of thing, and by that I mean food of the refined variety, so I thought to invite him out to Friday brunch but he was being a silly at work. I suggested he work hard later and come for brunch with me at 11, but no dice. He wanted to sit inefficiently at work all day, perhaps getting something done between spurts of his true passion, internet conversation.

Fancy was kind enough to join me instead (after he had already provided me with a morning's camera lesson, what a guy!).

The Hoof (as I like to call it as of now) has a menu thrown up on a blackboard daily, depending upon what's on hand. Fancy chose the ever popular toast and jam option, which given the establishment featured goat butter (made with the milk of really smart goats), some fresh blueberry party jam and toast that I assume was harvested from the surfaces of asteroids as they ripped into the earth's atmosphere and burst into flame. Quality place.

Fancy has been on a bit of a blueberry kick of late, so the jam was very appropriate.

I on the other hand thought it time to be a big deal, so I threw down for the the rabbit and buckwheat pancakes. That would be buckwheat pancakes, topped with feta, tiny bacons, blueberries, syrup and of course rabbit.

(I stole this picture)

There was also some unidentified green sweet things on the plate. Delicious unidentified green sweet things.

The following is me reviewing food:

(something that I would be better at if I had asked the undoubtedly knowledgeable server some questions such as, "Hey, those green sweet things in the corner of the plate, what are those things?", and possessed a wider food vocabulary in terms of both preparation and presentation.)

My brunch was pretty good. And by that I mean, I don't eat a lot of buckwheat pancakes, let alone pancakes of any kind supported by the aforementioned accoutrements, so it was delicious! Lot's of tiny flavours to swirl around my plate, mixing and matching, picking and choosing different combinations. This is the best way to eat because each bite becomes something of a distinct and unique puzzle. There are no correct solutions to said puzzles, just a whack of experimentation.

The one problem with the dish (and really, it's not a problem considering where I was eating) was the amount of food. As Lawyer said - when I talked to him, still online after I got back from brunch (see, he could have come with me if he'd wanted to) - it's not the place you go looking for giant portions. Although he wasn't explicit, I'm pretty sure Lawyer was really offended that I had besmirched the Black Hoof's good name with such a boorish suggestion, that portion sizes were too small. He didn't say it, but definitely vibed that I was dirt and deserved to have my eye spat into. Or maybe he just meant it literally when he wrote "There's a Grand Slam at Denny's for that," (contemptuously).

Whatever the case, the pancakes were about yay wide (yay = 5 inches) and there were three of them. I was wondering why they couldn't make the pancakes larger, because I figured the cost of extra buckwheat couldn't be that much more (and I guess I was sorta hungry). But then I realized, it isn't about the pancakes at all. You grow the pancakes and the proportions and aesthetics of the plate are all off. You'd need more rabbit, cheese, etc. and therein lies the cost of the dish. Bacons that small and thinly sliced don't come cheap!

Next time I go I will either buy another dish (at $14 for what I ate, not likely until I'm awesome rich) or just make sure I eat beforehand. A banana for instance.

(one of these)

I've always been more of a delicious and filling meal sort of fellow. Maybe someday I'll stop worrying about filling and move delicious toward scrumptious on the gradient of meal descriptors, but I have a strange feeling that all this may be tied to income somehow.

And to extend the post a bit more and add some context for both my hunger and desire to eat out I will take it back to before the beginning; I was up at 9 after sleeping at 3. I was in bed before then, exhausted, but couldn't sleep due to life buzzing. You know that stuff? In my case it was a result of Bad Dog Theatre, or more specifically Mouthmoney, and more importantly The Jam!

The Jam! is a chance to get up on stage and do improv things in front of real live people who are not in your class. And it was GREAT! I was nervy beforehand, but while on stage I heard a few laughs in response to things I did and really what more can you hope for? Big Ben and DuffMart (the latter nickname is already on the docket for a change) from my class were there and they were fantastic as well.

We chatted about our victories and failures in a lonely Tim Horton's on the Danforth late into the night, hence home late and remaining in an amped state. (I'd tell you more about my day because I also went to preloved's sample sale and bought an atlas, but that smells like a wholly different post.)

the things I do

2010-01-26T12:59:00.016-05:00

The idea was simple: volunteer a few hours at the Daily Bread Food Bank. Christmas is the time they receive the most donations so they have Public Food Sorts to help clear the backlog.

Food sorting on this scale is one of those activities that on the surface seems like it might be a bit dull, but once you're doing it, is actually fun. Tearing into donation bags, boxes, etc., categorizing the contents, packing a box and putting it on a trolley. Once the trolley is full all the boxes get barcodes and digitally scanned before being taken back to the warehouse. It's satisfying like Tetris is satisfying. And Tetris is satisfying.

After a morning of such excitement I could have taken the TTC home, but instead chose to walk. Daily Bread is on Islington and according to the internet it's a 10km walk home, but I inevitably meandered, doubled back a few times and made my stroll oh so much longer.

First step, walk away from the city!

Stupid? You ask. Nay! I say. How else am I going to get a good look at the GO/VIA rail yards?

That's the city, way over there.Fun fact: Canadian trains are multi-dimensional!

I didn't have any specific goals on my walk, just see some of the city I hadn't seen before, and walk along the waterfront for a time. Success on both fronts.

There's that city I live in.

I took a lot of skyline pictures. It's a view that takes in a lot at once, similar to my interest in birds-eye views or aerial photography, or maps even. Skyline shots that have a long, uninterrupted foreground (over water in this case) are like a sideways map or something.

There's one thing about photography (many things actually) that I haven't figured out. I see the city before me, humanity's hubris writ large, I see the sky and the water's changing tones, but I still don't know how to capture it. In my mind that's one of photography's unique abilities, to take an instant and hold it forever so that anyone who looks at the picture subsequently has at least an idea of what it might have been like. I get some of that in these, but not all that I want

I was really trying to treat the walk as one I would take in a foreign city, allowing myself amazement at every turn, paying attention to oddities and unique moments. But, I have to tell you, waiting for that water to splash into frame for the picture above damn near froze my fingers off.

After taking these pictures is when I found the goose head.

I don't know where the rest of him was, but the head looked fresh. I wandered off from here and walked a good 500m before thinking, HEY! I can use that goose head. After a brief internal debate I returned to hide it. I'll come back in June or July and hopefully my hastily constructed stone crypt will have done it's job. Keeping the goose's bones in one place, while allowing the buggy bugs to eat away all the flesh!

My taxidermically imagined creature is coming together, slowly but surely. I now have the turtle shell, two groundhog skulls (only one partial lower jaw) and hopefully soon this goose head and neck. That's a lot of heads so I'll need to think long and hard on how to use them. Two or three heads is always possible, but maybe some groundhog fangs in a goose's mouth would be fun. Geese have a wicked serrated edge along their beak, like so many little teeth, but no fangs. Vampires are big right now, so a fanged goose will probably be a hit with the kids.

When I doubled back for the goose it meant I had to recross a beach that was either reclaimed land or had been a dumping area for construction work or both. There were worn bricks strewn about and although I'd resisted the first time through, the second time... Well, I loaded up my backpack and regretted my decision for the rest of the walk.

You can hardly blame me though, they're pretty fun bricks.

Yet another example of what we lose when everything is made at a few big factories. No more small brick makers each with their distinct molds and palette drawn from the earth around them. Judging from the wear on some of these, quality standards might have varied a fair bit as well.

As you might expect, they are building condos along the waterfront. According to this picture, they provide the ultimate lifestyle for everyone!!! White and Nude!!! No wait, the ladies look like they're wearing bras or bikini tops. Still, this must be a swingers' community.

Just a piece of advice to any home buyer...consider the sun at different points of the day. Unless shadows mean nothing to you. In which case, just live in a hole.

I think there must have been some swimming pavilions or something here in decades past. I know some of the communities a bit further on (Mimico, etc.) originally were the summer getaways for Toronto's well to do. but judging by the cement pillars on the shoreline a lot of the space in between might have been taken up at some point.

That or there's an ancient civilization no one has been telling me about.

And one more thing condo developers. Just because you build a row of stupid buildings that all look stupid in their own unique way, doesn't mean you've created a diversity of style.

It still looks stupid.

Aesthetic opinions are great because there's no need to support them, or they are awful because you can't convince someone without a clue to change their mind.

Is anyone else really into that dead grass shade of brown you get when the temperature is below freezing but there's no snow on the ground? I think it's great (not all the time...maybe just when the sun's out).

Shortly after this the walking and the bricks and the not having eaten started to get to me and it became more one step after the other than glorying in the afternoon sun. By the time I stumbled my way through Parkdale and along Queen I was feeling a bit loopy. Fortunately we were having a communal potluck that night and delicious food was in abundance.

Feel free to send me suggestions for future walks and/or what I should do with my bricks. I left lots on the beach, so think big!

Nothing to say here

2010-01-21T18:54:00.010-05:00

I just wanted to say a couple of things here.

Thing number one:

I mentioned this the other day, but I actually saw my blog on an RSS feed today and it looks like NOT GOOD!

Ew.

Fancy pants formatting goes into each and every carefully crafted blog post. Your mother's text-photo-text-photo blog, with one stacked atop the other, this is not.

You lose context through an RSS aggregator.

I shudder to think what some of my triple set of photos look like. I'm thinking right now of my pseudo-toon post of a few weeks past, where the pursuit of an 80s model Buick was captured in the dimming light of a winter, Grey County sky. How does that look on RSS? I'm going to find out.

Be back soon...

Well, the pictures are still arrayed across the screen but they spread farther than they appear in my version. Also, the colours aren't there. The visual experience the blog provides is lost as both text and pictures float on a white background.

Finally you lose the text's specific formatting when not reading directly from the blog. The text interacts with the images, laid out in specific patterns or sometimes actually pointing at an image. My comment about Bhutan's king being handsome was accompanied by a row of arrows pointing at his enormous and obvious photo. In a reader, the arrows point at the row of text above, suggesting profanities or a loss for words? I'm not sure, but certainly nothing of the intended absurdity.

I'm not telling you how to surf the internet, just trying to make your online life better.

-----

Thing number two:

People from the following countries read my blog:

Canada

United States

Great Britain

Okay, that makes sense I know people in all these places.

Singapore

Sure! Someone has only come by once, but they stayed for 10 minutes or so. I hope they had fun.

Bhutan

I already knew that.

Malaysia

Hey, I've been there!

India

...okay?

Saudi Arabia

Pakistan

Ummm...

I don't really know how the internet works and all the visits from that final clumping only occurred once and lasted exactly no time (that would be 0'00"), but this is pretty great. I'm hoping to get Angola and at least one of the 'Stans (fingers crossed for Uzbekistan) in the next week.

But really, if I could get someone from the British Indian Ocean Territory

I would be a very happy man.

post 100!!! (and Bhutan)

2010-01-18T23:38:00.017-05:00

100 posts!

Fortunately the 100th post also holds exciting and mysterious news.

Reading the final poem of the 7 days series, I'm sure you all saw the final line in the second stanza and said, wuh?

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck is of course the King of Bhutan. Or more specifically, the Druk Gyalpo, the Dragon King of Bhutan.

He is this handsome. ^^^^^^^^^^(look up)^^^^^^^^^^

Nice one Dragon King!

He's your standard, almost 30 year old-educated in America and Britain-bringing democracy to his kingdom for the first time sort of king. And he's from the same kingdom that brought us the concept of Gross National Happiness (GNH) as a measure of well-being.

Top notch stuff.

And he's single ladies.

When he went to Thailand to visit King Bhumibol Adulyadej he caused a sensation amongst his legion of female Thai admirers. There was even a mild scandal when a picture of 'Prince Charming' and a mysterious lady appeared online. Exciting stuff.

But, as per usual, there's a point to all this that I'm not discussing.

Lately I've been keeping track of where blog visitors are coming from. Yesterday, after posting the poem with the King's name BOOM! Someone from Bhutan just happened to stroll by. They were on my site for all of 0.00 seconds but they still registered as a visitor.

Here are the possibilities:

---The visitor was a person from Bhutan who accidentally found his way to the blog and scooted out quickly when he realized it wasn't what he was looking for.

OR OR OR

---The visitor was a government computer/civil servant that searches for new references to "Bhutan", "Druk Gyalpo", "Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck", etc. Any terms to track the King and nation's reputation internationally. Likely, they disappeared so quickly because they were planting some sort of tracking device and as soon as I post this new thing they will be alerted and be able to read it.

I feel this is the beginning of something big.

Here is how I see the situation progressing:

I will blog more and more about the Kingdom of Bhutan, generating more interest about the country and (EVEN) more interest about the blog. Eventually, after an appropriate amount of time to build up tension and excitement in the reading public we will blow off the feud. Most likely this will take the form of the Kingdom of Bhutan providing me with an all-expenses-paid trip to their glorious mountain domain. I will stay there for a month (or more), seeing the country, tasting the food, smelling the smells and blogging the whole way.

I don't know what the equivalent coverage from this blogged one month trip would cost Bhutan in advertising dollars, but its A LOT.

In the end, we'll both be winners!

I'm very confident this is going to happen. Not only does the above just make good web marketing sense, but my friend Kristin was just in Bhutan and I am looking at a postcard she sent me. RIGHT NOW!

Now you are too. What a great mask!

The lady fist pumping and saying "YEES!" is not Bhutanese.

Bhutan!

Here is a picture that accomplishes a great many things. There is map of Asia in the background showing where Bhutan is (in yellow). The picture also reveals the philatelic glory of the kingdom.

A Cessna 195 from 1949. Yes please!

Your picture (aka YOU!!! - or in this case Kristin) on a legal stamp? Too cool. (I added the shades, fyi)

In conclusion: Come on Bhutan, what do you say?

7 days - 7 poems - Day 7

2010-01-16T18:39:00.008-05:00

If you're going to cheat, you might as well cheat right at the end.

That's what I've always been raised to believe.

Cheating at the end, when done properly, only happens when doing it guarantees a win. No sense in cheating and then losing.

I still haven't sorted out sleep and after waking then errands it was already the middle of the afternoon. Instead of coming home to write I instead spent a chunk of what afternoon remained talking with LAWYER and one of his lawyer friends on the bench outside Ella's. I tried briefly to write a poem about the experience but quickly gave up. The first line was 2 lawyers sit on a bench and the rest was going to be puns and insinuations about terms like motion, bench, brief, firm, etc.

In fact now that I've revealed all that I'm sure you can all sort out the poem for yourself.

I even tried to incorporate the game of streetcar tag in, but...too groggy. Stupid sleeping patterns.

Last night I was at Bad Dog Theatre for a show and decided walking home (they're on the Danforth) was a good idea. It was. It took about 2 hours with all my detours, but it was a great walk. I found an exposed subway tunnel just east of Castle Frank station that arcs gracefully across one of the Don's offshoot valleys. I'm sure lots of others have noticed it over the years but it was my first time. Fantastic! I hope no one thought my leaning over the bridge, inspecting it, was a sign of darker plans.

I suppose if I had just gone straight to bed after getting home things might have worked out better today. But they didn't okay!!! So instead of a brand new poem, written today, you get the last poem I wrote before the week that was began. That's the thing about poets, even when the rules are self-imposed we just need our freedom and individuality.

So I am breaking the rules of my own...thing.

Are you excited? The following was written as a result of reading a lot of Leonard Cohen's stuff in a short amount of time.

Story (title subject to change)

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another of fate's damnable attacks

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I have is a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry

and razzle dazzle

There were stories there

and they trace back the same, I'm sure

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

or build upon

No shorthand of history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Drab truths of science don't make poems

of universal truth

Their lights shine too self; confident and important

A lab is clean, fluoresced and sharp

and its stories likewise

without

shifting edges to bend and hug

close when cold without meaning.

Hide the world behind incense

chanting drugs or prayer and

find the truth because

it's all you'll remember

The broad strokes

A story on the edge of shadows

behind swirling light, in smoky space.

All I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

----

So there. Thanks for reading, and keep reading...I might post my short story Fire Drill on here in the near future. I had submitted it to this but received a nice form letter earlier today explaining that I hadn't made the cut. Probably better that I fail (for the time being), but I still wish I had known about the extension before rushing to submit on New Year's Eve.

Alas, alas it's in the past.

See I'm a poet.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 6

2010-01-15T12:19:00.004-05:00

I should start off by welcoming my readers from around the world!

Guten Tag my dear German reader.

привет to my friend in Russia.

Anyong to my 4 (yes 4!) Republic of Korea Koreans. (I would have used your alphabet but don't have the font package, friends.)

Hey to the 5 Americans.

The 2 of you who reside in other, &*ndjher*!!!!

Bonjour to Canadians. I'm not numbering you because I think a lot of you might be me.

"But Camel Attack!, you're not the United Nations. What's up?" you might be saying.

Explanation: when I finish a post, I use a link shortener before pasting the shortened URL in Facebook and Twitter messages. The link shortener gives me statistics on who has clicked on said link, and what geographic area they (or at least their servers) are located in. The past week I have had a steady increase in the number of people clicking on the link, but mostly from Canada and the US. Until yesterday, when the 'cousins' arrived.

I investigated and found another Twitter account, with 2500 plus followers had tweeted my post, mentioning the blog name and a random line from the post, rather than a straight-up retweet. Based on the account's posts I don't think it's a bot, but who knows. I'll just be grateful for the extra (periodic) readers rather than wondering too much.

Also, I am now an international sensation. Hey South America, Australia and Africa, who's going to be the last populated continent to get with the hottest thing going (ie me)?

Preamble over. It's poetry from here on out and today a villanelle.

Like a sonnet, the villanelle has all sorts of fun structures to consider.

A'aA'' abA' abA'' abA' abA'' abA'A''

That means the same rhyme is used a lot, and where the letters are upper case it means the exact line is repeated verbatim.

Here's a nifty little Dylan Thomas number to give you an idea.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

----

And now you've read that bit of lovely, it's time to be disappointed! Like with the sonnet I feel my content really suffers because of the structure. Instead of writing a poem by looking for the right words I find myself writing to fit the structure. The structure gives me a sense that finishing itself is an accomplishment regardless of the lameness of imagery that is used. Now, I assume if I stuck with it I might improve, and writing a really good villanelle or sonnet would undoubtedly leave me with satisfaction oozing from my ears so I'm sure I'll come back to them at some point.

They'll be there when I want to challenge myself, searching for a magical collusion of meaning, words, rhyme and structure.

Blunt

Hold the creative maelstrom close,

Beneath an ever-aching pride,

To guard from providential blows.

Don't walk where everyone else goes,

Stand fast against strange pipers pied,

Hold the creative Maelstrom close.

Better to take advice from crows,

Or when the world seems trued and tried

To guard from providential blows.

Just another one amongst Joes?

A speck to be chopped up and fried?

Hold the creative maelstrom close.

Don't, though, miss your own show of shows.

Creative's a peach, ten miles wide

To guard from providential blows.

No one knows a thing, even those

voted to office must elide.

Hold the creative maelstrom close

To guard from providential blows.

----

Immediate comparisons: Thomas does a way better job of making each stanza a unit, as opposed to my choppy, three sentence structure. Working towards larger, cohesive thoughts is definitely a goal. Also, apparently the meter is not a big deal as long as it's consistent so maybe I will experiment with a few once I have learned what they are exactly.

Heh, and finding words that rhyme - rather than trying to shoehorn in close, pretending it's cloze - might be a good idea too.

One more to go! I've had a game of streetcar tag on my mind all week but it hasn't yet made an appearance. Maybe tomorrow's the day?

And finally, if you're reading this in some RSS feed make sure you go over to the blog proper. My poems read better in orange on grey.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 5

2010-01-14T21:27:00.006-05:00

First things first people. Fancy done good! The man took a poetry course last term and after some concerted rummaging was able to extract Poetic Designs (more here) from wherever it was hiding in his room.

And those cookies? Those are some cookies I baked. Peanut butter for those not allergic.

I'm sure some of you are thinking That's a mighty purdy photo you have there. I agree and if you want to print off the photo, blow it up poster size perhaps, you'll be happy to know clicking on the photo will reveal its true proportions. With a file size that large there'll be no stopping your graphic pursuits. Also, I think Fascinator (new roomy has a nickname now - it's a hat thing) was more than pleased to witness this photo shoot. It's always good to see a true professional at work.

Bah, poetry. I'm not totally convinced by yesterday's sonnet. Like I said, it might be an okay first try but I feel like a lot of it was a might choppy. I'm hoping the lent book will lay some solid meter on me. Let me know what the deal is.

Also, there's a reason people like to write sonnets about big notions like love. If you're writing a structured poem, having a topic that can draw from all sorts of places within the language can only make said poem easier. Discussing the business of essay writing on university campuses, however, leaves the vocabulary at hand a bit more limiting. Then to try explain a business scam wherein individual wealth is achieved while minimal labour is expended and all this is further tied to contemporary notions of capitalism and investment that both pervade and possibly cripple our economy and society...well, writing that sonnet can be tough.

Today was meant to be a villanelle. I did not, however write a villanelle. That might come tomorrow.

One of the reasons I wanted to do this poetry exercise was to add some structure to my life. Given my current employment situation I wanted to make sure I wasn't losing days to mindless pursuits. So far, on the structure front, it's a great big failure. Sure I'm doing a poem everyday, but I'm also lying in bed, awake until 4 in the morning. I'm not lying there writing poetry, I'm just lying there letting my brain spin down and that takes a while.

Last night I eventually decided to turn on some TV instead of waiting for sleep and watched some infomercials. That's where today's work comes from! Sometimes if you just open your ears, the world writes poems for you. Sort of, I mean it's from more than one commercial.

Waking Dreams

I can't hear you John. My obliques are screaming too loud

is a strange thing to shout in a room full of people.

I'm not pregnant folks, I'm juicing!

should clear up all that confusion.

That's the great thing about the Flavorwave Mr. T

is a closing line no matter where it falls in the conversation.

My digital emulsification system uses

centrifugal friction to heat foods naturally.

easy payments of is the new morpheme

4 and $29.95 nothing but a couple of affixes.

x ePo y = x x y ∴ ePo = x

and we all know the x stands for multiplication.

If I decimate these chunks of solid concrete

does the unprecedented 100 year warranty still apply?

Jack Lallane is threatening to divulge celebrity juicing tips

and has a lifetime motor guarantee we need to take seriously.

It sounds like a miracle, but it's science.

-----

Self commentary: I like this one.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 4

2010-01-13T21:14:00.006-05:00

Before I even begin, how about that blue? The one on the left. Has it changed recently? I dunno. It's been so long since I've bought 2% (and I didn't buy this, just found it in the fridge) but when I saw it the blue felt darker and richer than I remember it. I need to get some 1% and homo milk. I'm pretty sure 1% is stripy and homo is a nice red. Oh! And maybe some chocolate brown too. I need to get them, not to drink or anything, just for a photo shoot.

If I have any extra "milk" money (HAHAHAHA!) lying around, that's what I'll do.

But you are here for the poetry, right?

A thought on yesterday's haiku. Here's a brief one I wrote today:

Spring in the air,

on the ground my feet

fly.

It has something to do with nature! But I am still not clear on a lot of what's going on. By dropping the more strict 5-7-5 structure are there any really big defining characteristics that separate an English haiku from a three line bit of free verse about nature? I don't know. And I guess it doesn't really matter. If I want a structured haiku about nature that I want to call a haiku, I can do that. If I have a less structured poem about a plastic hat I found on a bus and I want to call it a haiku, well I guess I can do that too. Until poetocracy emerges as a form of government I should be reasonably safe.

On the bus of dis-

contented fury

the plastic hat screams.

Haiku! See...no one has touched me.

Okay. Today we have a sonnet.

The model I followed was the Shakespearean one, which has a rhyming structure that is meant to go: a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g.

So far so good.

It is also, however, meant to include an iambic pentameter. Now, for the uninitiated, as I kinda was until yesterday, this is an unemphasized syllable followed by an emphasized one, then that unit is repeated five times per line. Ten syllables with an undulating cadence, one (me) might say.

I'm still not totally clear on what that means though. I read the example Shakespearean sonnet provided and when I listen intently for those emphases as I read, everything sounds kind of batty. And when I look for them in my poem, well then stuff really starts falling off walls. But I am fairly close to ten syllables per line, so I have that (to my understanding a little variance from ten isn't the end of the world).

One last thing before the big show; there is a reason people like free verse. It is soooooo much easier. Not that it is easy, mind you, but without structure to concern you it's basically all about the words.

Working on the haiku et al. yesterday was fun. Making lines work based on the light and easy structure of 5-7-5, or whatever, is basically a word puzzle. Once you get your meaning across in the allowable pattern you feel clever. Today's work, while having similar puzzling moments, added more difficultly through the increased complexity of rhyming and structure. And now that I am wondering whether or not my pentameter succeeded, the notion of sonnet writing (or being a sonneteer!) seems a much more daunting proposition.

Free verse is great and provides some fabulous poetry, but much props are to be given to the structured poets of yore (and today).

In the meantime, I won't be too hard on myself over iambic anything until someone who really knows their poetry can tell me what it's meant to look and sound like. Maybe (MAYBE!) I got it perfect on my first try?

The essay writing business

My dear tattered sheet of paper and tape

Cling fast upon your cold, grey campus pole.

Offer essays of ease, experts who shape

Words onto paper and then honour roll.

I'm not in school and don't need 'ssistance,

Instead there's a thought of skulduggerous work:

The assignment 'rrives, a thesis on France

I don't know Gaul, therefore search out some jerk.

Play person off person, shift papers 'round,

It's all 'bout shuffling the trail out of sight,

Write not a thing, while your bosses, astound!

And remember to pay less cash than you swipe.

A nice tidy plan to make some money.

Drops in the bucket, what's one more Ponzi?

-----

Okay! I guess that's okay for a first try. The first quatrain is the best I feel. The example on Wikipedia also seems to have each quatrain as a more thorough whole without distinct sentences, so that might have helped make for a smoother read.

The need for dual rhyming in each quatrain makes the writing experience interesting. You write the first line constrained only by what overall message the poem is meant to have, then the second, third and fourth lines are a bit up in the air. You have to consider rhyming possibilities for all three lines simultaneously as well as the message arc. It's all about jotting and crossing out (at least it was for me).

Sonnet, out!

bonus poems!!!!!!!!

2010-01-12T20:15:00.006-05:00

Here is another sedōka. Can you tell the word 'articulate' was obsessing me today? Also, I don't actually know anyone named Lori these days. And if some Lori I've forgotten or don't know is reading this, we need to hang out more.

Drop me a line!

I used to think that

it would be a real pleasure

to articulate Lori.

One day, though, the sun

whispered a reminder. She's

not articulatable.

---

And this is a poem/transcription of how I heard the dialogue between two ladies outside the beer store. One was getting into her car and the other likely did not have a car. Also, dialogue spelled like 'dialog' looks gross.

Guess which speaker owns the car

See no evil.

...

Hear no evil.

...

Speak no evil.

...

I'm just kidding, Happy New Year!

7 days - 7 poems - Day 3

2010-01-12T19:28:00.010-05:00

So I figured why not get the haiku stuff out of the way today. I might have saved them for an emergency later in the week, but what's poetry about if not living on the edge?

Below I have some haiku and various forms of waka. Waka just means 'Japanese poetry'. I'll label the different forms and if anyone is interested the above links can give more details.

I wrote all these in the laundromat just now and by the end all my thoughts were being divided into syllable compartments. That has now stopped.

Also, although I vaguely recalled nature needs some role in a proper haiku I assumed the 5-7-5 pattern was pretty standard and mandatory. It is not. Just like so much else in poetry there has been a lot of changes in the past few decades. Syllables, structure, etc. Read about it to your heart's content here.

I didn't realize that though, so I've followed the 5-7-5 form and whatever other structures seemed standard. Also, I've said whatever the heck I want below. Nature be damned!

Although...I might take advantage of that loophole, research haiku more closely and come back later in the week with some gang-buster, nature stuff.

Haiku

I wanted to use

'articulated lorry'

in a haiku. Done!

---

Tanka ('short poem')

I could have gotten

away with one of these poems

for today, but that

seems to go against, if not

the letter, then the spirit.

---

Chōka ('long poem')

The danger with these

forms of poetry is that

the syllable game

takes precedence and I miss

opportunities

for creative bull-kaka.

(Note the lack of swears here mum.)

---

Sedōka ('whirling head poem')

In space, no one can

hear you scream. In Hawaii,

the word aloha means both

hello and goodbye.

The former from a poster.

The latter from Inessa.

---

Katauta ('poem fragment')

You think this is half

a sedōka? Speak to the

Japanese man with the sword.

---

Bussokusekika (something to do with the silhouette of the Buddha's feet)

I want to find the

best five syllable first line,

secret it away,

then reveal its existence

once I am Prime Minister.

That'll surprise everyone.

---

And more haiku...

Hey you! Sean Chambers.

This is me declaring a

haiku war. Go time!

If a t-shirt makes

friends with jeans in the dryer

it stays wet longer.

(p.s. - I'm going to post two more poems in a bonus post, but I'm saying this here in case people only visit this page and don't go to the main blog)

7 days - 7 poems - Day 2

2010-01-11T19:23:00.004-05:00

Do I need to preface these? This poem rhymes!

Preface complete.

------

Flying by Train

It's just another train ride

From point A to point B

People sit. Look straight ahead

'Til a child's glee

Breaks the staid and silent glide

And reworks space as she

Finds the conversation

'Tween mom and dad too dull

What with a pole of shiny silver

To draw attention from the crawl

It holds her nose and bright brown eyes

In its smooth, curved face

But as the train bursts from the tunnel

She senses another place

Light pouring through the sudden window

says, Struggle from your chair!

To see the girding black steel and rivets

That hold us in the air

Deep into the valley

She stares with amused intent

Considering the gap

Don River and train have rent

The squealing silver worm we ride

A dual-environment creature

Not just below but high above

The Flying Subway Show's main feature

Upon travelling Viaduct

From one end to another

Re-entering a dark soil hole

Ends the mood of hover

And with the ink the window stops

A mirror now instead

But from the cherub, now seen as two

Nary a sense of dread

Ignoring for the moment

The world's changed disguise

She chooses instead to smile

Into her own all-knowing eyes

-----

Tell me your thoughts (I like all kinds). Also, feel free to throw out requests or suggestions. This can be a subject (tomorrow's ideas include a game of streetcar tag and...a three line cop out) or a style of poetry. Challenge me, but also make sure you explain the style's structure or point me towards something that can. Keen!

7 days - 7 poems - Day 1

2010-01-11T00:48:00.015-05:00

This was a stupid idea. I'm tired and just want to go to bed. Blah.

Anyway.

I had this great idea the other day, or last night while lying in bed and contemplating my inability to wake up pre 10am (see, I miss work for some things). My great idea is to write a poem every day this week. I guess I'm starting right now.

I could push it back to tomorrow but that defeats the purpose of doing one every day. And although this will emerge after midnight on Sunday (ie it is now Monday) it still counts as Sunday's poem. And for those who like rules...I can't use something I started writing before today but any ideas or lines I have from today on are good for the week.

I hope and WANT any and all who read this to comment on it. This exercise is tripartite (it has three parts)

1 - get me writing

2 - get me publishing (to whatever degree) so I'm not so wishy washy about getting things perfect and precious before they appear

3 - improve my writing.

For the third part I need constructive criticism. So tell me what you think, in any venue you feel comfortable (comments email, phone, face etc.). And for those who feel they know nothing about poetry, me neither! Except I know I like some things and I think some other things are dumb. Focus on that and you can't go wrong.

This first poem is about what we see in this blurry, cell-phone taken, picture.

Looks like blood to me!

------

Dear Pigeon

Dear pigeon,

It's been cold the last few days

and left to your own devices

you flew indoors and underground

and down

to tunnel town.

Good plan.

Poor execution.

Now you're just a smear.

You were a criminal,

from society less genteel than mine.

Convicted by a jury of his peers

he will fly west

into the east-

bound

to Kennedy and deserved damnation.

Good execution, or

at least a success.

Now you're just a smear.

but

Dear pigeons,

How do you decide

which crimes

deserve a train's reward?

Which blurs of grey

are wiped away?

We pigeons convene here today

tasked with a sacred duty.

Capital punishment is tough.

Do you just let the cold decide

who lives and who died?

mercy

2010-01-07T10:27:00.002-05:00

There's not much going on, so there's not much to write about.

The new roomy has arrived for the month of January whilst D-Hammer and Annie are in Hawaii. She (Katie) seems to be settling in, or at least hasn't complained yet.

Last night I made my first giant batch of curry (red lentil coconut variety from Simply in Season) of the season and had a some peeps over for noshing. I hadn't had the most productive day, trapped reading too many too long articles from Vanity Fair and Harper's...oh shit. I just opened a bunch more articles. Heh. Unemployment!

Err, where was I. Oh yes. Because I had spent too much time reading interesting articles I hadn't gone to the grocery store for the ingredients to what I had intended to be some personal curry, which in turn meant I wasn't going to be able to make The Hurt Locker showing at 4:15. You can see what kinds of dilemmas I find myself in. Anyway, in a bit of a grump I decided to skip the film and on my way to groceries I realized I like people, so I sent out a casual word to a few (sorry if you weren't one of them) inviting them to dinner. After scurrying to the store and back, and cook-cook-cooking up a storm everything was ready for people to arrive. Which they did, a few minutes later than anticipated.

Perfect? They yeahs have it.

Long story short, lots of curry (enjoyed by all and sundry) with lots left over for later dates and times.

So I did have a few things to say.

What else? (I like to pretend this is a blog blog blog, where there are strangers reading it. People who I don't talk to on a regular basis who actually need all the minutiae of my life lest they feel lost.)

I'm working on some stuff. A short story has been submitted to Broken Pencil's Indie Writers' Deathmatch. Unfortunately, after frantically typing and editing New Year's Eve to get it in before the deadline the sons of guns extended said deadline for more than a week. Maybe that means there aren't many entrants and I'll win for sure! It's happened before.

Hopefully more to follow on that front.

And I'm writing some other stuff. The poem I'm working on now partly inspired by all the L. Cohen I'm reading.

Here's another bit of his genius. Believe it or not this post was only going to be this poem but then it grew and grew.

Believe it!

The Flood

The flood it is gathering

Soon it will move

Across every valley

Against every roof

The body will drown

And the soul will break loose

I write all this down

But I don't have the proof

As true now as when it was written, apparently in the Sinai in 1973. I really wish I'd spent more time writing poetry when I was travelling. Oh well, next time!

road trip (an interpretation of Toon)

2010-01-01T17:19:00.039-05:00

Ugh, so nice to get out of the city once in a while. Rolling north with JL.

I sometimes forget how lovely it is to go country driving. Pretty!

WINTER SIGH!!!

Christmas in Owen Sound. Everyone likes that stuff and I was just grateful I didn't have to take the bus. Door to door delivery and witty banter the whole way. What a treat!

This guy was following us. Not pleased.

Do you get it?

In this picture I'm looking to the left. And in the other one, the right. I call it acting.

Look how far we've come, and yet there is so far still to go. Still, hills are pretty great. You can see farther than normal when you're at the top. FYI.

Oh man, what a great life. This guy really loves Grey County.

As he should. And why not? What with wind farms!!!!!!!!

So windy up in those parts. Highest elevation in Southern Ontario don't cha know? Oh, you didn't? Well it is. Somewhere around there, I'm not sure of the exact spot. The exact spot, wherever it is, apparently has an elevation of 541 meters. Boy howdee! And that's why there's so much wind.

Here's a car we followed for a while.

Good times.

I don't normally write this kind of blog post. It's really hard. I guess I should have taken more pictures of my face? Maybe not.

Driving home was nice too.

It's always a pleasure when the light is playing tricks. We had some great weather, driving through some nice little flurries, then having the sun peak out from beneath the cloud's edge.

Nothing like big sky country (or Ontario's attempt at said country).

The Skyview Motel sure did pick the right name. And they have wakeup calls!!!

Honeymoon suite? If not, room 14 will do just fine and I'll fart in the bath. Nothing's too good for my lady!

But seriously folks. Aren't wind farms great? I haven't lived beside one, so I can't speak to noise pollution or bird deaths, but look at them.

Walking across the fields like mythical giants. Spinning, green-energy producing, mythical giants.So tasty.

I'm just happy they were all looking the other way.

Yeah. So Happy New Year! Or in the words of Daydream. "Happy New Year. [period]"

I hope you all had a blast. I know I did. I hope everyone felt good today. I know I did. I hope everyone watched Wall-E (finally). I know I did. I should stop. I know I did.

On an unrelated note I was handling a bag of frozen crab from my freezer and now my fingers smell funny.

ART!!!!

But where's the bird Leonard? Where is the bird?

things a doin' where I do most of my stewin'

2009-12-29T13:30:00.021-05:00

I hope you weren't getting used to somewhat relevant, thought-out blog posts.

Because my computer's acting silly again I'm trying to rid it of anything unnecessary so when I reformat there will be less to put back. With this in mind, here are some random photos with various words attached.

Let's start in my room.

As all of you must know by now, my bed is CONSTANTLY full of sexy babes.

This is just Toon and niXon snuggling. Sometimes they even let me in on the fun!

And by fun I of course mean moments of absolute terror.

What a dream puff!

With that in mind, sometimes I'm better off spending time alone, with a candle. Candles are great. This one was a gift I received at work. I gave a tour to the class and they appreciated it so much they candled me. Or they give one every year and I just won the candle lottery, either way, candle!

But candles can be dangerous. If you have one lit and say the wrong thing your room can EXPLODE! In my case the explosion resulted in most of my possessions being destroyed and a world of white descending on my being.

If this misfortune makes you sad dear reader, fear not! As luck would have it a small creature of indeterminate origins arrived to lead me on a magical journey.

He led me down a magical ladder.

Then along a magical tunnel.

So much magic going on.

And then POOF! I was in my room...woah.

POOF!

Amazing. In homage to the journey, the poofs, the magic and the world more generally, I made a nice little display dealy. It was originally going to be for Battle Beasts, but I figured the pebbles looked nice instead.

I'm actually in the midst of a few new things for my room. Beyond the floor there's a bit of a reorganization and decorating spree going on. Even considering a real bed, but that might have to wait for financial stars to align. Anyone in the mood to buy or donate a bed to my cause, I'm looking for comfort and a complete lack of bed bugs.

Also, everyone should watch this space (and others) for a possible room warming party in the relatively near future.

A Serious Man

2009-12-29T00:28:00.004-05:00

I was going to write a review for A Serious Man. It's a movie I just watched at the Bloor Cinema. It's on Bloor.

Here's a trailer.

Pretty good, huh? And it gives you a good feel for what went on in the moooovie.

I was going to write a review, but I don't know what that means so I'm going to say some things about whatever instead. SPOILER WARNING (just in case), and away we go.

For those that don't know the Bloor Cinema is a big ol' place with one screen and tonnes of seats, both a main level and balcony. They tend to show movies that have been out for a while, art house sort of things or sometimes they play the world's best commercials. You get the idea. This type of venue leads to a certain type of audience. In the case of A Serious Man an audience that laughs.

They laugh in a self-aggrandizing way. Does that make sense? They laugh to show the world their recognition of the cleverness they see before them, and in turn the cleverness that oozes through their own souls.

I know I said there was going to be less judging in my life and this seems a bad start. Oh well. I know this laugh because I've caught myself doing it in the past. These days I try to nod sagely rather than laugh, especially when watching a movie by the Coen brothers who layer so many clever, laughable moments into their work that someone laughing at every one might get...hmmm. Irritating?

Part of the reason I've decided to throw a little judgement on the bar-bee (q) is that I was eavesdropping post show and heard other people make similar comments. Therefore it's okay if I do it. They were confused that there was so much laughter during moments that while humorous did not deserve such belligerent joy.

The movie is one of nuance. Characters' sly mannerisms and tics move the film forward as much if not more than what was a fairly straightforward story, basically everything going wrong for the hero. Although, even as I type, a great deal of subtlety is springing to mind. Still, I feel those plot drivers were intentionally subtle (still important) to allow the performers' performances to carry the piece.

It was the kind of actoring that would likely benefit from repeated viewings. And also the sort of actoring that if given a loud guffaw at each perceived moment of greatness you end up missing a lot.

Right? Good so far.

I'll stop complaining now. If I don't want the movie experience I will stay home!

Because people like movie reviews to have structure I will now discuss the ending. The ending is one of those wha-oh and it's done deals, and a brief perusal of the interweb leads to me to realize there is a lot of possible meaning I might have missed. People are talking theology and Judaism alongside what it all might mean for the characters. I thought it was a pretty all right place to stop things. Sure 100% resolution might be nice, but then post film conversation would be relegated to more like-dislike realms.

As is, the ending has the ability to cause discussion and wikipedia research! What happens to the characters for starters? And from there we go on to all sorts of fun times about theology (did God send the tornado?) and whether the pathetic fallacy of the storm was a message to specific characters who had lost faith or just a general message that life can be shit so enjoy the good you got now, because tomorrow the good you got might be the good you had. Boy howdee!

Hell, there are even all sorts of aspects of the Jewish experience in America that I'm sure flew right over my head. Through the wonders of lobby eavesdropping, facilitated by a toque that just wouldn't sit evenly (cold out, don'tcha know?), I heard some guy talking about difficulties for certain American Jewish communities when it comes to dealing with varied levels of orthodoxy in the clergy. I wasn't listening closely enough to tell you anything beyond that, just saying there are interesting things a vague ending can hint at.

And in conclusion a two things. One - based on a brief skim of forums where movies are discussed I need to develop better analytic skills. It might just be a matter of sitting and thinking about things longer and harder before puking these words onto the internet, or maybe I need to go to movies with people so afterwards I can talk it out and other people can listen to me and my friends opining loudly on what we witnessed. Whatever the solution might be, right now I really feel like my reading of a lot of things (books, movies and on and on) takes place on a very surface level. Buried ideas and discussions elude me, and those are the deals I need to find and understand so I can more convincingly discuss and incorporate them in my own work (eventually).

And two - for me a movie is good or bad if I was immersed, didn't feel the need to check my watch or roll my eyes at obvious idiocy. In this case I enjoyed the film, didn't wonder how long things had been running, enjoyed the characters, watching them closely in an attempt to get more and at the end yelled, "Hey! You guys are alright, want to hang out some more?" They did not.

And that's saying a lot given the cringe inducing problems certain characters were presented with and a personal tendency to shy away from such things.

A Serious Man is a seriously good time. Take the missus!

If you are interested in some commentary and background far more deeply considered than anything I can give look at this interview from Salon, Here!

oh yeah, and my own stuff

2009-12-25T14:38:00.003-05:00

my bedroom floor just after 8 on a Wednesday evening (Sweat as Communication)

I have seen
a bear bark white honey
and lost
in a fit of giggles
sage advice granted.

I've been told
I flop. Too
submerged to know, me
carrying on without me.

I remember
dowelling fanning out the fabric of existence
rotating from my fulcrum
ceaselessly, holding
colours of toys,
retro and for a wall
in my head.
Yellow? brown? orange? Blue?
Ceaseless
I roll and chase the real I want.
Just pushing it away
just panicking.

Then
a friend, down, now up,
or at least at the stairs' other end,
watching from the fan.
And I know everyone will be
slowly
all right.

Pillow
Bed
Sweat as communication
returns to my brain
first, and mouth
slowly.

I am searching
for sight in everything
even as revelation drifts away
and fades out.
Lost, but for a poem,
so something.