The Age of Raisin

All bets are on

2011-09-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

That is the mood of today. In people's lives, in the news, at work, on the street, there is a frantic energy that invades my consciousness and maybe it is a collective consciousness, because I feel it from other people. This energy speaks, its voice is a constant noise and sometimes a threat, a reminder that every decision I make is being held accountable. There is so much at stake, all the time. Maybe it's in my head. I don't know why I feel what I feel. There is something in my biological and spiritual structure that makes me susceptible to other people's / collective energy. I get the feelings in emails from pressure groups--- Act now before it's too late. The rainforest is disappearing! They are going to build an oil pipeline! This many people will die if you don't contribute your voice! We are poisoning the food chain in so many ways that we can hardly get through a day without ingesting toxins from every available food source. Quick, help us!. What the hell, all I did was check my inbox. Advertising is a plague online. I'm constantly being bombarded with information about the latest artificial need. How is having a faster computer or a better cellphone or a pilate workshop going to help me come to terms with the loss of my father? How is Matt Damon's newest film or the newest PlayStation going to help me find meaningful or at least steady employment? This all happens in 10 minutes of being online.Just slow down...a little. Maybe for me too, inside of my own energy there is a frantic need to accomplish, to be at the pinnacle of my career, to know all that there is to be known about my consciousness, my feelings, my success and my failures. I wish I did. I used to think that I had reached a pinnacle, not the pinnacle, but a pinnacle of self-understanding and awareness, but truthfully I have been so wrapped up in my own analogies of what is happening to me that I haven't examined what I have been doing --- the difference being between the passive and the active. That is a considerable difference. Rather than looking at efforts I have made to bring order to my life, I have focused on efforts others have made to disrupt my life. Maybe that's not even true, maybe the efforts of others have been in their own self-interest and their indirect effect has been to disrupt my life. Whatever efforts have been made, I have not felt part of my own identity, save that I have all these cards in my wallet saying who I am. And that has translated into my perspective. My perspective on the world. My perspective on myself. My perspective on myself in the world.Can I ever stay on topic? It's been a while since I wrote. I need to empty my mind.

Based on a True Story

2010-12-06T12:47:00.000-08:00

I went sailing today. That is we went out on the boat and waited in the cold for 2 hours for the race to start, and when it finally did, it was called off 20 mins later. We came back. We put the boat away. I rode home, talked to someone from high school on FB (with whom I haven't been in contact with for over 20 years), went to the bathroom intending to have a bath and then got out my clippers and shaved most of the hair off my body. It's a crazy world. Honestly, I get into the most interesting head spaces sometimes...The hair thing for example. I think to myself, I'll just trim my chest hairs down to the number 1 setting. But wait! Now that I have the clippers out and they're humming (turned on), I can just shave my arms (because I massage my arms a lot), and my legs (better for winter cycling) and trim the hair on my head (its fun). 40 mins later with hair all over the bathroom floor and a cat meowing at the bathroom window to come in, I wonder to myself "Was that a good idea?" . But since it's Too Late Now, I shrug my shoulders and start cleaning up. I did let the cat in and now she's sleeping at my feet.

Massive Topic Change.

It's a funny thing the ageness of it all. Today for example (sorry I should just mention here the ageness and the work thing) while out with the crew of 5 on the boat, we were mentioning how old we were and everyone seemed shocked to discover that I am 39. I became shocked in response to everyone else's shock. From the outside, one would automatically assume, that one was regularly employed with a job that one had had for several years with a decent income. It's not a big leap to imagine that. Except from the inside, the notion that one's age ought not be a factor in having regular, high paid income, for the simple reason that one doesn't (at least not at the moment). Two things are at work here. One thing is that many people say that age is just a number, ie it doesn't have bearing on ability, job, playfullness, seriousness etc . The other thing is that age clearly impacts all of those things, especially with regard to those people who claim just the opposite. So I hear myself saying I'm 39 and I'm dumbstruck at out how inept I am at having a long-term job with which I am vaguely satisfied. So the unemployment factor weighs heavily on my mind, because it bears a direct correlation to my age and the identity of my age in my mind and in other people's mind. Is this making any sense? It's hard to tell, because it makes sense to me, whereas you may recall that thinking patterns are at best erratic and at worst, nonsensical.

Again, huge subject leap.

There is also the total mindfuck of feeling unsingle (being in a committed relationship), OR feeling single, even though I'm clearly in a relationship which is fundamentally destined for the long-term. It's a big thing. I resist it. I am just so afraid of going down that road again. Getting to know someone new?! Argh. All that history to relive / re-tell, anecdotes, friendships, quirks and quarks (with Bob MacDonald), in-jokes that have to be developed. It just seems like work ;) It takes time, things will fall into place when they are ready. And then I tell myself not to read too much into the little things. We are at an age, where chasing someone down is just not worth the hassle and I think we are all willing to accept that. That's my theory anyway. Which is fortunate because as you may you know, I am brilliant with theories, but not at actually getting the work done. This is okay though, because this is a blog where my primary purpose is to pontificate.

End of transmission.

Times before Past and Present. Now.

2010-10-02T23:55:00.000-07:00

In this day where we publish all our memories, experiences pale in comparison to everyone else. It seems that I need to come up with something more and more sensational to be noticed. But, hey what if I don't want to be noticed. What if what I'm experiencing is private? It kind of feels like there is no chance for that, hence the blog. Sometimes I like it. I like being "out there" or being loud, announcing all to the world. I recall a time however when I was loud, the only people who could read me, were within spitting distance. No one spat (not at me) as I recall but, well, it was different. I mentioned an anecdote to a friend today and as I told the story, I added that it happened before the Internet. Not that long ago really. There were no Starbucks. Very few cellphones. No MP3s. No computers, well not that anyone would want to hang out on a computer because they were bulky as hell and had no interest except for the people who liked bulky, uninteresting things. There was more visiting and post-card sending, and more phone calls. Not that I don't benefit from all these things, but I'm going through the motions. I don't actually wish for any of them. If there were no computers tomorrow or cellphones or wikipedia (which I'm a big fan of) or online newsgroups, social networks, weather channels, whathaveyou, I would barely notice.

I guess what I'm going on about is that I miss the one-to-one communication. I miss the times where I didn't have to worry about missed calls on my cellphone or checking my email for messages from work or whatever. I miss the days where choosing music involved going to a friend's house and listening to the latest stuff that they bought, because it meant going to a friend's house, seeing that person, exchanging words of greeting, using their bathroom, having a chat, a cup of tea, listening to the album they just bought and trying to enjoy it, even if, say, your really didn't. All those awkward and amusing moments, were moments of exchange, whereas. Whereas now, if I hear new music, I can download the entire discography, which although may be more convenient, is not what I want. I just want that one song and possibly the album. And I want to share it with someone else. I want the other stuff which goes along with the whole bathroom, talking, tea-drinking, head-nodding-to-the-new-music-and-pretending-you-like-it, shrugging your shoulders, talking about the latest whatever, exchange.

I don't like my house. I need something new or old. I want to hear crickets. I want to hear cicadas. The sounds of the summer in New England or Quebec and Ontario. When it gets hot and humid. To that I miss.

How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love my Family

2010-08-09T18:07:00.000-07:00

Now that ought to be a movie title. Forget 'Weird Science', try "Weird Families" and I'm not talking about some goofball movie with Steve Martin playing the loser father of the half-way, half-baked, middle-class, loser family. I'm talking about my family, I'm talking about the Polish Pig's family, (no one knows who the Polish Pig is except for the Polish Pig itself). I'm talking about my mother (bless her soul) who, when late for the theatre one evening and dashing along the sidewalk with my father some 20 metres ahead, was accosted by a flasher. The flasher, seeing my mother at close range, opened his coat and bared his goods (so to speak). Being rather near-sighted and having no notion of what she ought to be looking at, my mother, apologised saying,
"I'm so sorry, I haven't got my glasses," and ran on.
Another precious memento for the history books. Come to think of it, there are a few thousand like that.
My mother has a habit of adjusting her accent to that of the person speaking or when she is talking to someone over the phone whom she hasn't made an aquaintance. My first guitar teacher once inquired why my mother spoke to him in a Norwegian accent when she inquired about the cost of guitar lessons.
She is also routinely late for most everything and often for absurd reasons. Once, when expected to come to my partner's house for lunch, she arrived two hours late with the explanation that she had to get some boxes for my impending move. I think her excursion to the supermarket, improved my box standing to the tune of 4.

In London, where she resides, the phone boxes (they call phone booths, phone boxes in the UK) in central London have become advertising agencies with calling cards for every sexual endeavor you care to imagine. In an effort to be caring and humourous and with the utmost creative intentions, my female parenting figure once went into such a phone box and began collecting some of the larger post-card sized calling cards and putting them in her purse. The passers-by must have looked on with sympathy at this crazed old woman collecting sex ads and stuffing them into her hand-bag. To her credit, my sister, in sheer frustration and embarrasement, departed, vowing that she would meet us at the restaurant for whichever family gathering we were on our way to. Very little embarrases me, so I opened the door to the phone box and inquired as to what my mother was doing. She replied,
"I thought you could send these to your friends as a joke." To which I said,
"No, YOU can send them to YOUR friends, as a joke."
Dignity? You might inquire to the wind? Is this dignified behaviour? I'm not sure, that is in my mother's dictionary. Or mine for that matter. I do have a dictionary, but I forget my dignity all the time especially as I meander through the grocery store repeating Black Adder and Monty Python lines over and over again to the various products and produce, often alone and giggling. You may have seen me.

She is sweetheart though, even if she is a bit loopy. I suppose I got that from her. Somewhere in the womb my tiny mind was plotting to overthrow any sense of sanity that might be awarded. It is true to this day as I approach the roaring 40s, that I am as mad as a balloon and have no intention of being any other way.

the New Year Or something, I can't think of a title

2010-01-10T00:10:00.000-08:00

A new post. A new post. I recall why I haven't posted a new post. It's because when I have time to post something, I feel like I can't be bothered. Like now in fact.

You should not liberate balloons because it upsets the people in the basket.

2009-09-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

A simple enough statement, but a great metaphor for my life. I say my life, because often the things I hear are not the things people say nor what they mean. Just yesterday a female friend was explaining to me a conversation that she ought to have someone. This is what she said:
"I should just say to him, 'I would like to sleep with you and we can just remain friends.'"
I didn't hear the first bit. What I heard was,
"I would like to sleep with you and we can just remain friends."
Nearly choking on my drink, I spluttered and asked her to repeat that last bit. Which she did. Thus, clearing up any tiny misunderstanding on my part. It's those tiny misunderstandings on my part which have led to the most astounding results. Some good, some bad, often very funny.

At University, I got a job with the IITS department, which meant that I worked behind a counter lending out audio-visual equipment to staff and students. It was a secure job. It was at a university. It wasn't too taxing on the brain. It wasn't rocket science. I boasted to all my friends that it was a job you could have for as long as you cared to live. I got fired two weeks later.

I went on living (thankfully) a little baffled and embarrased. That's okay. I learned alot from that experience.

1. Never boast about getting an easy job or any job in fact.
2. If you think someone's instructions are stupid and misleading, they probably are -- always clarify.
3. What is my vocation other than noticing the blinding errors that pummel, bombard and flummox me?

The week leading up to my dismissal, had me scheduled to work a couple of evening shifts. The evening shifts are slow, and in such times the long-standing employees (those who got the job as a stop-gap measure 10 years ago and never seem to have left) tend to chat about the latest digital audio and visual equipment, and disappear into their computer screens eyeing the latest updates to their various geeky obsessions. In short, not much is happening. So, I was asked to go and move office furniture from one room (call it A418) to another (C472). These two rooms were on the same floor and about 3 doors apart. As with all institutions of higher learning, the numbering system of rooms defies all logic. (It turns out that it's okay, because apparently, I do too.)

I did as I was instructed. I had a mission. I wanted to please. It was EASY. Move this furniture from that room to another. That's all I was thinking. I did it. I went back to the IITS room and invariably lent audio/visual equipment until the end of my shift.
The following day I got a call at my home from the guy on shift at IITS, who was inquiring as to the whereabouts of the office furniture that I had been instructed to move. I told him where I moved it, citing the room numbers as I remembered them. He called back a half hour later to say that there had been a tiny misunderstanding and they had found the 'missing' office furniture. I thought no more of it, until I came on shift later that day and was told that I had got the room numbers confused. Personally, I think it was the 'long-standing' employee who had got the room numbers confused. It didn't matter anyway, because the big boss couldn't for the life of him understand why anyone in their right mind, would move furniture from a store room into an office space.

I couldn't stop laughing. I thought that was the funniest thing I had ever heard. I assured him that it would never happen again. He was assured by my reassurance and made sure of it by canning me a few days later. I recall sitting outside the IITS office, bewildered and chagrinned at having lost one of the easiest jobs I had ever gotten, wondering how I would tell all my friends of this misfortune.

It is worthy to note however, that in the same spirit of wanting to please, having a mission, performing an EASY task at a new job for a bicycle shop, I went (as instructed with the address given to me) into what I thought was a photocopy shop, but turned out to be a gay sauna and demanded from the proprietor behind the counter that he give me the FAX he had received on behalf of the bicycle shop. He blinked and looked at me, uncomprehending. He probably thought this was some kind of joke. It was. But it was I, not he, who was at the butt of a very, very big practical joke.

I can't help but feel that if there is a God, he/she/it is laughing out loud, in their godly kitchen, cooking up a new experience to bewilder and amuse me.

The Space Marauder

2009-09-18T11:08:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you something about her.

The Space Marauder was born on the west coast, but she doesn't actually come from there. She comes from space. She is one of those beings who appears unexpectedly when you are on the sky train and everyone is zoning out because it's the morning rush hour and you look up and you see her standing with her back to you and you notice her, but you don't why you didn't see her before. Maybe you are at a call centre in a cubicle and you stretch your arms above your head, taking the opportunity to look around at all the other operators. There she is, with a headset on, talking to some hapless fool on the other end of the phone. You don't notice everyone else as much. There's something about her which draws your gaze. You think to yourself,
"Hey, who's that?"
Nobody answers of course, least of all the Space Marauder. She's talking on the phone and you don't know if she noticed you.
Later, while taking a smoking break with a colleague, the Space Marauder appears. She appears so casually, you wonder if you had your baseball cap pulled too low over your eyes and after adjusting it, she popped into view. And you say,
"Hello."
The Space Marauder replies,
"Hello."
You think to yourself,
"Oh, you're actually human. Amazing."

The Space Marauder comes in different shapes, sizes and sounds. Sometimes, she's 15 feet tall and walks along the street toward the grocery store to get some trail mix and some toilet paper. She ducks her head to avoid tree branches. You walk next to her and your head comes up to her knees. Residents slowly turn and stop conversations in mid-flow and gape. The Space Marauder smiles, nods to them and greets them with a friendly 'hello'. Her stride isn't too exaggerated but you have to take three steps to her one. After a block, you don't even notice the resident's stares. That's the effect of the Space Marauder. You feel calm and everything is the way it needs to be.

Other times, the Space Marauder is just a voice that comes down the telephone line, with a friendly
"Hi, this is what I am doing. I think you're great and oh by the way, how's THE PROJECT coming along?"
She is referring to a radio documentary that I have been trying to get off the ground for about two years now. Or should I say, that she has been trying to get off the ground for two years now. She continues with her message,
"So, you know I'm here in the capacity as a friend to light a proverbial fire under you're butt and help you get moving again."
I know. I grunt an excuse about not having the right equipment, not having time, money or incentive. She is very patient with that. 'That' being my ability to shirk responsibility for the project and keep it in the tickle-trunk of ideas and plans for the future.
Then there are the messages on my answering machine which keep me informed of the matters at hand, the movements of the universe, who has a cold and what the monkey has been up to. She has a gentle voice, one that lulls you. Her voice is not often raised and you might wonder what it would sound like, if it was. Expression of annoyance, stupidity, lateness of the hour, and general malcontent come in one audible form: a sigh.

The Space Marauder is a story-teller, a writer, a friend, a mother, a wife. A wife? Hmmm, have to think on that one. She is definitely the female half of a family unit with a male half and a daughter half. (Three halves I know.) Well, maybe she is the 'other half'. Her stories resonate with the rhythm section in your head, so that you begin to nod and move your torso back and forth in agreement as you read them. She tells children's stories, she tells adult stories, but most often she listens. Her attention to your ranting is comprehensive. Nothing shocks her. An ex of hers told me not long ago, that the 'stranger they were, the more she wanted to bring them home'. I remember those days and some of them were shockingly weird.

I once received a letter in the post. In the envelope next to the letter, was a piece of cardboard. On the cardboard, were the printed words 'Insert fingers here, for easy opening'. Referencing the many interpretations of this istruction, the Space Marauder had scrawled underneath,
"Who comes up with this stuff?"
I found the piece of cardboard the other day and put it on my fridge.

The Space Marauder has a knack of seeing things the way they are. Not judging differences, just noticing them. This is what makes her so easy-going and easy to be around. You could probably be introduced to her at a party wearing a suit, a baboon mask and a wooden leg. She might comment on your enormous lips, the comfort of your prosthetic or the choice of tie you are wearing. Chances are, she'll just say,
"Hello."

A little Christmas message two years out of date in the summer time

2009-07-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

The Christmas greeting is a bit late this year. Well there has been much to do and much to think about. Isn't there always.
The last two years, I haven't spent Christmas with my family. That's to say that we haven't all been together in the UK, getting in each other's faces and pretending we don't care. Or wearing a tea-cosy and wading through our emotions as we try to recount how to get to know each other again. That's what I do. Time, distance and finances have once again proved to great a barrier for me. So this year, I miss my friend Sam and my families in London, Ottawa and Bristol. Indeed I have missed and am missing my families in Montreal and Vancouver. I am in Vancouver. (For those of you who didn't know.)
GET ON WITH IT!

This next bit surrounds an adventure I had by bike and sheer will, starting from Vancouver at noon on Boxing Day. I headed out to Horseshoe bay, caught a ferry to Gibson's on the sunshine coast and in the dark, rode two hours to Sechelt on the sunshine coast. I pitched my tent in a field, had some dinner and went to sleep....
READ SLOWLY.
Ahem.

I woke up in a tent. I fell asleep in a tent before I woke up in a tent. I woke up in a tent in almost complete darkness. I got up to pee (the third time that night) and I can tell you that at 3 degrees in my underwear and a t-shirt, it was goddam cold. I got up to pee, but I was awoken twenty minutes before by the howling of coyotes, loud and long into the night. It might have been a dog, but I heard other dogs barking against the howling. After about two minutes of this I began to seriously believe that my tent was going to surrounded by coyotes seriously soon. I began to have images of me stabbing and killing coyotes as they lunged at my tent or me, and I wondered how do I kill a coyote. I have never done it before. It's not like stepping on a worm or telling a car driver to piss off, this is an ugly dog shaped thing with teeth and malice. While all these images of violence and fear were flashing through my head, I discovered that I still needed to pee, rather urgently. Crap, crap, crap. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, okay. I'm gonna go. I'm gonna go pee now. This is me getting out of the tent aggressively and powerfully in my jockey shorts and tee-shirt that says 'More Cowbells'.
Watch out.
There was no one out there. No coyotes. No people. No cars. No bears (phew). I could still hear the coyotes. Whatever. There are probably more afraid of you than you are of them. Blah, blah, blah.
A thought struck me about territory. Aha. That's what I'll do. Judging a 20 yard radius, I peed in certain locations around my campsite. I shivered my way back to my tent. By the time I got back into my sleeping bag, I felt frozen. I wondered about that theory about staying warm by removing clothes and getting naked into the sleeping bag, which was roughly what I had been doing before. This is clearly bunk. I put on my long underwear, my flannel shirt, my cycling tights, my hoodie and my hat. I was still cold, but sod it, I am tired and the coyotes can smell my pee and bugger off. I did actually fall asleep, I don't recall when exactly, but at 6:30am I woke up and looked at the illuminated dial on my watch and saw the time. I fell back asleep. But briefly.
Kally, come here. No here. Kally! Kally! Kaaalleeee! No. Here. Kalleeee! Come Here. Kalleee c'mere! Kallee! KALLY! COME HERE!
Yah, that doesn't bother me. Yah, I can totally sleep through someone disciplining their dog outside my tent at 7am. Uh-huh. Get out of bed Vaughan. No.
Get out of bed. No, I wanna sleep.
You can't sleep. But I want to.
You can't.
Shut up.
(in a sing-song, gloating voice) You can't sleep.
Bollocks.
Okay. God I have to pee. Christ, not you as well. How many Vaughans are there? Jesus!
There's just one and it's you Vaughan and you are alone in a tent mentally ranting to yourself.
I lay there for another ten minutes and ranted some more. I did get up and squared my things away and surveyed the day and the rain which had begun falling at about five, to replace the blissfull silence left by the wearied coyotes.
I can deal with rain. I'm okay man. I know what rain is. I live on the west coast for God's sake.
I put up the tarp my friend Daragh had loaned me and sat under it and made a breakfast of ramen noodles with tomato soup and left-over turkey which Siobhan had given me on Boxing Day morning at around 2 am. Thank you Siobhan. It may not sound good here, but when I was cold and tired, damp and slightly annoyed by my bout with non-existent coyotes, it was soooo goooooood. Tea in the morning?
Tea can go hang. I'm going to have soup and turkey. I sat under the tarp, outside my tent and ate in silence. I cooked in silence, I ate in silence. I slept (if I can call it sleeping) in somewhat silence. It was amazing actually. It was empowering. Not eating soup and turkey in the damp pitter-patter of the rain. But observing the simple things around me. There's not a lot to take up space in my mind when I'm camping. At home, I'm surrounded by things that need straightening, bills that need to be paid, cards that need to be sent, careers that need to be furthered, people who need to be called. Whatever it is, it's all there. Outside a tent with a bicycle, panniers, clothes, food, there's not much I can do to address the mental ranting, so I don't think about it. I concentrate on things I can actually do. Make breakfast. Eat.
I placed the small camping stove on the ground and watched with satisfaction as the three partitions of the burner slowly lit up. With my last remaining water, I made the soup. The only sound was from the propane being released through the burner. I watched and I listened and I idly wondered if my brother's house had burned down. Just one of those things that pops into my head when everything else is said and done. Not because I had left the stove on or not unplugged the fan or the toaster. I recalled that everything had been moved away from the radiators. I had not done anything to facilitate such a prospect, but the thought trundled across my brain, like an ant carrying a piece of wood roughly the length of its own body, slowly and wearily across a footprint.

After much deliberation, I decided to head home. I was deliberating because of the time factor, the lack of people factor and the rain and cold factor. Most of all though, I discovered that I didn't neet to be out here deliberating. I could be back in Vancouver deliberating where there's heat and less effort. The trip was more of an adventure and I wondered whether I would like to be in a tent, possibly quite tired and possibly quite wet at the end of the day. The answer was no. I was happy to turn back. I was happy to take the time to stop and take pictures along the snowy road. I was happy to make a decision and feel good about it. Someone once said something to me when I was in Germany and I was thinking about coming home, but I didn't want to give up...She asked me why what other people thought of me, mattered to me so much. It was a good question. It took about five years, but I got the answer. It doesn't matter. I'm going back.

The ride back to Gibson's was comparatively relaxing. It was daylight. I knew the road. I had the whole day. The hills were pretty tough I tell you. HOLY CATS!
I stopped at a bike shop in Gibsons and talked to the kindly proprietor. I bought some more water and cycled down the hill and it began to dawn on me why it didn't look familiar. It wasn't. I turned around and cycled up the hill. Oops. That was dumb. Yes, these panniers are heavy. Yes I saw you shovelling your driveway a moment ago, when I thought I knew where I was going. It is now abundantly clear that I didn't know where I was going and that's why I feel foolish and have begun talking to myself to prove it. Oh, these panniers are heavy. Who cares. Who cares. I don't care. If anyone cares, it's not me. I don't care.

Okay, we're on the right road now. It's snowing. Oh, it's a bit slippery. Wow that's a big truck. Goddam that was close. That's a big hill. There are people at the bus stop, you're going past them at the same pace it takes to walk. Just smile and say hi and try not to talk to yourself too much. I am in the mountains and my God it's beautiful.
It's amazing. Take some pictures. Okay, that's a steep hill. Taking pictures versus getting down the hill before the snow sticks to the ground. Uhh. Bye.

I got to the bottom of the hill in time to see the ferry exit the harbour and head out to sea. I was in time. I was in time to spend some time. I parked my bike, took out my portable stove and made some Tetley tea. I went inside the waiting room area, took off my waterproofs and placed them on the radiator and ate Cocoa Camino chocolate. I ate Jelly Belly Christmas present Jelly beans from Montreal. I listened to other people complain about the two hours we had to wait for the next ferry. I barely noticed the time go by. I was happy to sit down again. I was happy to do nothing. I was happy to have no deadlines to meet.

I did arrive in Vancouver some hours later replete with fatigue and extreme hunger. I inhaled a large bowl of granola and sat down to assess my state of mind, but I was too tired...So I put on a movie I had seen many times before and made up my bed and passed out and woke up at midnight. I wasn't in a tent. I wasn't cold. There were no coyotes. I peed in the bathroom wearing underwear and a tee-shirt. I came back to bed and turned on the TV, set it to the fireplace channel which broadcasts a fire burning in a fireplace over and over again. I peeled oranges and decided that I wasn't going to sleep. I listened to the silence. There were no deadlines to meet.

Three days after Christmas 2007 in Jen and Noel's flat with the sounds of Sigur Ros and the help of a gray laptop, I write to you. To all of you who know me. I write to you all because you are all my family, some by blood, some by choice, some by both. It is a seasoned greeting. Seasoned by your influence, seasoned by your support, seasoned by your love, seasoned by your friendship. I always try to iterate how affected I am by your friendships. Know that across the distance and time that separate us, you are always in my heart.

Lots of love,
Vaughan.
December 28th 2007.

Inner Yoda

2009-07-15T00:03:00.000-07:00

My inner yoda sez to me "Look after yourself and lead by example." and then he stumbles off and has a slice of pizza.
Inner Yoda looks like me except that he has elvish ears and a beard and sticks out his lips and waggles them like a fish. He sleeps evenly and snores a little. He is wide awake long before I am drinking tea and snorting at the rubbish articles in the morning paper. He opens the fridge and pulls food out at random and leaves a mess, after he has finished eating his strange concoctions. He giggles throughout the day. He pats me on the back for having a shower and shaving. He pulls me aside and whispers words of support when I go for exams or job interviews. He goes shopping with me and shouts out the prices of items he finds too expensive, at the grocery store. He sits on the back of my bike and gives me pep talks on how to deal with people's behaviour and personal struggles. He massages my arms when my tendonitis is acting up. He reminds me that I am grouchy when I have to work, and says that I prefer a good snooze to anything approaching decision-making. He makes me chuckle about my eccentricities. He goes to sleep at least an hour before I do. He brings me peace through meditation and shows me how to listen to my heart.

For the truth lies in each of us. Our task is to recognize our truth.

My Family’s Bananas

2009-07-12T00:06:00.000-07:00

In those days the family I knew best were: myself, my older brother and younger sister, my mom and my aunt Dorothy. My parents separated when I was young, leaving my father stranded in Ottawa. Summers, winter holidays, Thanksgiving, Easter break, were all spent in West Chester PA with my aunt and uncle when he was still alive. The pilgrimage to Cape May was made every June for as long as I can remember. My aunt Dorothy who was somewhat older than my great-aunt and had been going there every summer since she was a child.

Aunt Dorothy was my mom’s half-sister, that’s why she was so old. She used to ride horses and teach as well as being an accomplished sculptor. I only ever knew her as old and wrinkly with bowed legs. My brother and I joked that you could open an umbrella underneath her without touching either knee. My mom was always careful to encourage us to be nice to Dorothy, because she was so old. That’s just the way of things: parents teach kids to be nice to old people.

My aunt sat huddled in the passenger seat of the 1977 Chevy Nova, partly because her back was stooped, but mostly because my mom had piled everything under and around her. There she was: old and fussy, but barely able to see over the dashboard. My mom sat in the middle. It was one of those bench seats that you find in old cars. One of her feet was on Dorothy’s side of the floor and another one a little too close to the foot that was on the gas pedal. My brother had just got his license and was driving. I was about thirteen. My younger sister and I were stuffed into the back seat, surrounded by garbage bags filled with who knows what --- towels, flippers, sandals, flip-flops, a mask and snorkel, probably a plastic shovel as well --- packing is my mother’s specialty.

I don’t know if you know the summers in Pennsylvania, but they’re hot. A dry hot. The kind of hot that burns your fingers when you put your hand on the car door handle. You can’t wait to start driving so that some air, hot or cold, will start moving through the car. In that car on that hot, hot day, with my grumpy sister and my mother a bit nervous of my young brother’s driving, my aunt regaled us with a some of her senility which proved to be the antidote for all the forces against us.

The car was so full of junk, you could barely roll down the window for fear of ‘luggage’ falling out. One of my legs was trapped between the seat and a garbage bag, the other was at another location which momentarily escapes my memory. Grahnia my sister was sleeping. Only visible through the bags because of her long curly black hair and the occasional light-hearted snore. Most of us were asleep. Due to the unfortunate packing job that so often paralysed my mother’s organisational skills, some of the stuffing began to leak out. To clarify, I think that my mother had brought plates and cups with us, because we were renting a three-bedroom apartment for our three week stay.

Sometimes the stuffing was towels or newspaper that my mom had wrapped around the dishes. On this occasion, she used packing kernels: those little Styrofoam shapes that act as a cushion for valuables when shipped in boxes. Through a hole in the box and on a cushion of air, some of the packing kernels start floating around the inside of the car. I woke up to find my brother laughing as these Styrofoam shapes started getting caught on faster currents of air and whipped themselves out the window.

My brother’s laugh is very contagious. It starts as little giggles, and then he gets redder and redder until he makes a sound like he’s constipated and explodes in a paroxysm of tears and gusts of ha aah ha haha aaaaaaaahaahhhhhhhhh, followed by some high-pitched wheezing, repeated by the constipation sound and more hahhahahahaha. By this time, I found the cause of this uncontrollable force of noise. Dorothy had started to nibble on some of the floating pieces of Styrofoam, thinking (God knows what) that they were a free treat that had finally come her way. I could just imagine her pleased that little nibbles were now able to be plucked from the air, instead of having to open up a packet of food. My mother turned to her to make some concerned and helpful comment, as she would to a child, when my aunt blurted out “It tastes just like jam.” There was nothing to be done after that. There was no reason that could be applied to the situation. My mother, against all her maternal instincts to protect, roared with laughter. My brother in such a fit, his spasms of laughter making me laugh in my silent uncontrollable giggles, did his best to keep control of the car. I think we even woke up Grahnia. That was the first time I saw my mother laugh so openly, honestly and loudly. It was enough to wake us up from the tired heat and hot metal and remind us of what the situation really was, a family trip of young and old, and of how we were all slightly bonkers, just like everyone else. On our way to the beach.

As I sit and write this, tears of laughter come to my eyes again, though at the time being squashed against the seat, surrounded by plastic bags and cookie crumbs, it was the funniest thing in the world. I don’t know if Dorothy knew that her behaviour was the source of such merriment. She might have guessed that her actions were questionable in retrospect. Honestly, who knows what happened in her head. She was a direct person, kindly in some ways and partially bananas. Which we all had a fondness for.

The Secret Banana War
We used to stay at her home in Pennsylvania. An apartment in a vast community of old, decrepit, dying people. Pleasantly situated in the countryside, surrounded by forests and farmland. Her apartment was on the second floor of a small two-storey building. My mother did all the food shopping. She used to buy tons of vitamins, sometimes from hippies who lived in buses and owned health-food stores. And with every shopping purchase, she bought bananas. My sister, ate little else in those days: cheese, bread, plain pizza, egg milkshakes and bananas. Dorothy ate bananas too. So in order to keep some bananas for my sister’s queer diet, my mother hid the bananas. As it turned out, Dorothy did too. My mother once commented, in a state of incredulity, that she had found nine banana peels secreted in Dorothy’s room. I guess Dorothy was just fending for herself in the secret banana war.

15 Rules for living...50 more to come.

2009-05-04T11:22:00.001-07:00

I read on someone's blog just now, even though I should be working...about 35 things to do every day. I'll give some examples.
1. Make your bed first thing.
2. Go out of your way to say good morning to your neighbours.
3. Include a thank you note with your rent cheque.

Stuff like that. Some of the things are a bit too specific however.
18. Don't make any telephone calls after 9pm.
22. Listen to all your answering machine messages as soon as you get home and then erase them.
23. Go to bed early and read for 30 minutes.
25. Always eat your dinner on a plate and have a napkin.

My attitude, at this point begins to change from --OK, to WTF, to Who wrote this shit?-- So rather than be perplexed and annoyed, I thought I would write my own list.
Off the top of my head. No holds barred.

1. Get out of bed as soon as you wake up and don't lie there trying to change the world in your underwear from the safety and comfort of your blankets.
2. Eat something before you leave the house, because it's an important and easy way to love yourself at the start of every day.
3. Think of alternatives to swearing at the asspick who cut you off in traffic on the way to work. Maybe they weren't thinking, maybe their marriage is on the rocks, maybe it's not about you. Let it go.
4. Call your family once a week. It's a good habit to get into, and you'll need that habit when you're in your thirties and upward. Family is defined as people you love.
5. Don't think of yourself as a victim to life, to people, to work, to family. You are a participant in this place.
6. Don't pick your nose and then flick it at random when you're outside, you might just begin to do this inside and your carpet and floor will be littered with old bogies. (this hasn't happened in my house by the way :), it's okay to come over)
7. Let your friends and Cow Orkers know that you are a reliable, trustworthy and friendly lunatic who reads magazines while sitting on the toilet or sings while brushing his teeth, just like everyone else.
8. Not everyone will like you. It sucks, but there are somethings that are out of our control. Besides, there's other stuff to worry about. (see rule 6)
9. You are your own best friend. Stand up for yourself, love yourself, believe in yourself. As much as you can.
10. (This is from my brother)...Whatever opinion you have of yourself will make you who you are.
11. If you are single, have a wank before you fall asleep. It's a great way to expend some time, having fun in a hot and bothered way. It tends to take all the worries out life for a few minutes and clears the way to some serious sleeping.
12. Take pictures, send postcards, record, record, record. In memory, in music, creatively, randomly. Documentation is a fantastic way to live.
13. Listen to your body. It's not separate from yourself.
14. Fear is powerful, but fragile. It only takes a little to shift perspective. If you let it, fear and anger will rule you, and affect everyone you meet and love.
15. The most powerful person on the planet is the one who believes they can make a difference.

Okay, that's fifteen of my rules for healthy living.
Comment at Will. Or as Arthur Wellesley, The Duke of Wellington once said,
"Publish and Be Damned!"

Is it OK to sit and do Nothing?

2009-04-26T11:40:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure that it's okay to sit and do nothing. I must first decide what that means. When I come home from work, I turn on the radio and listen to the tidbits of information about the daily grind. What is called 'news'. The 30 seconds of headlines, repeated every half-hour don't inform me particularly, they pique my interest, but just enough to make me wonder about the horrors of what other people are facing, while I concern myself with what I'm going to make for dinner at that moment, and do I have all the ingredients. Those are the real concerns.
Is my food organic?
Was it grown locally?
Who is not recycling?
Who is polluting?
Am I happy in my chosen job?
God I hate my roommate.
God I am tired.
I have to call this person back and I was suppose to do it two days ago.

Western Media outlets report British Prime Minister and French Foreign Minister and a number of other diplomats, summarily condemn a new law passed in Afganistan by the Hamid Karzai government. Those noble politicians, standing up for the rights of women in Afghanistan, by threatening all manner of aid to be withdrawn until the law is repealed. Is the law allowing rape within marriage repealed? Who knows, because the following day, I learn about Obama's decision to release memos of the Bush government concerning the wording of what is deemed to be torture. THAT'S A BIG HEADLINE. The Bush administration condoning and actively participating in the torture of prisoners of war, or anyone who is suspected of being a terrorist. Well, that's a big deal. Calling into question our sense of morality, that's shocking. We must learn about this, we must read all we can. It's being reported by CNN, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, FOX, AP, Reuters, CBC, BBC, and a dozen more international publications. Did you hear about this: Women being raped by their husbands, beaten to death by their brothers and male family members for disrespecting the family honour, women politicians, activists, human rights lawyers, women who stand up for themselves are assassinated, hanged, beaten, gang-raped regularly. Did it make the six o'clock news? No, but I heard about the Obama administration replacing the CEO of GM. God, I feel informed. Besides, we're doing our part in Afghanistan. What about all the Canadian soldiers dying there, fighting against the Taliban, helping to restructure Afganistan. I should be proud to be Canadian. I'm behind the troops, fighting the evil Taliban and they are a fairly nasty bunch putting it mildly. A really twisted fanatical, extremist, power-hungry regime. Our troops are making a difference over there. It's true, we are working with the Karzai government, but. BUT WHAT. Where's the but? Yes, his brother is reported to be one of the largest opium smugglers in the country, but. HUH? Well, it's you know 9 thousand miles away. You must understand the context of laws in that country, of their culture, of their traditions. Hmm, you have a point. I musn't judge the whole government and culture by this new law. I should concern myself with what's going on around me, in my city, in my culture, with my own people.
Worry about the weather. Talk about the Olympics. Wonder about the conditions at Cypress. Concern yourself with the recession. Will the Canucks win the Stanley Cup?
A woman was gang-raped regularly for over a year, until she had a child...
Go make a sandwich, have a cup of tea, download some music, be thankful you have a job.

Königstuhl

2009-01-04T10:13:00.000-08:00

I climbed the Königstuhl today. It was cold. I went to the altstadt and ate zwei brätwurst mit brötchen and then I headed up the schloss. I have seen it before, years ago and I needed to see again. At the cafe I bought some Kirchwasser and an ice-cream and started the hike up the mountain. I found the stairs, some three hundred of them (or so it seemed) that lead to the top. The first hundred were fine. The second hundred made me rethink my pace and slow down a little and ruminate the problems of the world a little more. The last three hundred were brutal and I pretended that I was in good shape, in case anyone saw me panting. I did make it to the top after a half hour. I put on my mp3 player and started listening to Gillian Welch. Good climbing music. When I reached the top, I thought I heard voices in the recording, which you sometimes hear in live albums. These voices however were in German, and I thought it more likely that they were coming from people behind me than from an acoustic concert of country music somewhere in South Carolina.

I found it.

I found the towers, probably built at the end of the war, with their two red light beacons, which welcomed me home every time I cycled back from work when I lived here.I was moved. I stood there alone and looked at the towers. I walked further along the mountain top and discovered that there were too many people there for me to absorb the scene, so I walked back toward the towers and then to the view. One of the most amazing and important views for me. I saw the city. I saw the river. The bridges and the lights. I remembered when last I was here and I believed in my future in my place on this earth. I can't quite feel it this time and I have been trying, but I feel like I'm not here. My memory is here, but I am not. I move through the city like a ghost. Alone. Alone in language. Alone in company. Alone in memories. I have been trying to make new ones, that will last, that will endure. New ones that will cover up the old ones and remind me that I am still alive. Alas.

As I made to descend the mountain, I thought of something my friend Flanders said to me about climbing the mountain and finding that when I get to the top, I don't need to be there. Something like that happened today. I found something at the top that I didn't expect. It was me. I expected to find something better, more satisfying, consoling. I got there and thought 'Oh, it's you.'Are you what I am really looking for? I suppose I am. I am what I am looking for. Read that anyway you like. But, at least I have an explanation. Maybe that's something I need to think about for the New Year, and the one after that.

I want to find hope up on that mountain again. I want to find the hope in me, that has eluded me these last few years. Maybe it's been ten. At what age do you find yourself. What I am expecting to find. Is there anything? Does anyone know? Hmmm

Food for thought on this day in January 2009.

Ode to Vancouver

2008-09-23T23:41:00.000-07:00

Hmm. Where to begin. I will begin at the beginning. Someone came into work the other day and I helped them try on cycling helmets. This man finally found a helmet he liked and pointing to it he said,
"I'll take that one." To which I replied,
"You can't take that one, that's the display model."
"No," he continued,
"I want one just like it."
"Oh." I said and then went to fetch one.

Two things were going on here.
1. I was having a laugh at his expense, though no one got the joke but myself.
2. He thought he was doing me a favor by putting up with my stupidity.

This is often the case with my interactions in Vancouver.

Later in the week, I was working as a cashier, and I got to talking to some customers as to how to support the oil barons if he (the customer) didn't take a plastic bag for his purchases. I suggested that he could vote for Stephen Harper. To which his wife replied that they (all the party leaders) were crooks. I agreed, though to be sure, the most untrustworthy face was that of Jack Layton. Distinctly and a bit loudly I said that I didn't trust Jack Layton's mustache. I then looked up from the credit card signature I was examining and looked at the husband, who had suddenly gone quiet in this exchange. I did a miniscule double-take, as I painfully realised that he was sporting a mustache.

There again, I think I was the only one who thought that it was funny.
It's bedtime, now that I am beyond all reasoning. Reason? What reason? Do I need a reason? A raisin perhaps. Yes, that seems more likely.

Wonderful Images

2007-09-21T11:09:00.000-07:00

Your number is now written in my phone book where it belongs. It is now morning and Morgan is alternating between playing harmonica and pressing the answering machine button that says "to delete all messages press delete again" to which she replies "delete!". Kids CBC is playing in the background where some dog and cat are riding a bus. John is, astoundingly, still in bed and I am trying to keep the monkey quiet so he can have a rest. He has worked very hard this month. I still haven't had my morning cuppa and Morgan hasn't yet had her eggo. John wants buttermilk pancakes but he never eats upon rising so I will wait before mixing the batter. Morgan is now drawing on anything she can readily reach with all writing utensils available. But the answering machine still has a draw. I am knitting a sock. It will be red with black trim and have a tulip on the heel. When it is done I will make another one to match it. They are a solstice gift for Joan (sshhh). According to Morgan all pens and pencils are drum sticks and mommy is the drum, especially her bum.
Well, good morning you. Have a cup of tea and enjoy the new day.
Later tater.

Patrick Watson and Victoria Drive

2007-09-16T23:34:00.000-07:00

A long time since I posted...I'm amazed that my account is still active. No doubt it is subject to a bit more scrutiny now that I have to login via gmail.
Two months since I left Montreal and I feel like it has been two decades. I can't believe how much I have done in that time and how much I have missed being alive. I know I am alive now as I write, but I don't feel alive. I don't feel in touch with people who give to me so easily and make me feel at one with the universe. Maybe it's been a long time since I have had to be in survival mode. You know when you are in that space and all you can do is keep moving and keep going whether its a job, an apt, buying groceries, making chit chat and pretending that you don't need people. So I must pull my feelers in and not scare people off or NOT> So, I put on Patrick Watson and decided to remember where I was in Montreal just before I left. Wow, I had so much in control then. I couldn't imagine what I was about to put myself through. I couldn't have imagined the jump I was going to make. It was a big jump. I'm not sure whether it was right or wrong, but I fell for a while. I have had two jobs in two months and now I have found one of my callings. And although I have to get up in six hours, it's wonderful to write to you all out there in the Universe and give it up for my family in Montreal. It's a funny thing to know that one of the strongest things pulling me out to Vancouver was to be near to my family (brother and belle soeur), but I didn't realise how much family I was leaving behind. It's shocking to me how I didn't see it at the time. Sometimes, I have to leave my house and look at it from the outside to see what is inside. Montreal was lost for me. I felt like I was living everyone else's life. I don't mean to sound dramatic, but it felt like I was not clear in my heart and my head about what I would like to do. I was defensive as all get out, about my identity at least. And that's a lot. I took refuge in other people's souls, in their hearts, in their homes, often because I didn't know how to live in mine. I am still learning. I am still learning to be at home in me. There are so many of me and I like some and I am getting to know others. Patrick Watson is singing the Great Escape right now and I can relate to that. "Bad day, looking for the Great Escape..." It makes me think of that street party on St. Viateur when he played for about twenty minutes. I saw Guillaume, and I saw Mike Dieter, and a few hundred other people who I vaguely knew. It was huge. I loved being there, but what held sway for me and contributed to my sense of being lost was the ride home over the mountain and coming 'home'. It was the ride home alone that reminded me of where I was. Sometimes I love that alone time because no one will see the beauty of spaces that I love the same way I do, and that is disappointing. Other times I miss the someone to show the spaces to because they can show me their spaces too.

More on Montreal and Vancouver soon...
To Gui, to JA, to Celia, to Rich et Marianne, to Stephen, to my family in Montreal

Identity

2006-01-15T08:47:00.000-08:00

With the las week or few days of campaigning for the Federal Election, it is interesting to note the desparate attempt by all parties to ensure a uniformity of values which all Canadians share. It is absolute rubbish. The CBC does this everyday with their broadcasting schedule. Each programme is broadcast at the corresponding hour in five time zones. So, As It Happens runs from 6:30 to 7:30 in BC time, ON time, NS time, etc. The idea behind it is to create a feeling that all Canadians are living in the same time zone, and all listening TOGETHER. More than that WE AS CANADIANS are listening to the program and sharing CANADIAN VALUES and CANADIAN HUMOUR. More likely, we are sharing CANADIAN CONTENT requirements. Why is it so necessary to believe in this uniformity? I was reading an article in THIS Magazine or was it the Walrus, anyway, the gist of it was that the author being interviewed didn't give a rat's ass as to how his work is interpreted in Canadian history or culture, as being Canadian. Good for him. Who honestly cares whether it is Canadian or not. And what the hell does that mean anyway? It's not Canadian enough? I can understand the desire to keep some culture sacred from the overwhelming influx of American culture and TV lifestyles and music and consumerism and fast fat food, ad nauseum (literally), but this Nationalist concern that culture produced by Canadians needs to fit into this tiny Ottawa or Toronto-sized value system, or CBC-sized brain, is absurd. Canadians are not alike. They have few common values: Hockey, Canadian Tire Money, and a deep understanding that they ARE NOT AMERICAN. Beyond that, we are just people. The myth that many Canadians have encountered when travelling abroad, that we all know each other, is perpetrated right here with the CBC and our literary culture. So and so, a Halifax-born writer. Or So and so, a playwright born and bred in the Northwest Territories. Excuse me? Where the hell is that. The North West Territories? I have more in common with someone from Star Trek Deep Space Nine, than someone from Yellowknife. And that's all I know about the Northwest Territories. An area of land five or six times the size of England, and all I know is that the Capital city is Yellowknife, which happens to have a Canadian Tire store there. Which is not to say that there is anything wrong with being from the Northwest Territories. It's just this obsession with origin in reported information is so redundant. If I know that that such and such an author is from a particular area of Canada, I will have more in common with his work? It's just absurd.
So back to federalism. Yah. Good luck with that, because it doesn't really exist, except to say that, we all have Canadian Tire money and we can all wait 4-6 hours in the emergency room at at local hospital or that we can all know about the gun crime in Toronto, or that winter is bloody cold. Once we stop obsessing about how 'alike' we all are, we can start appreciating our differences.

2005-12-11T18:24:00.000-08:00

Poland

2005-11-14T08:14:00.000-08:00

I was talking to a woman today while waiting for the Shuttle bus between the Loyola and downtown campuses. She graciously saved my place in line, while I went to see if the bus was coming. Clearly the bus was coming, but I just couldn't see it yet. On returning, I offered her the shelter of my umbrella. Noticing an accent in her murmering reply, I asked where she was from. Hungary, she said. I know nothing about the place. I don't even know where it is in relation to other places. Trying to hit a not so distant reference, I told her that the umbrella we were standing under, came from Poland. I bought it for 10 Zloty. She must know that products bought in former Soviet Bloc countries were not always of the best quality. She didn't say much, but replied politely. Her English was good, though her accent was strong. She said that perhaps she ought to go home and change her jacket, as she had another class to go to. I asked her if it rained in Hungary. She said she wasn't sure. She said sometimes it rained, but it wasn't as cold there as it was here. I told her that I bought a pair of shorts in Poland, but they fell apart after six months, though it was more like six days. She asked if I went to Warsaw. I told her that I had only been to Crackow, which was quite beautiful, with a Castle in the centre, with very ornate churches. I told her that the church was still very strong in Poland. I thought it must be similar in Hungary. A strong orthodoxy rules Poland and so I imagined it must have been as such in the Czech Republic, Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary. She didn't say much on that topic, if anything at all. I told her that I was living in Germany when I went to Poland and how far it was to travel there and how much it cost. We were on the bus by this time, standing near the back. She didn't want to sit down. I couldn't sit down as I had to get off between campuses and needed to be nearer the door. I told her how the Polish border guards entered my compartment when we crossed the border, wearing flak jackets and sporting sub-machine guns. She asked if I was scared. I said that I wasn't scared, but it was something of a new experience for me. It was scary when I arrived at a station in the north of Poland at two o'clock in the morning, where no one spoke English, French or German. There were no signs in a language that I understood and my ticket, crafted by the ever-logical Germans, didn't make any damn sense. The ticket office line was long and I'm not sure that waiting there would make a difference anyway. On the platform opposite, sat a gray double-decker passenger train, stationary for the long moments of midnight to morning. Glows of cigarette ends momentarily lit up faces of people sitting in the seats who were talking, laughing, drinking vodka and playing cards. It was hard to tell, because there was no light in the compartments, but I felt that that was what they ought to be doing. I asked her if the border guards were like that in Hungary. She said she didn't quite remember, though they may have been like that when she took the train to Spain. I asked her if there was a revolution in Hungary, like the one in Romania. It was in 1991, she said, that the Soviet army pulled out of Hungary. But the Communists left a long time before that. I asked her how long she had been in Montreal. Ten years. Oh, I said, trying not to sound too startled. Ten years eh? So then, you're a Montrealer. How long did I think she had been here? Uh, I said. Uh, a year or so. I said it with a wince, as if I expected her to clock me on the head for assuming her tourist residence. I said that I hadn't been in Montreal ten years. I was born here, but in the last ten years, I had lived in Ottawa and Germany. I said that Germany was better than Ottawa. I said that anything was better than Ottawa. Ringing the bell, I explained that I must go. Good-bye she said. Good-bye.

Recover past

2005-11-07T21:24:00.000-08:00

Recover past. Hey it's me and I don't even know who I am, except that I feel exceptionally calm. If anyone reads this it must be stephen, 'cause I don't think anyone else reads this at the moment. Though I don't mind if they do. HRT plays with one's confidence I think. I am beginning to think less and care more. I just got the high speed connected and I feel like my brain has woken up to the luddite dream I have been in forever. I feel like I no longer need permission to wake up. School is almost over and I'm feeling freer than I have felt in a long time. I'm going to buy that iRiver and see how far I can go. Have fun Christmas shopping. Peace out.

Radio Doc Creative Content

2005-08-24T10:35:00.000-07:00

Doing a portrait of Kahnawake is something that really appealed to me because of my own ignorance of the place and the people. I went to high school in Montreal with Mohawks, but it wasn't until I was in a Digital Coms class last year, and we had to do a digital portrait of ourselves, that I was reminded of my interest that has lain dormant all these years. One of the digital portraits had the word Mohawk written in bold letters across the top. I was curious to find out who it was. By wonderful coincidence, Skyler had been sitting in the row in front of me all year in Sound II and I had no idea that this was the person I was looking for.

Skyler invited me to Kahnawake to interview his stepfather and anyone else we cared to meet. In the car journey to and in Kahnawake, by way of testing the DAT machine and mic, I interviewed Skyler. I used a dynamic mic as the shotgun wasn't working. That's why you can hear a bit more hiss than one might like. It turned out to be the opening to the piece. It worked well. It opened the piece with the unmistakable sound of being in a car and what goes through one's mind when looking out of a car window. You can also hear other cars going by, and you can imagine the physical space where the interview is taking place (Skyler and myself sitting in the front seats). The voice-over seemed to have its effect as an observer rather than a 'voice of god' telling people how to listen or what to listen for.

When I recorded Chester, the shotgun mic was as dead the dodo, which though horrifying at the time, forced me to use the dynamic. It seems to have worked out okay, and there is no great discrepency between the studio voice-over and the field recordings. It almost gives the field recordings a sense of mission that might otherwise have been missing with a shotgun, in that the recordings were in the field, documenting something that doesn't have the safeness or security that I associate with a studio sound. It's a story of someone's life that has been made 'on the fly' rather than a produced or pre-meditated sound. Though all of this was more a happy accident than anything.

I was fortunate to have talent such as Skyler and Chester who spoke so willingly and frankly about their community and personal identity. I really feel fortunate to have met them.

The difficult elements came in post-production. Because I had so much material that I wanted to use (I know we all did), I found it hard to know what to keep and what to nix. There was a lot more to say about Mohawk community, or controversy within the community that had to be cut. I was suprised that the final cut was still 18 minutes, which was eight minutes over what Iain had recommended and what Jonathan Goldstein had said about a minute representing a year (ten minutes for ten years). Though I suppose I had 18 minutes for 48 years.

I knew that the voice-over would have to be done by me. I am so proprietary that I needed to either heavily direct someone else or just do it myself. It also gave me a sense of participation by directly telling a story as a journalist as well as indirectly as a producer.

The time constraint clipped my ending which was too abrupt, but I wanted to include the part about Chester's spirit guides, especially since the dream was in the old Forum. The old Forum would give many listeners a reference which was impartial and almost inconsequential in that it represents hockey, which everyone can relate to, regardless of their background.

It was quite a learning experience, and although I'm satisfied with the result, there are more paths to take in producing my next doc.

Recovering the Past (with Papier Mache)

2005-07-06T06:02:00.000-07:00

Volks,

A rant for those who are not interested and some who are, and for those who are not and yet who may become. My creative process for this summer consists of the use of barking dogs and habitual therapists who tend to reside in my head for the days and weeks of July. I thought of a lovely idea for a novel and then promptly forgot about it. Every glitch in my relationships, my work and my schedule are symbolic of some greater threat which I can name, but cannot alter. Hmm.

Given that I am in revolt against the timeless moments of despair that accompany my job, I am quite bitter. And sour too. I need gin and tonic to lighten the mood. But not in the morning. In the morning I need to sleep. For deep longish periods. Weeks at a time if I can manage it. The afternoons might find me napping after a heavy breakfast and a long movie. The evenings are cool and breezy and allow me time to go to the Jazz festival, where I walk through the crowds, farting every now and again and blaming it on other people.

It is time to go to my work and complain about it to everyone I meet, including the people I work with. Perhaps with some more time, I can begin a fourth job and have even less of a life. Hmm, the possiblities await.

I bleese all your frolics in the sun "spurting timothy white sun cream over your purilent, fleshy, swollen bodies."Isn't Monty Python wonderful?

Life is like a grapefruit

2005-01-07T14:16:00.000-08:00

It's yellow on the outside, pink and juicy on the inside and it's full of pips that you have to spit out every now and again. Oh and if you get a good one it's very sweet and if you get a bad one, it's very sour. Something a friend of mine said to me on New Year's Eve, which stuck with me is this.
"You should not liberate hot air baloons because it upsets the people in the basket." We were obviously talking about liberating two different kinds of balloons when she made this comment, however observant it may have been. Though it was a profound mind which gave life to this obvious, but hitherto unknown comment. The other interesting episode that occured to me on New Year's Eve, was when I offered a homeless man one of the six beers I was carrying. At least he looked homeless, but on closer inspection, I thought he may have been returning home from a trip because although he was towing bags, they seemed more suitcase and travel like. As well, his attire was less shabby than most homeless I have encountered. He might have been returning home. So I asked him.
"Are you going home?"
He replied,
"Am I going home? Am I going home, well, that's an interesting question."
It occured to me that he was already home and I felt a right pillock.
We were walking at a speed which was almost amiable, so I further explained that I had missed my bus, but I should not get angry as there was sure to be another one. I also explained that I was insisting upon myself a role of tolerance. The man stopped and looked at me and I wondered if I was going to get an earful. He looked at me and said,
"No, you should not be tolerant. Nothing ever changes when people are tolerant. Nothing ever gets done. Only when people are intolerant and reach their limit, do things change. It is when people lose their tempers or get angry, that things change. If someone is being racist about me and someone who listens to them tolerates it, that means that the person being racist gets away with it. Nothing ever changes that way. What you are talking about is Forbearence. Forbearence is about the ability to treat people with love and compassion and kindness, even if you don't agree with them."
That is as much as I can remember because my bus came and he said that since he was headed in an entirely different direction than me, I had better take it. I wished him a happy new year and climbed on the bus. I watched him with his trolley slowly mounting the icy sidewalk and wondered how I could repay him the wonder he had given me.

Creative Process and Truffle hunting

2004-12-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

the life of a truffle hunting pig

The life of a truffle hunting pig is a very boring one. It consists of using one's proboscis for long periods of time, close to the ground, in all weathers, sniffing for a rare and costly fungus. All the truffle hunters I interviewed, have requested that there names not be mentioned for fear of being eaten. Or did I dream it.

The porject, (ahem) project is based on a student I had once who did interrupt me to constantly to yammer at me in the I say, I say, How I say manner which you hear in the piece. I thought it was a funny concept to work with. Often, I will record a conversation in the middle as opposed to the beginning or end and see how much information I can slice and dice and make into a narrative of sorts. In this case, I recorded myself mimicking the student, while explaining in places, what vaguely is going on. After working for several hours on using just this voice mingled with effects and some kind of bed track, I couldn't find a creative strand strong enough to hold my attention for three minutes. (Or perhaps even for a minute.) So, I abondoned this project and recorded a conversation of nonsense, a la Laurie Anderson, with the intent of making a 'Vib Gyor' or a 'Bunnyrabbits, Satan' piece. Now the problem with recording deliberate nonsense is that it is difficult to make it interesting or witty. If this is to be achieved, it has to be clever and almost invariably, well thought out. I once saw a version of MacBeth called MocShplat which was written in Gibberish. The program too was written in Gibberish. It was so cleverly done that at the end of the play, you could read the program in Gibberish and it actually made sense. My point is that recording nonsense takes time and/or a happy accident. The happy accident came to me when I went back to the 'I say, I say, I say' theme. To give it a context, I recorded a conversation of sorts that would comment on the antics of this student. But due to time constraints, and complete lack of creative reasoning, the volumes of the voices are not equal, nor are they all recorded in mono. This was my learning curve. In my headphones, it sounded fine. When I listened to the hard copy through speakers, there were problems with consistency. Further, the recording of the I say, I say text was made on a reel-to-reel deck that emits a hum (I should have used the Notch filter!) everytime it is played. Also, some of the fade files got nixed in the final mixing session, so ends of words are cut off in places, which is a drag, because had they been checked it would be a lot smoother.

Those are the words of the truffle hunter and sound text for four hours of sleep and two ten-page papers to go......

December 10th 2060

Creative Content Neigbourhood Portrait

2004-10-12T09:04:00.000-07:00

The recordings Crystal and I made were a combination of sounds of motion: cars, walking, swinging, and streeter interviews. There was also a small recording of a Church sermon, which didn't make my final cut. I always had in mind the use of narrative for the neighbourhood portrait, which would either be interview and sound concrete-based or with use of voice-over. I didn't have an idea as to how the pieces would fit together, which is just as well, because any kind of narrative structure is often not recorded in order.

The choice of voice-over is perhaps a favorite of mine for documentary work. I didn't have enough material or time to make it interview based. There is a snippet of music concrete where an interview with two friends playing soccer is overlapped on itself, so it sounds as if five conversations are taking place instead of one. A sort of Row, Row, Row your boat scenario.

We recorded the data on a DAT machine, and a REEL to REEL (of which I didn't use). Microphones included dynamic and capacitor mics of directional and omni-directional usage. It is interesting to note that the capacitor mic used for the 'bowls' interview seemed to have no greater reasonance than the dynamic mic (both directional).

The DAT machine is a little more clumsy than the mini-disk, but the sound seems more inclusive, less taut, more natural: catching all the little burps that are omitted by mini-disk.

Emily Gan is my voice-over for this project.

Post production taught me a lot about how to plan my next production and what I will need to include, and measure the rhythm a little more.

Blog me, I'm tired!

I never done good things, I never done bad things

2004-10-09T08:36:00.000-07:00

Listening to CBC radio slaughtering Bowie. Its sacraligeous. Brent Banburry, you frickin' jerk. Ahem, excuse me, I seem to have lost my mind. If you have seen it, can you email it too me. I'm sure its small enough to send through a telephone wire. Anyone who is old enough to listen to music ie 1 yrs old, should start with a steady diet of David Bowie, The Who, Janis Jopelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Talking Heads, Peter Gabriel, Chaka Kahn, Stevie Wonder and Mose Alison. Further to be schooled in The Cure, The Band, CCR, Queen, The Clash, Bob Marley, Bob Marley, Bob Marley, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Pink Floyd. Actually, this might take some time. Just stick with David Bowie for the moment. Anyone reading this must go and find a David Bowie tape and put it on, and they will realise they are doing the funky chicken. Uncontrollably.

Folks, I have to admit, I am kind of stumped on my second project Neigbourhood portrait and all that. Any suggestions would be groovy. I would be grooved by them. And where were y'all yesterday anyway. For those of us who showed up, we experienced, I experienced the thrill of jumping off a building and landing on my feet, which thankfully were not embedded in my skull. I saw the light of EQing. It was profound. WE then went out to a marvellous vegetarian-oriented restaurant and savoured the charms of the waiter and the exquisite Vietnamese food. It was generously provided by our leader, who took it upon himself to give me another nick-name, which I dare not utter here.

I'm supposed to be reading a book on Propaganda, I have to go now.
replies are welcome. pies are welcome.

Sound Workshop

2004-09-25T11:46:00.000-07:00

Volks,

For those of you who are interested, there is a sound workshop that y'all should check out that will be posted on the class website (hopefully) spoon.

As for the rest of existence, I just noticed that my Sound II outline has been resting comfortably in the fried egg yolk on the plate from which I have just breakfasted. The moral of this story is: important documents must rest in important places, not the petty working class establishments of one's own breakfast dish. No, not there. Perhaps they (documents) should merit a place in the Athaeneum or the House of Lords. Or a drawer for that matter where they (documents) should feel at home with other important documents, where they may be content to flollop in a fairly floopy manner. Anyone who has spent some time rummaging the through the over-stuffed compartment in my head (my brain) over a few years will know exactly what I'm talking about. For those of you who haven't, but would like to, please make an appointment with my secretary, provided you can find and hire me a secretary first.

All of this information is Sound related, by the way, you just need to go through it with a fine toothed comb, or a black marker.

Incidentally if anyone would care to give a short account of what it is like to be in Montreal or what Montreal means to them and would care to put their comments on tape, email me and we can meet on campus or not on campus if you prefer. This idea is part of a rather silly personal project, that I'm going to sell for lots and lots of money. Just kidding. But if you want to give your two cents (I'm looking for opinions) about Montreal, give me a shout.

And that, other than it is going to rain this afternoon and I need to do some recording out of doors, and interview all the particles of matter in the universe before tomorrow afternoon, is that.

"Ode to a lump of green putty I found in my armpit one midsummer morning"

2004-09-13T20:07:00.000-07:00

This blog is with reference to the late great Douglas Adams, and his fertile, absurd humour which makes me chase my tail with laughter. (In the absence of tail, it may be my bum.) No more brackets. It is time to get down to the Knitty Gritty.

I was reciting an ode to a lump of something unpleasant or other on the lachine canal bike path today, in a very loud voice to myself, when a racer past me within centimetres and scared the bejeesus out of me. I then worried that she may have heard me ranting to myself, and so to cover up I yelled "You scared the bejeesus out of me." It was most satisfying.

"Now I lay me down to sleep
Try to count Electric sheep
Sweet dream wishes you can keep
How I hate the night."

Marvin elevating himself to greater heights of gloom and despondency.
Me I go to bed now.
I go, you go, you go . YOU Go. I go.
I go.