To the Blank Page

See you later, A-spoons&C-spoons

2010-09-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

Find that not only am I getting SPAM comments on my blogspot space but I have lost the will to write in this particular sphere. Find me here from this point on: www.totheblankpage.wordpress.com Or you know, don't. But if interested, there I be.

Thanks, o ye' constant reader.
morganne.

"The mind can calculate but the spirit yearns, and the heart knows what the heart knows."

2010-07-22T14:50:00.001-07:00

We make plans; big ones, lofty ones, your average daily ones. Sometimes they don't pan out the way we expect -- different like -- where we nod and say, "I can live with this," and sometimes they do not work at all.

Stephen King was just going to buy milk at the corner store, walking down a back road in the October woods of Maine when he got hit by a car. Threw him into the ditch and he was unable to walk for months. He just looked in the fridge that morning and realized he didn't have anything to put on his cereal.

I don't think God laughs at our plans or even smirks - I don't have a picture of a God who benignly smiles when we fall on our proverbial faces, even though we are yes, often ignorant and yes, often proud. We are small, with short-sightedness. I suppose he lets us go about the business of life and has an opinion every now and then. "Moves" things in some directions, and leaves others. It is an odd balance of involvement and observance -- another one of those paradoxes that comes along with the keeping of this faith. However the mystery of free will works, it can make for many disappointments when our ideas, hopes, desires veer left when we were expecting them to go right all along.

I imagined my Vancouver adventure to go one way and it went another. All my best laid plans went to some place called the Land of Best Laid Plans where tumble weeds whistle by and it is always dusk and there are never sunsets. Not a land of despair but of disappointment. The whole thing was sort of a paradox in and of itself; a lot of it was wonderful, I felt both a deep and complete happiness and a heavy melancholy, both fulfilled and somewhat at a loss. Rich in experience and poor in pocket. I met a lot of interesting people, in unexpected places. Jasper Morgan for example, at my coffee shop haunt downtown. He is one of these "self-employed" types that run rampant in creatively entrepreneurial hubs like Vancouver who said to me once as we were sitting at the bar by the window, "Coffee, smoking and crossword puzzles keep me alive. Unfortunately, it's difficult to do all three at once." Every day he would smoke a pack-a-day and run the seawall.

In the midst of these characters,
of biking to work in the dawn of the Mount Pleasant neighbourhoods
the 5.30 am bus up Main st -- it smelling like a dark cellar of spilled liquor and disappointed spirits from the night before
the ocean
the damp
the blooms
the skinny jeans & the plaid shirts
the dogs in vests
the espresso
the energy
the expensive music for dirt cheap
the overwhelming colour and taste of good food
the people watching
the pen moving
the shaking like a dog-out-of-river of my soul

I am still processing the last four months. But at the end of the day, at some point in May it was, I decided that the water I was treading didn't seem the right water, or the right tread, or .... the right time to be treading. And my short legs were numb from the movement. I couldn't really explain it to my closest of friends in V why I had to go. The heart knows what the heart knows. The one thing I could grasp onto as a tangible reason was that I had no money left. Economically, the city sure takes you down in the back alley at the knees, executes a swift kick to the ribs and goes through your clothes for loose change. And when I started to pull fuzz out of my pockets and shadow the bottle collectors, I knew it was time to change something. The whole experience left me feeling more bruised and confused and blinking rapidly than down right destroyed.

So I came home. There are a lot of definitions for home but I like this one: "a place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates." Home should be a place to be at rest, to cry if you must, to be at ease, to be warm and comfortable. And in my case, where I don't have to pay rent and I don't have to pay to wash my clothes.

I feel sort of like Stephen King in the ditch on the side of the road right now -- wondering what all that was about and for and squinting through the dark for that elusive "point" we're all looking for. But out of his accident, he wrote a lot of great stories.

And I haven't forgotten the pacific.

Stories Walking By

2010-06-22T16:00:00.000-07:00

He's a volunteer security officer. Black coffee and a decadent chocolate square ("why don't they just call it a brownie?"). Everything always gets complicated. No ring, a widower. Volunteers to fill the empty spaces. Coffee break is a quick and functional thing, just like in the army. He clunks in his black almost-cowboy boots past me to the bathroom, his keys jingle on his belt loop, he stoops a little, his eyes are blue and keen. He drives away in a green four door mustang. Belonged to this wife but he had to sell his caddy to keep the creditors away. I think he is lonely.

//

He works as a truck driver for the DAN-D-PAK. Spends his days stacking boxes on dollies, wheeling trollies, "Sign here please. That's your copy." He remembers his village in China, when his parents sent him to the city, his relatives -- so he could get an education. Saw an ad for Canada on the back of a magazine in Beijing on the train, it was lying forgotten on a bench. He decided to go there. He left the love of his life to find true happiness in the vastness of Canada. Now he drives a truck, wears a bluetooth in one ear and tries to smile through his eyes like his uncle, the farmer. His life is clipboards and single serving packets. He stacks them with care and precision. He is still looking for his dream and sometimes he panics. Is this all there is?

The Ink of the Pacific

2010-05-31T19:49:00.000-07:00

I had an adventure. It involved public transportation across the Lion's Gate Bridge in after-dark torrential rain, squinting with map in hand for a venue I had never been to, attached to a non-descript high school in the high, green leafy hills of the north shore and come hell or high water (and there was a lot of it falling from the sky that night), I would get there.

The bus I needed, I missed -- and the one I got, was packed full of exhaling, wet and post-work damaged spirits. Due to many, many unfortunates and the realities of Adventure-taking, I was an hour late for Yann Martel. I slipped through the back door (which felt like bursting), soaked through amongst the well-read, well-bred, well-dressed of Vancouver. The room was not as full as it should have been in my opinion, and as far as I could tell, I was the only person in attendance under the age of 40. I will now lament the loss of the young fiction-reader. Lament.

As I tried to silence my breathing and ignore the frowning truth of water seeping into every fiber of skin and cloth, I tried to get my bearings around just what exactly I was an hour late for. Yann Martel (of Life of Pi, and of Spanish -- as in Spain -- descent), with Anosh Irani, an Indian playwright and novelist, were both discussing their new works (a novel for Yann and a play for Anosh) -- and I had just made it for the question and answer time. One of those "draw out of a hat" sort of things. I was too late to put a query in of my own but enjoyed hearing others speak without me having to participate (as usual). Two questions in particular stood out for me.

One was in regards to the great severity of opinion towards Yann's newest -- Beatrice & Virgil. Folks either hated it or loved it. The New York Times for example, trashed it. It was wondered how he reacted to the negative opinions, if it affected him or his confidence. I enjoyed Yann's tall and lanky presence -- soft-spoken and articulate and yet very confident in his way. His answer was this:

"I write what I write and when I feel it is complete as it can be, I give it up. I have no control over how it is received once it is out there; art is a gift and it is meant to be given away."

I liked that. I do not like that art is often seen as an interior thing; artists possess a higher gift that mere mortals can not fathom, so art is created out of hurt, pain, anguish and anger against the world, and out of my favourite: the raised banner of, "You Don't Understand Me" -- and kept for the artist and the artist alone to dwell in. An isolating thing indeed (though I will not disagree that isolation is needed for part of the process of creating -- I need much of it -- if the artist remains in said isolation, then their art is never shared and is grasped in a vice-grip of gollumesque-groping possession).

And the other question from the hat, asked how Yann's life had been changed after Life of Pi exploded into the world (with so much grace and beauty). He answered thus:

"I have a lot more money now. Doing taxes used to be a lot easier. But I was really happy when I was poor. I lived in Montreal and paid $250 for rent -- I had a bike and virtually no other expenses. I was like a monk living in Montreal, working on this novel."

After it was over, the two said they would be in the lobby signing books. I was thinking about how I was going to get home because buses from there barely ran at rush hour and it was edging towards 10 pm. I was walking down the sidewalk with the ceaseless rain coming down on my purple raincoat that makes me look like a giant crayola, considering these realities, when I stopped and thought, "I've come all this way and there's not that many people. I should at least try and meet the guy." So I trudged my way back in, Converse slapping in the puddles -- no point in avoiding them now -- and merged with the back of the line. Everyone was clutching a copy of Beatrice & Virgil in their hot little hands, but I, no, the price for a hardcover copy was more of a luxury than I was willing to consider.

I made it up to the table in a relatively short amount of time and said in a clear voice (I'm told I mutter) but no doubt in a rather rambling sort of way:

"I don't have a book for you to sign because I'm kind of like a monk living in Vancouver and I can't afford it right now but I wanted to shake your hand anyway and say thank you for sharing your art."

Yann: "Are you a writer?"

Me: (slightly abashed but still going strong): "Yes." (for I promised myself that if he asked me this question that I would respond with yes, simply because I need to get better at it).

Y: "What are you writing?"

Me: "Mostly short stories, blog posts, the odd music bio for friends. Attempted articles. The long term goal is fiction, real fiction. But I'm in school right now so I'm having a hard time being creative with my own stuff, even though I'm studying English literature and writing."

Y (a very good listener and not the least fussed that there was still quite the line up behind me): "You know... if you have stories, you just need to write them, no matter where you are. You don't have to go to school to be a writer."

I listened to what Yann had to say and boy did I listen hard. This guy completely baptized me with every image, with every colourful page he wrote. He wrote magic. He shared an incredible work of fiction with the world and he was talking to me about the craft, disregarding the page flippers waiting for him to sign their blank page. (And when I say craft, I do not mean some magical experience of Writing that is married to inspiration, hillsides in sunshine and hair flutterings -- as Stephen King says, "there is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers..." Writing is a day in and day out job that Yann simply did with Life of Pi because he had a story to tell).

And so before I left the table I said: "Will you sign my map? It's all I have on me, and I got lost -- really, really, lost -- trying to get here." I handed over my still damp 12 inch map book and opened it to the page with a section of north Vancouver pasted on it. He signed in the ocean:

"May the pacific be the ink of your pen."

The image of the boy and the Bengal tiger in the lifeboat on the great wide sea came to my heart when I read what he wrote.

I shook his hand and exited, just a little elated.

I suppose it was not so much the content of what he said -- I know that I don't have to go to school to write -- many people have told me this, some more smugly than others. It was more the timing of the matter and who it was coming from and how it was said. I will not bore you constant reader (as Stephen King would say), with the state of my heart and mind the night I swam in from the street to hear this author speak. I simply needed encouragement, the immersion into five minutes of conversation with someone who has Done it, and I had not realized it.

I am now living in Vancouver and writing and reading (for to write, one. must. read). Going to school I am not, writing what, I do not know -- to what end, I have no idea. But all that matters is that I am.

I celebrated this mental and emotional shift by drinking a beer, listening to Josh Ritter at full steam and by reading Life of Pi, this glorious tale of magic realism, once again.

"A shiver went through my body. Between the life jackets, partially, as if through some leaves, I had my first, unambiguous, clear-headed glimpse of Richard Parker. It was his haunches I could see, and part of his back. Tawny and striped and simply enormous. He was facing the stern, lying flat on his stomach. He was still except for the breathing motion of his sides. I blinked in disbelief at how close he was. He was right there, two feet beneath me. Stretching, I could have pinched his bottom. And between us there was nothing but a thin tarpaulin, easily got round.

'God preserve me!'

No supplication was ever more passionate yet more gently carried by the breath."

"In the absence of God, I worship music." David Gray

2010-05-23T14:18:00.000-07:00

From his show I experienced at the Queen Elizabeth theatre on May 14th.

The Biltmore (Part 3) // Love like a see-through dress

2010-05-07T10:35:00.000-07:00

This is the last installment of the Biltmore trio of posts, I apologize for the delay. I have in fact, been to this venue and as you will read in this last installment, I did observe this scene from the opposite side of the stage. They sort of percolated in my brain for awhile and I guess had to get them out somehow.

//

As they descend the steps and spill out onto the Biltmore floor, the two are submerged in a deep blue-gray world of opulence. Luxuries not of material wealth but a sort of richness of self-confidence; the Experience and Independent Thought of the Individual radiates off wall, cushioned chair and wooden dance floor. There is nothing right or wrong here, just one big mass of acceptance. And so in being okay with everyone and everything, no one really knows anything for Certain -- only that it is Friday night and there's music promised.

The room is full but not yet packed. Ear vibrating tecnho-ambient plays over the speakers. There are people standing around, drinking and talking before the Swedish musician takes the stage -- some are sitting on the high stools, leaning against walls, lounging on the low couches. Discussing anything but the work of the week, as the stress seeps out with every molecule of alcohol ingested.

He realizes before any decisions are going to be made about the where and when of their evening that he needs a drink. He sees her about to head off without him, no doubt seeing someone she knows so he puts his hand on her back, leans in and says,

"I'm headed to the bar, do you want something?"
"My usual please, darling," she says with a hand on his chest, "Come and find me."

He feels mildly irritated as she slips into the crowd, like liquid beauty moving effortlessly through less attractive barriers. He walks up to the bar, no need to wait in line; everyone there is nicely settled with their first beverage of the night and this seems to be the pause between the early-comers and the on-timers. He says loudly to the smooth-faced boy-man behind the bar,

"A negroni, easy ice with a lemon instead of orange and... whatever your lightest beer on tap is."

The bartender-god proceeds helpfully to list them but the snatches of names of half a dozen micro-brews he hears over the din mean nothing to him. He asks for something with a frog in the title and turns, leaning his elbows on the bar, surveying the room. It really is filling up now. He catches sight of Sara talking with a guy he does not know, and the heaviness in his stomach takes a hard left with a sickening lurch. It isn't because she's talking to another guy -- this happened with frequency when they went out and he was used to it. He felt about Sara's admirers the way he felt about the homeless people in his city. You go out and like the rainclouds that are always hiding in the corners of the sky, there is one on every street corner, asking for a little something from you. Annoying sure, but a part of his daily reality none the less. And both experiences were often accompanied by a small twinge of both guilt and satisfaction -- because he had something that They wanted. And in his life, that rarely occurred.

No, this feeling was something different -- a foreboding that clouded his vision and made the shirt stick to his back with a sudden sweat. And as he walked toward her clutching his beer, the lights went down, the sound system was silenced and the band began to play. The room, suddenly packed from all those on the peripherals, is one big mass of shuffling-closer-to-the-stage and he is suddenly going against the tide.

The Swedish woman steps into the narrow beam of light -- she is tall and languishy, she wears a dress made of black material that hangs on her bone-like frame. Her hair is long, ocean-horizon straight with a fringe, framing wide blue eyes that are highlighted in black ink. She sways, clutching the microphone and she seems like she is either stoned or on some bless'd other planet that earthling people can not connect to. Her voice is a blissed-out marriage of an ethereal Joni Mitchell and Mazzy Star but also distinctly... Icelandic.

He has somehow made it to the side line of the stage, and realizes that his proximity to the woman is almost too close for his comfort level -- much too intimate. And looking over he realizes his place falls next to Sara and this man she has somehow snared. He gives him a quick look-over; both his and Sara's faces are illuminated by the stage lights and more distinctly because of the blackness that curtains behind them. He is wearing a brown felt fedora, a red tie with a long sleeve white shirt and a pinstripe vest, tapered slacks and shiny brown shoes. And his face wears a completely at ease and confident expression, held together by his perfectly timed five-o'clock shadow. Fedora man is handsome and well thought out and put together in every sense -- he certainly would have the EP of this woman on stage, would probably even be able to track-name-drop and Sara was letting him touch her. Sara was so close to the stage that she was actually sitting gingerly on the edge of it and Fedora man stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, skimming his fingers along her hairline.

Before he could fully put together what he was seeing, Sara had grabbed his hand too, smiling up at him, glad that he had made his way towards them. He understood with a clarity, that she now had both of her prizes. And he was of course, letting it happen in the face of his confusion. (Like he just "let" every thing happen to him). He zoned out, listening to the warbling and eerily hollow words and voice of the woman on stage, who was beautiful in a zombiesque, empty vessel sort of way... The room was hot and all he could focus on when he was not looking at the Swede is the three people directly across from them on the other side of the stage, also illuminated by the stage lights. They are an exceedingly tall man with a moustache, standing with a mysterious-looking dark-haired woman and a shorter blonde haired one. They are sharing a drink and taking in the music in their individual ways. As if they are there together and yet completely separate. By focusing on these three, he is able to keep a tight rein on his rage. And as he watched the blonde hand the drink to the dark-haired woman with a wink and a genuine smile, it is then he realizes a truth: the day he had seen in Sara's eyes something other-worldly and mean, it was not Mystery or Allure or something he would never understand, it was because she truly was a horrible person. (But what did that make him)?

Fedora man had sat down on the edge of the stage with has his arm around her waist and she had settled contentedly into his neck space. Her hand still remained in his own however, and she was applying pressure to it, hoping, he supposed, that he would sink down to her level as well.

And he felt himself falling again under her power and her infinite cruel beauty and the fact that he was indeed, a simpering fool. He kept his eyes on the three across from him for the rest of the night, thinking that they seemed, perhaps not happy -- who knows what happy is? -- but content and at ease. Somehow it was radiating from them, and he wished he were standing there too, sharing their one and only drink.

// You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire
Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut
Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot
Oh...love...you say in love there are no rules
Oh...love...sweetheart...
You're so cruel //

U2

A Tragedy Undone

2010-04-11T19:56:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I remember not really liking the darkness of Good Friday and of hearing about Jesus being killed. To my young heart it just did not make sense why it had to happen that way and why everyone was so angry with such a good man (who for some reason, was always portrayed as a blonde, blue eyed, felt-board, all-American chap). I remember saying to my dad during Holy Week when I was about 8 or so: "Why can't we just celebrate Easter?" My dad turned his twinkly blues on me and said, "Because Mo, you can't have life without death." I'm not sure what I did with that response, except that such a theological statement to an 8 year old probably didn't lodge itself too far into my brain ("Hey look, a butterfly!") --

Now that I'm older, I remember my dad saying this on a regular basis and how I now know that life without death wouldn't seem like real life, that love without sacrifice is an easy job indeed -- that life without grieving, sorrow, want, ache, is one-dimensional and all of the hard stuff gives it grooves, corners and cracks and shapes us into people with such grooves and corners and cracks -- and makes us aware of a need for something or someone outside ourselves.

And if Jesus was just a good man, spoke of loving God and your neighbour, was crucified and stayed in the ground, then my faith means nothing. So that I believe Jesus climbed out from behind that stone alive again, then the story I was immersed in, the one I thought had ended with death, did not. It is one story that doesn't end, that is continual from 2000 years ago to today and onwards and upwards. That I and others have a faith based on life, love and hope -- the belief in a very simple story with a radical twist at the very moment when we believed that it would end as "just another tragedy after all" -- well, it changes everything. Everyday. As C.S. Lewis said, "Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither."

But here we are on earth. And it is full of gravity indeed. Leaving you with something I wrote last year but seemed fitting for an Easter nod.

These dusty roads

The graveled places

Seems where no one has been before

And those who have walked them have gone away

Taking all joys, disappointments, triumphs and mis-adventures

For you were here

You walked and laughed, you sat and wept

You ate and drank, you slept and laid awake

You loved, you angered, you gladly, with depth did live

You told stories and asked for tales and you helped to write our narrative

Beside you these sun-washed few

These fishermen, these small town folk, these women of heart and duty and love

Walked along in the dusty tracks of the grooves of your holy calloused feet

As many, but known as each one by Him - the One who called them

Observing, recognizing, unbelieving, believing and faithful almost to the end

Oh to have seen

Oh to have eaten

Oh to have drank with hearty thanks

Oh to have touched

Oh to have laughed and sat and walked and smiled and peered in his eyes

And then down the road he went

The dust, it settled

The sun, it hid behind the darkness and the blood

The birds ceased to praise

The wind refused to breathe

It was lost

The light - all the light had gone from the world

The shadows grew bolder, the silence fell hard, the stars did not quiver

Forgone, forlorn for everything chaosed like the beginning of time

But the Spirit did not hover there

And we felt alone without companion

For you were there and then were not

You promised much and delivered what to us, was nothing

You walked our hills and valleys and water and breathed our air and felt our hearts

And allowed yourself to be cowered over and trodden

O sacred head now wounded

And then!

The bless’ed ones who came upon you!

Padding down a dirt road with dust on your feet and sun in your hair and light in your eyes

It is finished! You said with earthly glee and kingdom gravity

Death has died, Life has won, Christ has made Hope complete

We began to rejoice

We breathed sighs of relief for we no longer had to search

As the wine began to flow and the fish and bread began to feed us, and all was warm and right

Away you went, o so sudden

We don’t know where to look for you

Speaking in riddles and stories

Maybe if we’d listened with more than just ears

Alas we think we are here without

Though left with a gift that you promised

A gift of power that moves in ways mysterious

Ways that are not our ways

Moves, not our moves

For these roads are dusty

These paths, long and traveled well in ever the same direction

You never said they would not be

It is we who see you here

We who see you walking, laughing, sitting, weeping, eating with the least of these

And we who see you hurting, clothe-less, hungry, comfortless, without refuge

O let us see with eyes wide

For it is we who walk these dusty roads

We who set our feet in treads of holy calloused feet

Let us love without fear, let us see glory in all things daily, reverence in all things common

Let us walk these dusty roads

And to know with whom we walk

the Earth's Mourning (& what might have been lost)

2010-04-02T12:37:00.001-07:00

I woke up on this Good Friday with Bon Iver's 'The Wolves (Act 1&2)' playing in my head -- you will find the song and it's video at the bottom of this post.

I realized over coffee that I wanted to write something specifically for this day and there is something in Justin Vernon's voice that is melancholy and desperate like no one elses. And specifically to do with what I wrote, his voice is the closest I can imagine the Earth's was on this day and the one to follow, a couple thousand years ago. For me and my limited human scope, it encapsulates a small hint of the desperate intensity of the moment when the curtain was split from the top down and the Son of God hung Alone in its absolute form. I would recommend listening (headphones a must) as you read, or watching and listening and then reading, or any combination of the three.

Bear with me here folks -- especially if it ends up hitting no where close to home for you but this is my Good Friday prayer.

//

though the sun swelled bright and strong in that Jerusalem sky

it wept on the inside

the light was faded, small and broken like squinting at the world through a keyhole

it had changed

//

for in the Earth rippled a rumour that you would be coming to stay

and when you arrived in that nowhere barn on a starless night, save for one

with a deep sigh it was all made right again

for the Earth

it was a coming home of a lover

one whose touch it never forgot

entrenched in its very grains, gravels, leaves, roots, snows, puddles, petals, seas

it vibrated with expectation of you

and the day you went away again

the day God forsake God

the world, the very sun, wept for you

and it wept for us

//

the dirt paths which held and carried your holy calloused feet

the swelling sea that moved and cradled your blissfully sleeping body

where in its depths held fishes for you

the garden ground that breathed in the blood from those weary desperate eyes and wept with you

the golden fields that swayed in breezes, felt hands on its chaffs, when you laid in quiet hid you

the vines that produced its wines for you

the wind, the warm scented air that cooled evening, slipping through linens and cloths

the rough planks of the tree that held your broken limbs

knew you had gone

//

the bulk of the Earth shifted its weight

a great presence, a comforting strength it knew of old

in its bluest and greenest and purest of days

was no more

it had to give you back

//

some felt the ache the Earth felt for two sunrises and sets

a disquieting feeling that they lost what they could not get back

listless wandering, staring into far distance and empty wine jars,

it was a mourning

and for whom, many knew not

only that they were missing one whom they had never met

and for others, who had looked in his melancholy eyes

they knew then what some know now

and what the Earth knew that day

that in the end

we could do no more

and the world could not save itself

//

"Since that day it has never been quite enough to say that God is in his heaven and all is right with the world; since the rumour that God had left his heavens to set it right." G.K. Chesterton

the Biltmore (part 2) - The Early Morning Nightmares.

2010-03-22T21:53:00.000-07:00

As usual with her, he was not sure how he got there.

He had always prided himself on his determination, that grim perseverance which gave him an attractive focused edge. He was strong and independent -- the typical qualities one blames or thanks one's parents for, depending on the situation. But with her he was like one of those wind-up toys. And he was the toy that got the extra wire in the warehouse by accident, the one every kid wanted because it went and went and went... but in his case, he went in only one direction. Hers.

Sara was pleasing to most 21st century male sensibilities: She was completely confident, curved and moved swell when she walked with legs of a good length, proportionate to her body and all. Her dark hair was long and thick and multi-layered, like a perfectly pulled espresso. She had clear green eyes that were blown glass; they had more shades and depths every time he looked in them. And once he had seen something in her eyes that made his stomach move in a way he did not like, that he did not like to think of (and only did sometimes when he would wake up in the early mornings and the darkness was still there, like a lover one regrets).

That one time in her eyes: it was like her heart, or all the good parts of her had walked out of her body for a moment and all that was left was the things we are ashamed of: the secrets we keep, the anger in the shadows, the thoughts that only God knows -- all that was left were the mean spirits. And in that stomach-churning moment he the wind-up toy, felt as if he had gone off the top of a steep flight of stairs and out the door, into the street and straight into oncoming traffic. He felt some sort of desperate fear and so fully out of control. But the time he saw her eyes like that, it was there and then it was gone so quick he was sure he had imagined it.

And then she was there beside him, putting an arm around his waist and tucking her fingers in his belt-loop.

They were in the drizzling rain outside of the Biltmore Cabaret. Sara had suggested they go hear this woman play -- someone neither of them had heard. He would not have been interested except for two reasons: this musician was from Sweden and the Swedes had an extraordinary way of making both fashion and music mesmerizing, and two, he would obviously be going with her -- and anywhere with her was fine by him.

The Biltmore prided itself on hearing impressive and (soon to be) influential indie acts before anyone else. A place where people would say with a nod and smirk, "I heard ____ at the Biltmore before they were famous." (to wide-eyed exhales of ecstasy). But if it were not for her, he would never have been there. He liked music but people who really liked music and knew about it in great detail -- those who could use phrases like "never before released first EP on vinyl" made him feel awkward and uncomfortable, like he should not be there or in the sphere of the conversation. He could stand off to the side and smile benignly; appreciate it, sure, but never get it. He felt that way with Sara and in their orbit around the other (he could not call it a relationship). It was like she was on stage and he was in the audience. He could marvel at her from afar, sing along well enough, applaud even but he would never understand her. And he was afraid that she would realize this soon enough -- realize that he was just pretending and that she was too good for him. She would point at him from under the bright lights of her stage and yell 'fraud!' He'd suddenly be standing in his boxers, having been clothed in a crisp dry-cleaned outfit of Impenetrable Confidence just moments before -- and he would be shuffled out by security. It was then that those who were more than just vague appreciators would step out of the shadows of stage left and get a shot at a real relationship with her.

Those early morning nightmares were far away, lying in wait for him in sleep, for at this moment he was entering the Biltmore. He was in his plaid pearl snap shirt and black thick-framed glasses after being frisked by the bouncer at the door and walking down the stairs into the dark -- following the back of Sara's glorious head of hair into what felt like a basement -- pretending to know shit about shit.

the Biltmore (part 1)

2010-03-20T09:55:00.000-07:00

It feels like one of those basements where high school kids hold record-breaking make-out sessions. On one half of the the floor lies a 1970’s carpeting -- a brown and yellow animal resigned to its death in sickening faded swirls. The other half is a dark hardwood now tarnished with years of bearing the weight of crushing body mass. There hangs a low ceiling with its piping exposed and like all good make-out sessions, there is not a responsible adult to be found in the dim anticipatory light. Basement parties were IT in the 70's and now it is back with a bold 21st century vengeance.

Deep red plush love seats and benches line the back walls for the at-ease couple to occupy -- the shadowy corners are safe and secure for those who already know the other in the dark; for the unattached, such corners can be risky. Along the far wall is a bar tapped with local beer and cider and a bright-eyed, v-neck-t-shirted man behind the counter. Like a perfectly created avatar, he makes you certain that *you* are the only one he has served all night and you will be the last. Service with a wink and a smugly beautiful smile. The inner circle of the room is a mini-labyrinth of high round tables for three (space-bubble dependent), flanked by tall cushionless stools that tie in with the wide-planked flooring. These tables are awkward but if company is not to taste, one can easily feign noise-level disturbance and despite the close quarters, feel set apart. A generous space in front of the stage is for the more eager and dedicated of the crowd -- the music snobs. The space is taken up mostly for standing, gaping, swaying, dancing, and fondling -- not necessarily in that order.

As a room it is unimpressive but as the Biltmore Cabaret, it is rhythm and hum fueled by sweet expectation, overflowing draft and close-bodied sweat.

On Davie & Fraser: T-Rex's & Laundromats.

2010-03-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

The following posts will be of a few noteworthy moments of my first few months in this city of Vancouver -- one that fascinates me and stimulates my creative mind (why I returned). These stories will often have no rounded edges and no clean finish (much like this post) but that is much like a lot of life I suppose.

//

To wander Davie St. is to pass espresso bars, boutiques boasting two items in the front window (less is certainly more), dog accessory shops (vests, shoes, organic puppy chow), many a foodie Mecca, coffee shops ("Wasn't there one half a block back?") and an entire shop for donuts (this ain’t no Tim Horton’s) -- Everyone whom you would pass (seem to) have places to be -- creativity-charged, windowed places run by double espressos, scarves and real leather shoulder bags -- many of these 21st century entrepreneurs on Davie are gay and can happily find companionship here; and still others one may pass on this street like anywhere, are on their way to work in the service industry -- baristas, servers and bartenders -- or to class at the Universities of take-all-your-money-we’re-a-business-in-the-end -- students: young cynics, with their Converse shoes, 50’s cardigans, plaid shirts, headphones and strong opinions. As these entitled young ones saunter down Davie, they consider their up-coming Friday night club, where the newest Indie band will be playing and where they might meet someone who could change their life. And everyone here on Davie is beautiful, organic, "wholisitic," karma-fied, rich and lonely.

//

I have friends who also live in Vancouver but on the "other side.” They prefer that I speak of it as the “south side” as the East side of V-city has a few negative connotations that piggy-back the phrase. These friends of mine live on Fraser street, which is where the little India of Vancouver begins. They have lived in the attic suite of a 3-story character house (do not get it confused with "heritage") with Mr. & Mrs. Wong of Hong Kong as their landowners for the last 11 years. To wander Fraser St. is to replace the trendy and beautiful hipsters of the Westside by saris, wafts of curry-bowls and greasy dinners and tailor shops and dollar stores; little markets that boast not, as the Westside markets do with their high ceilings, hardwood flooring, brick walls: hummus and babaganoosh spreads (for all one’s vegan needs), artisan breads, dozens of soy milk choices, and yes espresso bars (because why should anyone have to go without? Ever?): but Fraser St. markets -- their concrete flooring, flourescent lights and the smiles of its owners -- offer many green and leafy options of the Asian variety, curry pastes and other packages of unusual content that one often can not read (one must know what one is looking for) -- They are always busy, aisles small, shoppers aggressive. It is sensory-intoxicating.

And it is on this Fraser St. that I had an experience common to city-life; one that I was sort of looking forward to but had difficulties finding a suitable outlet for on my side of the city -- Laundry Day. When one is lucky indeed, one can find an apartment with in-building or even in-suite laundry, but no such luck at ours. Needless to say, I brought my Rubbermaid of laundry to Fraser-hood. It is odd how at times a very real-life experience can make one believe they are living a scene in a movie (why is this)? At this laundromat called "LAUNDROMAT", half a block from Mr. & Mrs. Wong, Fraser St. friends and I plugged quarters (they also had a load to do) into two of the many well-used washers. Thoughts of a park and frisbee entered our minds and as we walked out of the laundromat, we nearly walked straight past a pinball machine. I normally do walk past said machines -- games never being where I shine -- but this one caught my attention due to its nature: it was a Jurassic Park theme. “*Exhale* -- Sweet.” said I. We all scrounged in our pockets for (more) quarters and stepped into An Adventure 65 Million Years in the Making. I didn’t break any records but the joy of such a simple thing was distinct. Much like later in the evening when back in the kitchen of the 3-story character home, my friend pulled out his Confidential Documents Paper Shredder from 1978 and gave me a lesson in covering ones paper trail, while we hoped the "engine" would not overheat before he was finished de-documenting.

Back on Beach Ave. (the street where I live, steps from Davie), I sat by the ocean, reading my 2000 Years of the English Village text (pinball game anyone?) watching the runners, bikers and homeless whiz & wander by, and I stopped to again contemplate just how I got here and how long it will take for someone to point me out and shout, “Imposter!” Or enter our apartment and say, “What are you doing here? Can I have my life back?” Until then, I suppose I will keep pretending and conclude that it is life's simplicities -- coin-run machinery, frisbee at dusk and paper shredders? -- that make it worth the living.

The Great Unknown

2010-02-24T15:56:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about fear lately.

It is prevalent in our society -- from little old ladies to 8 year old kids to middle-aged family-oriented couples, to puppies.

Old ladies are afraid to go out on the streets because of the young punks these days: they’re afraid of being jostled in the line up at the grocery store, ambushed on the way to their vehicle, swindled by the smartly-dressed whipper snapper at the bank that used to be so local and trustworthy. And they are afraid to go home to their apartment and perhaps falling in the bathtub, breaking a hip and dying alone.

8 year old kids are afraid of strangers offering them rides, of losing their mom’s at Wal Mart, of hearing their parents fight, of their anger. They are afraid of going to school and the constant search for the sneakiest corner of the playground to disappear into.

The middle-aged folk are afraid of losing their jobs -- of being suddenly thrust into a situation of inability to provide for their kids college education or to pay off the mortgage, the fear of their spouse losing interest in them, the fear of expectations unable to be met.

And puppies, well, maybe a bad example.

These are all vast generalizations, but I wanted to give a brief overview (next slide, please) of what I SEE as common attitudes these days. Some of the more astute out there may have noticed that I did not include the 20’s-30’s crowd -- maybe partly because I am in that bracket and I am not sure what exactly we are afraid of, though I know it is something. Maybe because we still have “our whole future lain out before us as a road lengthy and smooth, disappearing into a golden sunset with a glorious splash,” (or something), the fear factor isn’t as pronounced. Maybe what we are the most afraid of is failure and disappointing those who have put so much stock in our futures. Or maybe we are afraid of ending up with a version of ourselves that we weren’t expecting or never wanted (what I do think about on occasion with some gravity).

But ultimately, the over-arching fear that covers all generations is the fear of the Unknown. This is not the Great Unknown like they show in the Western films, with that road I mentioned before that reaches out into the splash of the sunset; it is the Unknown like the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea Unknown -- something deep, dark and murky, where things get confused: you wave your hand in front of your face but not only can you not see it, you can’t even feel the stagnant water moving against your cheeks, and suddenly your air supply seems to be choking you and... etc. The Great Unknown becomes the Great Death Sentence.

Grandma is afraid of going out because she doesn’t know if she’ll get her purse lifted by a young punk on the street. And afraid of having a bath because she doesn’t know if she’ll fall and die alone.

Little Johnny is afraid of going to school because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hide forever in the hollowed out tire without the big kids finding him. He is afraid of getting separated from his mom because she has taught him that fear is healthy and “you never know what might happen, Johnny.”

The parental unit in their early 40’s are afraid because they don’t know if their kids are going to grow up hating them, and even if they don’t hate them, they might not be able to support them because good lord, the economy these days. And the wife doesn’t know if the husband’s having an affair at work and he doesn’t know if she even finds him attractive anymore. Inside they are afraid of the D word because they don’t know.

And Morganne the student is afraid to move to Vancouver because she doesn’t know if she’ll get into UBC and if she’ll have any money to live and she doesn’t know why she’s leaving a great job and a town full of people who know her.

Except she’s not.

I can honestly say I am not afraid to embark on this next adventure (not that I don’t have my moments -- I find at night when I’m trying to sleep that the Unknowns become very vivid) -- but really, being afraid of the Unknown is a waste of energy. How can we be afraid of something that we don’t know will happen? If whatever I am afraid of ends up happening to me -- say I don’t get accepted to UBC and I end up living under Burrard bridge instead of in an apartment 5 blocks away from it, I won’t be “afraid,” I’ll just be in it saying, “Well, this sucks.” or “This is a new turn now isn’t it.” or say what we so often say, “I knew this would happen.” Talk about over-simplification I know, but the point is: to be afraid of the unknown is absolutely pointless, unless we can see into the future, or if we are in control. But I cannot and ultimately, I am not in control of my life. So I could decide not to attempt to write a book because I am absolutely sure that I would never be able to finish it. I am paralyzed by fear, because I know that it will not be completed. Except... I don’t know. And so I do not fear because I am not in control. (If I had control, I would not be afraid that my book would not sell, for I would simply cause it to sell millions).

But I could come to the conclusion that the fear of the Unknown is too great to take a risk. So I decide to live comfortably at my coffee shop job until the end of my days.

I don’t believe we are to live like that. Tucked away in cozy comfort, behind the castles we create from stones of regret, insecurity, and fear while the world goes on around us. Swiftly, our hearts and our minds go numb, we move through our days not unhappily, but without the pulse of life coursing through us: we aren’t living, we are simply alive. But to live! To know that we do not live this life alone. And to really live means to move, breathe, feel, attract, repel, confront, risk, give thanks, encourage, create, respond, energize, communicate, love, love, love. One can not do any of those things if one allows fear access.

Hair like the mane of a stallion.

2010-01-18T18:23:00.000-08:00

As Brooke and I duck 'n dove through the front doors of the mall in Cranbrook this past weekend -- a notably quick & dirty job --- we took note of two boys no more than 15, in the process of being pitched to the curb by a mini-van toting and no doubt harassed mother. I imagined in my mind her saying, "Five minutes you two!" as the partners in crime sprinted off towards the yawning jaws that lead to the unimpressive bowels of the beast that is the Tamarack mall.

As they leaned their way (boys these days tend to walk/run with their heads at a specific decline) simultaneously through the doors next to us, we hear the one boy say to his friend in a voice Napoleon Dynamite himself would have been proud:

"I love the way my hair bounces when I run!"

I can well imagine Napoleon himself exhaling audibly and gutterizing: "Uhhhh, lucky!" in response to being blessed with locks such as this young teen possessed. This Mall Boy did have a good head of hair, I will give him that much.

I shook my head in awe and watched the boys race down the first stretch of the mall and around a corner: their strict time limit, bouncing hair and lanky awkward legs adding to their collective and singular experience. I realized that while overhearing such an innocent and honest and passionate confession, yet ironically related to vanity in a world of artifice, my day was made -- and my entire mall effort made worthwhile. And much more human.

Dirt-angel.

2010-01-16T20:52:00.000-08:00

weaving wending and winding way
subterranean
as those kokanee salmon fighting upstream through
barriers bark-arched bridges
like soul and mind ones
like mossed rock that slides and slithers beneath bare foot
as a sharpness unexpected that wedges in flesh most sensitive
and those who
don chosen ignorance as cloaks of invisibility
it is labyrinthine
from river to wood to stone
in overgrown weed and loosed brick
shadowy corner dirt-collected cracks
in certain light one peers through skeletal green veneer
of leaves that let it in
bless them who let it in
who cast dappled reflections of a light much too strong
in its concentrate
tell all the truth but tell it slant
clothe oneself with these
in this twisty turny dead end wander
shadowy arms that wave cleverly this way this way
and
when darkness enfolds in its suffocating impenetrable ink
when moon not warm but a cold sliver of other-world
no protector of the night
but an eye glinting from the corner of a wide dark face
I wait.
I wait.
I wait.
for when
yes when
I stumble from the hold of these branches
brushing dead copper leaves
from my shoulder
(the green ones stay and let in light)
to step on a path dirt firm warm
remove shoe to know its contours its hues and steady vibrations
and before I walk on
I turn over face down breathe in this sod
and
I am a dust-covered snow angel

2009-11-12T16:06:00.000-08:00

It is an eye glint, an eye warmth, a seeing through another's

It is an ache to be with, an ache to seek out, an ache to know the details

It is a chuckle, it is a throw-head-back laugh, it is a smirk

It is an arm round, arms around, arms holding up

It is to do without, it is to give up, it is to give out what hurts

It is a quiet, it is a space, it is a place to be

It is tears, it is weeping, it is pain

It is life-giving, light-shedding, it is photosynthesis

It is stomach-clenching, heart-speeding, skill-dropping

It is home, it is ease, it is time's oasis

It is summer's vibrance, it is winter's fire, it is autumn's change, it is spring's birth

It is pint, it is three pints, it is hazy

It is touch, it is awareness, it is sense-commanding

It is white canvas splashed with colour

It is comfort, it is lean-against, it is shuddering breath

It is open sky, passing landscape, walking distance

It is road trip, it is mix disc, it is coffee cup

It is sacrifice, sacrificial, sacer (holy)

It is heart-fascinate, time-waste, hand-hold

It is culture spanning, barrier breaking, shocking to the ones who know all

It is birth, it is intense, it is not to do without

It is for life, it is for others, it is for future hopes

It is stumbled-upon, grown up through cracks in cement, a slap in the face

It is rainbow smeared, it is shady edges, it is pinwheels, carousels, solid ground, waves upon shore

It is not.

easy, black and white, one thing or the other

okay to do without, to scoff about, to take or leave

only for the beautiful, for the young, for the righteous

for only the married, for only the single, for only the unattached

It is not boxable, explainable, containable, scientific, chemical, otherwise deniable

dull eyed, grim faced, cerebral

camouflaged, squinting for cracks of light, feeling for keyholes, holding your breath in darkness

It is God come down.

Eating, laughing, breathing, hurting, perfect man

Ever-present, indiscriminate, selfless, sacrificial, God forsaking God

for the sake of us

Love is.

Mystery

Thin Blue Flame

2009-10-31T17:47:00.000-07:00

I submitted this to the CBC literary contest.

It is a mix of many things, both fictional and true. Mostly fictional. And mostly true.

The town sits on the golden floor of the grand cathedral that are the skies and flats of southwestern Alberta. Here the blues are really blue and the grays bleed from where all other grays have come. Road stretches on and the further it goes, the further in time one reverts. The main heart-line is the highway and the hundreds of smaller dirt roads skirting off are the slighter, narrower veins that feed into peoples lives, their small stories, their potholes and wooden mailboxes sticking out like signposts to nowhere but which to them, mark their whole universe.
This particular collection of people and business look as though it was set there on accident - an afterthought to all other townships and places. And as I drive in the unseasonable cold and rain on the highway, I imagine keeping pace with Peigan Indians, snorting horses and camoflauged cowboys.
A truck blows by in the opposite direction, my little car shudders in protest, the gusts and rain knock harshly on my windows, and I stop thinking about cowboys and Indians. I instead see my landmark - the Wal Mart sign shooting straight into the sky. It is on the fringe of this place, it's ashamed back turned, standing tall but apart from the crowd of good, hardworking, honest businesses and the folk who run them. It clings onto the edge as a parasite, and yet is fed by the very people who despise its shadow. This is economy. I turn there.
It is the rodeo and the people of this town are real cowboys who work in dust and rope and long days and early mornings. They do not wear their cowboy status as the many whose ranches and farms are great empty houses in the Big City, who walk with strut and flaunt, cowboys with wads of bills in pockets rather than offerings for their horses, their Stetsons never brushed with the dirt of the road or the burn marks of the fire or the frustrations of such an existence. The real cowboys of this town, they do not know monetary wealth or shiny belt-buckles or horsepower other than the one on which they ride. Their life takes rough hands to rub their weary eyes, and strong voices to wield cattle and to cry in the darkness. Their wealth is the gold of the sun in the dawn and the shine of the healthy manes of their stallions and the ruby of the tip of their hand rolled cigarettes. And they want to have fun this weekend.
I bypass the Ramada (*NEW WATERSLIDE* *FREE WIRELESS* *CABLE*) and follow the dirt road to the Super 8 whose sign has no special features to offer me.
I speak to the desk clerk, a near-sighted, harassed man from Hong Kong. I wonder if as a child, he ever imagined this place. He says, "Someone has paid for your room. He left no name." I raise my eyebrows, stick out my lower lip, nod and state, “Huh. I guess one would have to be in possession of a name to leave one.” The man looks blankly at me.
My room has a king-size bed, a table by the window with two chairs that look out into nothingness. Flipping through the Bible they continue to place in the drawer (a very long story), I sit on the bed and call him. I call him. He answers, his low voice makes me smile and a shadow steps lightly over me, leaving an other-worldliness in its easy wake. We have a short conversation. I hang up and fall back on the perfectly pressed bed and breathe out slowly. The rain has ceased for the moment, the sky no longer a solid mass of gray, streaks of evening light scar through it like a bright and beautiful animal trying to escape.
He picks me up in a white Jeep - I suppose I was expecting something else, though to this day I am not sure just what. The hairs of his malamutes coat the backseats. He is very tall, broad, a mountain trundler, a man who lives with gravity and defies it slightly with one foot in heaven and one on earth. This bear of a man speaks with the speed of a train, clacking along in a consistent rhythm. And though he breaks off onto dozens of pathways of thought, he carefully retraces his steps to where we had begun, and where I'd forgotten we'd started. Over the hours of conversation, I begin to see it in his brown eyes - it only takes a moment - when he steps bravely into his great subconscious, a tree with branches in every direction, and follows the tip of one twig where we ended, to the very roots of its beginnings. It is in this way that I never wearied.
We sit in his cool house with slated floor and old but comfortable furniture. We drink my favourite beer – somehow he knows - and the words process and flow like the good hops and barley. It gets close to dark and the dogs get restless. We wander out with Alaska and Denali, the great state and its great park. The dim is damp and very cool for August, everything drips and feels alive and speaking, our feet make no sound on the pavement. For a time it smells like the coast and I am a character in a David Guterson world.
In the wooded areas of this subdivision I follow the great shape, that in the right light seems to shimmer and fade around the edges, and listen hard, to what he speaks and what the earth is saying, what the river mutters in response. I speak little as usual and am grateful. I sink into his conversation as into a comfortable corner beside a woodstove. I am warmed and yet alert. He stops. And I ask him if there are salmon in this river. He says yes, that the cowboys turn into fishermen, that some fish are still a foot long. I ask if there are any good places to swim - I think of the rivers back home and my baptisms in them. He says yes, there are some places five-feet deep. We smell the air and walk on.
By low candles burning, we talk of Jesus, a first storyteller, of blue pomegranates and freedom and liberty and where they have disappeared in the midst of our law and blind arrogance and chosen ignorance. This is on the last of the six bottles and I slip into a delirious fog known as contentment, and soon at the Super 8, into a king size bed just for me. I sleep on one side, used to my single four-poster.
The morning does not break, but rather cautiously nudges against the night. I peer from the window and trucks carrying cattle, trailers holding horses, skim by on the water. Wal-Mart stands. I go to the breakfast room. A television blares weather reports that do not brighten eyes - eyes that are round as the round non-descript and sanitary white tables. This morning is the chapter of everybody’s lives, or just a sentence that reads: "They were brought by routine and a faint echo in their digestive systems." Nothing more or less, for there is nothing welcoming or comforting about this room. Its function is function.
I eat toast and bypass the coffee, for the push of such a button will do nothing for my morning. I flip through the slim, unnecessary newspaper, brush the crumbs from my table and check out at the front desk. "It is all taken care of," says the man, looking at me unblinkingly. I am not surprised. I wonder if he will live out the rest of his days behind this counter, the flatland winter air rushing in from outside, breathing red chill on his Asian cheeks so used to warm tropical kisses, catching glimpses of the outside world as the door is opened by hundreds of thousands of people asking him to check them out. I wish him well in this eternal place of in between.
I know that I won’t see him until later that morning, for which he gave no explanation (as he need never give them). I decide to go in search of a cup, hopefully a strong one, of coffee. I am an espresso snob. I drive into the town. I note that the main street is very empty of its regular strollers and striders - even for a Saturday morning in which the whole world has decided on a swim. As I drive slowly down the street, I notice that there are ominous looking pylons standing at all cross-sectioned roads, their vulgar orange shouting attention through the dimness. There are people in fact, huddled under awnings and umbrellas and many of them are staring at me as I drive slowly by, looking both wondering and irritated at my presence, like my car is an omen from another world bringing bad tidings. I say aloud, “Don’t shoot the messenger here, folks!” All feels ready, like the citizens of this town are waiting for someone or something, and it isn’t me. I have a slight dawning: A parade. I wheel off onto the first side street I can find, scraping through two pylons that sway drunkenly - I imagine them shaking their little orange fists at me angrily.
I find it surprisingly easy to secure a parking space and out on
the street, I peer in vain through the raindrops to awnings, looking for a logo with a steaming cup on it but as I reach what appears to be the end of the main street, having walked passed the 7-11 with a line out the door (”Honey,” says the man in the cowboy hat to the busty, blonde haired woman on his arm, “You better really want a cuppa’ java.”), my heart intent on a beverage seems to have hit the bottom of my empty mug. As I wander passed a closed Bakery, I look across the street to see a dozen or so seniors sitting at a large picture window, some in wheelchairs, all peering at me (I am startled to find this, although in reality I know it is not me at which they are staring). It appears they are trapped inside along with their deteriorating bodies and they are waiting for the parade to start, as they are waiting for their lives to end. The scene looks particularly ominous and staring due to the rain. I frown at my dark perception that leaves me feeling ill, sad and wishing I was somewhere else.
Eventually, the parade begins, bringing along an assortment of small town floats, fire engines, police cars, the Ladies Pies of Life Association (or something like that), tractors, trailers and pot-bellied men in plaid.
My eyes de-glaze a moment when a mini Evel Knievel on a tiny motorbike comes whizzing up from between the other slower paraders and from his basket on the front of his bike, he throws candy to the crowd. I had forgotten this part of parades. Self-consciously, I inch forward, away from the brick wall and bend to pick up soft caramels. Next to me also picking up candies but with none of my embarrassment, is a guy in a skirt.
I say, “I’ll trade you one of these for one of your caramels,” I show him a pink bubble gum.
He says, “Okay.”
Then, from the passing parade a guy on a flatbed of a truck simulating a camper around a fire shouts, “Hey, Robbie!” Skirt-man waves.
“Thanks Robbie,” I say. He smiles and shuffles on down the street, stopping to chat with people along the way. So ends my only communication with any of this town’s inhabitants. I unwrap the caramel, realize that I never actually looked Robbie in the eye and note that I can see the end of the parade. People begin to follow up behind the last float (”Mrs. McMagden’s Quilts”), and I wander back to the side street where my car is parked. He has called my phone and left a message to come to the house when I’ve finished with the small town spirit of their annual parade (he chuckles).
His house has gone from cool to cold because of the stone floor and open space. The wood stove rages, he wears big wool socks and we have toast with cheese and black tea and I feel like I’m in Britain, in another life created by one of the Greats.
Conversation begins and ends in short paragraphs and small chapters, ebbing and flowing, all well and whole re-telling of story, spaced in landscape of thought and consideration. Whatever else it is, it is not awkward, it does not come up short. I think of this gift of communing, of eating, drinking, close enough to touch, to hear breathing, to see grooves in hands and fingers, buttons on shirts, deep sly breaths of just exactly how they smell, the distinct colour of eyes. Even here, away from everything familiar, he steps out of the corner of my standing, walking, thinking self and moves thoughtfully into the center where my heart is, sits on a chair accustomed to his shape, and smiles through his eyes just for me.
I shake my head as if to re-align it’s thoughts and with it my heart vibes back to the reality – is that what this is? - I have to leave now. With a blessing for the road and not a promise nor a closure of further meetings, with no great commission, no oath of success, he smiles all the same. I drive out. Looking promptly behind me as I turn out of this subdivision, he has vanished, leaving nothing in his absence - not even a house. A vacant lot stands, yellowing grasses wave in the dusky breeze. My soul sits down with a quick breath, though like him I smile and follow the yellow lines in my rearview, out onto the heart line, leaving behind the small town and its cowboys, its locked in time and place and one that may change but only with a reluctant slowness. I see the Wal-Mart out of the corner of my eye as I turn onto the highway, and as this thin blue flame mellows and hums in my ears, I focus on the hills that kiss the sky with its defining lines, where all the hues and mixing palettes of this vibrant world come. As this road slopes down and up again and I am once more in the mountains, the plains dissolving into a dream behind me, I know the good and life and ache of this world and that all it is and will be, is wrapped up in a larger story. And that he, who sought me out, urges me to write out of it.

A culture vacuum.

2009-10-24T20:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get overwhelmed with culture. I have these waking nightmares of being swallowed alive by all the shit that goes on in the world, and not the wars and the poverty and disasters, but the real pandemics of disease: the shallowness, the narrow-mindedness, the selfishness, the iPod-ed, narcissistic, vanity-charged foolishness that is us -- I'm afraid that will be me and already is me -- that one day I'll wake up and all the depth, this connection to Christ, the one who saves me from myself, has vanished, that He will have changed just like everything and everybody else in this world, that I am alone -- left alone with my Converse and my Macbook and the bus ride home from my job working at some coffee shop, because I can't write for a living -- for where (or whom?) do I write out of? -- where everyone who comes in the door for their double soy latte have only just hung up their iPhone, and already thinking about their next effing Facebook status update, texting their next social convener in the process and good lord, where have I put my phone... that I end up empty, with all this nonsense littered around me, this gaspingly shallow existence... it's all reality t.v. and lies, money, status and sex. My generation has sucked the life and colour from the world, that earth has snuck its grimy fingers into heaven and tarnished that too, that my days swirl in falsehoods and that love isn't really love, it's all just a ruse, a farce, a way to get more for less more often. that one day, my heart will cease to know truth, what I know without a falter, is Truth, that my heart will cease to believe in what has given me hope, to what has borne me and borne me onwards for the last 23 years of my life.

My waking nightmare is to live without Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Where fear encroaches, and I say, what if it isn't true?

Now is the point where I could turn this into a great encouraging mini-sermon about the faithfulness of Christ but I just don't have it in me tonight. All I will do before sleeping is pray desperately for the courage, the courage, the courage, to live ultimately for the Long Goodness.

"There was a badness that had its way
But love wasn't lost, love will have its day."

- U2 - North & South of the River.

the Attic in August

2009-08-02T21:24:00.000-07:00

waking to heat shimmering room
I lay unmoving sleep-baptized
under these rafters
slants wooden cracks and splintered floor
green growing things wilting and sad
grasping at water with tired root
curtains ripple in early morning breath
feet are heat containers pad across wood
and open door with creaking gasp
heat enters in golden narrow road
illuminating dust left from dirt in feet and bucket
always holding edible sustainable grace
in the sweat sunned wind of summer days
this heat-packed place
artificial moving air warm to the touch
refreshes weary soul and breathes in me

life falling

2009-07-25T20:37:00.000-07:00

for as earth is dry
we are tired we are heart weary we are sick in our scratched souls
we move around in dust
our feet covered in grit we've no eyes to see its cleansing power
trees bush hill tall standing yellow grasses
without movement straight to sky
we have missed the spectrums the hues the vibration of living colour
looking straight ahead or peering down at grime covered feet
eyes have lost their shades pupils have encompassed all
we sigh we grumble we ask where he has gone as the freed ones did

and then the clouds shift
the air sits up shakes itself and steps

the sky forms and carves
grooves shelves shadow infinite masses of depth
it holds nothing for it doesn't own it
each drop a cup of water passed round to all living creatures
the dry empty shadeless to our eyes roads
turn a deeper shade of concrete glory
the air breathes releases its hold
some raise eyes from the ground to search this falling life
for a sign of good from he
and some see this water fall as the sign of good from he
as colour re-paints all
as liquid hope seeps in cracks
as air heaves with breathing giving hoping freedom

and some peer at dirt covered feet and curse the mud that's formed

the day asks not.

2009-06-10T16:54:00.000-07:00

The afternoon wears to its end
the shadows pronouncing themselves with a strength
a cool autumn breeze having risen from the hiding places of dusk now breathes
among sleeves, leaves, whisps and door cracks
the very sun itself longs for its resting place -
though he never really sleeps does he? -
all this beauty of the day -
of the rise and fall of the turning and moving -
and no one notices.

Oh no, for all are caught with the peaks and valleys of the hours of light -
events of much importance: babies wailing birth
livelihoods tragically lost
lovers weeping betrayal.
Alongside small hills rise of little or no importance too:
a (once) friend disastrously late for coffee
a dog trotting carelessly along the sidewalk, his lead trailing behind
a young paperboy pouting injustice in the face of his father
a pint clumsily spilled.

These particular events belong to those with no cares
silken comforts, all security, empty minds and hollow hearts.
But the day, it is not prejudice as we -
it moves as well alongside -
perhaps with softer step and kinder spirit
the poor in pocket and rich in soul.
Those who sink into shadow even when the sun blazes
who shuffle the walk of the downtrodden
who trudge the hours with aches and internal heart moans, dry-throated, dim-eyed.
It is for these
the day gives of itself gently - even in rains.

And the day - every rise a new one - imagine! -
carries all these harried and distracted beings gracefully through
the light and air and events...
without asking for a nod, a penny or even a word of thanks.
Nor do we give it for free
even in its thoughtful absence of request.

A love poem for no one

2009-05-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

it was the two dimensional vividness that you always seem to see
all had gone just the soft-spoken artist his guitar and me
I drank the wine you'd poured for no one
and listened as the breeze that blew children's flags painted in the sun
I sat and sipped as the sky eased from bright to navy dark
the trees stood stark in their cut-out shapes
the chimney on the roof leaned sentry against the sky
just two stars appearing alongside the moon in it's half depart
the candle illuminates the waving flags
and along with the keeper of the eve help to cast it's life upon the flickering leaves

and I try decidedly to be without you
as the man plays on
the backdrop and its dark beings standing strong and the moon at ease with itself
and what can I do
for my heart it does bend from the weight of an empty place and a spot for a sun
I look on all that was all we were and all we meant in all we said
though I turn and see no one
I hope to find you at my shoulder
hand on neck in moments of frustration and disbelieving wonder
speaking words of a kind of love and pauses to make the soul stir
and I am glad of the thought of you and all that I have been allowed
I will look for you in days to come appearing in an unexpected moment
but now on I go in the here and now with our glasses raised to the beauty and the gray

......

Awaiting A Great Russian Tragedy.

2009-04-25T10:51:00.000-07:00

If I could sit down and write a book right now, I would. There is something appealing to me about going to work all day and then heading to my attic and writing for hours under serious lock down. No one would see me for days, and if they were to pass by under my window in the dark they would only hear a furious tapping of keys. The whole picture of candle wax dripping, tea growing cold, eyes red rimmed and dry, crumpled paper littering the floor... is definitely an inviting place for me in my head. And what a time for me to form such habits! When my social circle has never been smaller and more potent - I have for the first time, my own space where I can turn up the music and smile and sing and make food alone, and on the bad days, or the days of intense heart movements, swear and cry and sit in a funk of deep thought or just a haze. I should really be, right now, writing something substantial.

But as it is, I am, without cohesive story.

I do believe, as I spend my days serving coffees, asking people what I can get for them, looking forward to my favourite regulars and knowing just how they like their espresso, perfecting the art of the 3 minute conversation - conversations that are spread out over days that turn to weeks in tiny increments, observing people as they interact with each other - for why do most people go to coffee shops? Either they are like me, and go for solace, getting lost in words, taking a deep breath from days of forgetting to, or they go to talk. Either for the first time in months, or like some regulars, having perhaps muddied versions of the same conversation that they have daily.

I suppose I like to think this is a time of gathering, pulling in, noting and storing how people live, relate, think and are in fact living, breathing, walking stories. A coffee shop is one of the better places to notice these things. Even though some days I feel like I'm going mad with excess creative energy that has no where to go, and it's on those days that I will write something, anything, just to say I have - there will hopefully come a time when it will work itself out cohesively and someone, a complete stranger to me, will read it and nod along to its story. And unless I move to Russia and await a great tragedy to befall me, this, thus far is my plan.

for Lent

2009-03-07T13:06:00.001-08:00

This is a poem by G.K. Chesterton written in 1927. A beautiful picture of death and the life to come.

The Ballad of God-Makers

A bird flew out at the break of day
From the nest where it had curled,
And ere the eve the bird had set
Fear on the kings of the world.

The first tree it lit upon
Was green with leaves unshed;
The second tree it lit upon
Was red with apples red;

The third tree it lit upon
Was barren and was brown,
Save for a dead man nailed thereon
On a hill above a town.

That night the kings of the earth were gay
And filled the cup and can;
Last night the kings of the earth were chill
For dread of a naked man.

‘If he speak two more words,’ they said,
‘The slave is more than the free;
If he speak three more words,’ they said,
‘The stars are under the sea.’

Said the King of the East to the King of the West,
I wot his frown was set,
‘Lo, let us slay him and make him as dung,
It is well that the world forget.’

Said the King of the West to the King of the East,
I wot his smile was dread,
‘Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,
It is well that our god be dead.’

They set the young man on a hill,
They nailed him to a rod;
And there in darkness and in blood
They made themselves a god.

And the mightiest word was left unsaid,
And the world had never a mark,
And the strongest man of the sons of men
Went dumb into the dark.

Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,
Incense and gold and myrrh,
And they thronged above the seraphim,
The poor dead carpenter.

‘Thou art the prince of all,’ they sang,
‘Ocean and earth and air.’
Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,
And hid in the dead man’s hair.

‘Thou art the son of the world.’ they cried, `
‘Speak if our prayers be heard.’
And the brown bird stirred in the dead man’s hair
And it seemed that the dead man stirred.

Then a shriek went up like the world’s last cry
From all nations under heaven,
And a master fell before a slave
And begged to be forgiven.

They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes
The ancient wrath to see;
And a bird flew out of the dead Christ’s hair,
And lit on a lemon tree.

Space, Place & Time.

2009-02-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

As I sit in my attic, drinking a Nelson After Dark and listening to the newest mix I dragged and dropped through the tinny speakers loaned to me - at the moment they are squeaking out Weird Fishes Arpeggi by Radiohead - I get to thinking about space, place & time. My life in the last five years has been rather scattered. Bear with me as I lay it out for you.

Halfway through my grade twelve year, I accompanied mom & dad to Hong Kong, where I crammed my Kootenay head and life into a 7th floor 900 square foot apartment, in the midst of a concrete jungle - my days turned into, instead of walking the familiar neighbourhoods of Cranbrook, under the watchful eye of Fisher Peak, setting off into woods of green and white in winter, feeling the cool of the lakes, the warmth of bonfires and familiar faces in summer, I Conversed and traversed the pavement of such an unreal place, the never-ending stretch of highrises, lowrises, and rises in between, all packed together in warmth and sweat, shimmering in density and colour and smells athousand, languages and cultures, flowing and moving in all manner of train, bus and taxi and mostly on foot, important, be-suited men, lonely, overworked domestic workers and oh too many children asked to be adults far too early. It was there that my mind and heart re-engaged this 'other culture living' that my five year old self knew back in PNG. It hadn't left me, was only slumbering inside. And apart from the following summer where I returned to the valley, I lived this Hong Kong adventure for another year.

In September of 2005, I journeyed to another valley called the Pinzgau in Austria. It was there where I fell into a community full of broken, gifted, wonderful believers - all the way from the United States of America, to countries I'd never heard of, like the Faroe Islands and its Hobbiton inhabitants. In this castle, I experienced more joy and frustration, genuinely liked my first boy, every night slept better than I ever had in my whole life, was certain I was living in Narnia many winter days, raised and drank my first pints, wrote my first poem, celebrated Christmas Eve in a stone chapel by candlelight and for the first time, experienced the dynamic movement and love and holy, good, good grace of the Trinity. Overlooking a village of a few thousand, the most beautiful seasons I'd ever experienced, an autumn of so much colour, a winter of a thousand snows, magical late spring evenings, this castle became such a home to me in the 9 months I was there, that leaving was like grieving the death of someone close to me.

From there, I moved to Vancouver where, attempting to get over my year in Austria - went to college for English. I lived in an apartment in Kerrisdale with my sister Miriam, who while wonderful, I felt very much alone inside. I took the bus every day to school, most of the time in rain and cloud, soothing my aching heart with David Gray in my headphones, living, moving and breathing in coffee shops and bookstores, and on weekends, washing dishes in a noisy back kitchen of a local coffee shop. Vancouver was a solitary time, and felt like a mourning period and also a soaking in time of what I'd experienced in Austria. I wrote my first short story while in my International Relations class, a Starbucks cup to my left hand, and when the pink blossoms appeared on all the trees in April, I felt my heart give a shake and a startle.

The following September, I was back in Hong Kong for another school year. That year there was much reading, solitary time, much writing and cursing of papers, much Dickens and other mind-numbingly fascinating literature, much coffee downing, and many movie nights with the parental unit. I almost adopted a miniature schnauzer from the Hong Kong shelter, which gives one an idea of how rather community disoriented I was.

And after a summer back in the Kootenays of rivers and beer with soul companions, working in the sun and learning the art of a barista, after an autumn of living out of the Golden Pathfinder, going from house sitting job to house sitting job, from Fort Steele to Kimberley, from front porches and couches of unsuspecting friends, to England for a few weeks of warm pubs and warm sisters and warm beer, I am now, unexpectedly, here. Sitting in an attic, rather sparse of furniture still, but knowing that it. is. mine. And knowing that I can unpack my suitcase, my boxes, that I can buy a goldfish, and a table for sitting and eating and drinking round, that Jamie Oliver and Josh Ritter will be constant guests here, and that on Sunday afternoons when everyone has significant other time, I can just... go home. And be glad and at ease, at peace with it. That I no longer have to sit in a parking lot in my truck, waiting for plans to be made. And that this will be my first home, my very own first. My very own space, place and time. For however long it will have me.

Thin Blue Flame

2009-01-24T10:26:00.001-08:00

I have written of Josh Ritter before when I had gone down to Spokane back in July to see his show. He's continued to be on repeat on cd's in my truck, through the headphones of my iPod and on full blast at friend's homes who will allow me the indulgence. Over the last months, he has accompanied me in my sad and lonely days (the inversioned ones), when a coffee and a sit by the lake are my comfort, and on my glad days (the sunlit ones), when all is how it should be, and my smile matches that of Josh Ritter's on stage. He's got some fun tunes, I have to say.

Mostly, it is his depth and range of heart and soul he carries and the way he writes in story, always in story. He gets it. He understands so many of the fundamental parts of this life, and sings them with the utmost passion and hope and with the hard stuff, anger. He engages thoughts and feelings and soul-stuff that I believe God wants us to.

Over the last couple weeks, I've been listening to this one song of his that had somehow gotten swept to the side in my JR musical endeavours. It clocks in at just over nine minutes, and listens like a full length novel. There is so much in this song, it is ridiculous, in a seriously wonderful way. It has the power to encourage and place in one, melancholy, hope, anger, desperation, sadness, beauty and as usual, his imagery is startlingly beautiful in its simplicity. As someone who speaks and struggles and hopes and loves this God of ours, it probably influences me in different ways than someone who looks Left to nothing instead of Up to hope. As a friend said to me about this song, "There's something in it that makes me feel alive in a deep, disturbing and refreshing way, as if I want to be laid bare before God and yet scream at Him at the same time." I echo those words. I posted the lyrics at the bottom here, and a link for those of you who want to listen while reading. Do me a favour though - take your time when listening, for it isn't something to cram into a 15 minute interval of your day. Give it time to soak in and let yourself listen with more than just ears.

Thin Blue Flame
Josh Ritter

I became a thin blue flame
Polished on a mountain range
And over hills and fields I flew
Wrapped up in a royal blue
I flew over Royal City last night
A bullfighter on the horns of a new moon's light
Caesar's ghost I saw the war-time tides
The prince of Denmark's father still and quiet
And the whole world was looking to get drowned
Trees were a fist shaking themselves at the clouds
I looked over curtains and it was then that I knew
Only a full house gonna make it through

I became a thin blue wire
That held the world above the fire
And so it was I saw behind
Heaven's just a thin blue line
If God's up there he's in a cold dark room
The heavenly host are just the cold dark moons
He bent down and made the world in seven days
And ever since he's been a'walking away
Mixing with nitrogen in lonely holes
Where neither seraphim or raindrops go
I see an old man wandering the halls alone
Only a full house gonna make a home

I became a thin blue stream
The smoke between asleep and dreams
And in that clear blue undertow
I saw Royal City far below
Borders soft with refugees
Streets a'swimming with amputees
It's a Bible or a bullet they put over your heart
It's getting harder and harder to tell them apart
Days are nights and the nights are long
Beating hearts blossom into walking bombs
And those still looking in the clear blue sky for a sign
Get missiles from so high they might as well be divine
Now the wolves are howling at our door
Singing bout vengeance like it's the joy of the Lord
Bringing justice to the enemies not the other way round
They're guilty when killed and they're killed where they're found
If what's loosed on earth will be loosed up on high
It's a Hell of a Heaven we must go to when we die
Where even Laurel begs Hardy for vengeance please
The fat man is crying on his hands and his knees
Back in the peacetime he caught roses on the stage
Now he twists indecision takes bourbon for rage
Lead pellets peppering aluminum
Halcyon, laudanum and Opium
Sings kiss thee hardy this poisoned cup
His winding sheet is busy winding up
In darkness he looks for the light that has died
But you need faith for the same reasons that it's so hard to find
And this whole thing is headed for a terrible wreck
And like good tragedy that's what we expect

At night I make plans for a city laid down
Like the hips of a girl on the spring covered ground
Spirals and capitals like the twist of a script
Streets named for heroes that could almost exist
The fruit trees of Eden and the gardens that seem
To float like the smoke from a lithium dream
Cedar trees growing in the cool of the squares
The young women walking in the portals of prayer
And the future glass buildings and the past an address
And the weddings in pollen and the wine bottomless
And all wrongs forgotten and all vengeance made right
The suffering verbs put to sleep in the night
The future descending like a bright chandelier
And the world just beginning and the guests in good cheer
In Royal City I fell into a trance
Oh it's hell to believe there ain't a hell of a chance

I woke beneath a clear blue sky
The sun a shout the breeze a sigh
My old hometown and the streets I knew
Were wrapped up in a royal blue
I heard my friends laughing out across the fields
The girls in the gloaming and the birds on the wheel
The raw smell of horses and the warm smell of hay
Cicadas electric in the heat of the day
A run of Three Sisters and the flush of the land
And the lake was a diamond in the valley's hand
The straight of the highway and the scattered out hearts
They were coming together they pulling apart
And angels everywhere were in my midst
In the ones that I loved in the ones that I kissed
I wondered what it was I'd been looking for up above
Heaven is so big there ain't no need to look up
So I stopped looking for royal cities in the air
Only a full house gonna have a prayer

Inversioned.

2009-01-21T15:30:00.000-08:00

Cranbrook is the sunniest city in British Columbia. I envision we it's citizens, as tall, walking sunflowers who occasionally whistle tunes of a carefree nature. When winter arrives, we are pleased for the snow, for with it usually comes sunshine and as far as the snowboarders and skiers are concerned, lollipops. When my sunflower lips stop whistling and I see a cloud on the horizon, I do say a quick "bless 'em" for our West Coast province-sharers. I take a moment to remember Vancouver's inhabitants who, from November to March, slosh through puddles, peer through rain fall, and on public transport, breathe the humid, still air, the windows dripping with the commuters internal and external sighs, all the while shuffling their feet and avoiding eye contact as if programmed to do so. Right around this time of year, many Vancouverites begin to stoop and hunch, muttering inaudbile curses, searching, searching, searching for their precious - much like I envision Gollum to do throughout his dark caves of the Misty Mountains. However, it's not a ring many are looking for, but that golden ball of ecstasy so many of us in sunny Cranbrook, take for granted. I am able to feel this empathy for Vancouverites, as I was one of them for a year and a winter. To sum up. In winter, Cranbrookians = Sunflowers. Vancouverites = Gollums.

I speak of this because for the last three weeks or so, Cranbrook has been uncharacteristically cloudy, gray, and, well, sunless. The last time I remember seeing the sun was about two weeks ago on a Tuesday afternoon when I finished work at three o'clock. Walking out into the parking lot, I was startled to see in fact, the sun in the sky. I almost didn't know what to do with myself, as I squinted and blinked round me, seeing trees, cars, mountains and even people, in a different light. A sunlit light.

As this inversion continued (and continues) for days that turned to weeks, I started to feel inversioned myself, as I had experienced in Vancouver that winter. Every task seeming to take more effort, smiles less readily given and received, small and large hearts alike rather downcast. I definitely see this change in peoples moods and personalities working at a coffee shop. How can you ask for a triple mocha with nothing less than a smile at least? These days, they are asked for like it's a prison sentence (I die a little inside each time). I suppose sometimes I find that we walk around as if we're living in an inversion of days - trudging through cloud and gloom, going through life like it is merely a series of tasks and events to complete, not willing to give anything to anyone unless there's something in it for us.

Today, I saw a peak of the sun, and I have it on good authority (the weather man, ha ha) that it will be sunny and cold this weekend. That peak and wink of the sun impressed upon me the people in our lives who do not live as if in a permanent inversion. You know those people who, when you are in their presence you just have to smile, you feel your soul give a little shake, your eyes may just shine a bit brighter. Whether you're at the post office, the liquor store, doing paperwork, or like me, making a dry double cappuccino with an extra shot for that regular; let us live like each day is the first day the sun has come out after the long, hard, dark days of an inversion. It is rather amazing how it can change things.

And now here's hoping for a sunny February.

"I woke beneath a clear blue sky;
the sun a shout
the breeze a sigh."

Josh Ritter, Thin Blue Flame.

God Save the Pubs

2008-12-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

I am quite attached to England, in case any of you missed that small fact about me. I do so enjoy it’s lush greenery, it’s history, the compactness of everything from the cars, to the shops, to the milk jugs, to the small, sun-deprived English children. I find it fascinating that the other day, I sat in a coffee house in downtown Oxford that was 500 years old. 500 flipping years! That’s like... Canada’s age times 5. Nearly. The way they’ve really taken to conserving their history, remembering from whence they’ve come and building around it, is quite something. This coffee shop I was in was in a two story house, and to enter it, you had to step down two steps and then in, to where a sign would politely tell you to Mind Your Head as you stepped further down. My brother, who is not exactly tall, had to duck his head. The ceiling was so low I could practically touch it if I stood on my tip toes. In North America, that would certainly never be seen. To have ceilings that low would be inconceivable, due to it not being “to code”. But because the Brits are keen on conserving their history, they’ve found legal ways of working around pesky things like codes. Whereas we’d simply tear it down and build a new one. I went into a pub that was 300 years old and sat near the fire that, according to a sign above it, was burning oak (”the wood we are burning today is OAK”) and wondered how anyone could have a cross day, living in such brilliance! Over the top? Of course. But I don’t care.

But the fact of the matter is, people do seem to be rather cross here. Or at least severely unimpressed by nearly everything. The only real smile I’ve received from anyone since my England adventure was from a woman who worked at Oxford Castle - a used-to-be prison. And now receives tourists for tours of its dark and damp passages and tales of torture and abuse. It was there that I nearly fell out the door with the wattage of her smile. Ironic. I would certainly struggle with the non-reactionary Brits if I were to live here. Perhaps it’s the excess of gray days that make these folk unable to produce enthusiasm.

Everyone is surely sharply dressed however, and exude intelligence. All the gents in London wear suits of blackest black, set off with a jaunty scarf and over their shoulder a real brown leather bag rides, and on their feet, shoes so shiny one could nearly see the gray sky in them. I certainly don’t mind this attention to fashion, though it makes me look like I stumbled out of some backwoods thrift store wearing “Oh, so 2002!”. Wait, that’s because I have!

The attention to all things locally grown and organic is far ahead of our attentions. Probably because it’s far easier to assume the 100 mile diet, as this island is rather small in comparison to the vastness of Canada, but their efforts are still rather impressive. I went into a coffee shop and unfortunately had to take my coffee to go, and in order to retrieve me a take away cup, the barista had to fetch her ladder and clamber up to a cupboard where they kept them. I felt rather foolish.

There are certainly worse places to live in the world than England, and I’ve got a funny feeling I may just end up here for some portion of my life, but I would certainly miss Canada and it’s wild and free ways. Where not every hedge is trimmed (we don’t even have hedges), where one can still find a piece of land with no one on it on which to build a fire, where rivers can still run wild, and mountains carry snow with both pride and ferocity. Ah, the space of Canada is what I’d miss most. And my backwoods thrift store way of life, and those I’ve shared it with. So God save the Queen and the pubs of 100’s of years old, and thank you for having me to stay. And I will return to the negative 20’s, the wide snowy roads and the wildness to which I’m accustomed.

Geese from the Moon.

2008-10-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

"I saw a flock of geese flying in a V."

The sleepy sun cast weak beams over the road leading to nowhere and the mist glided low over the dead grasses, causing them to appear nearly transparent. The moisture rose to greet the sun, a happy meeting that cast rainbow droplets in the air; beautiful ones that could be seen only if you were looking for them.

And he was.

"Did you see? Just there. Rainbows. Tiny ones," the boy said to his father. The two sat on the edge of the road on a plank of wood with an old blanket spread over it for warmth. The father had blue eyes and wore a hat with ear flaps and only a black long-sleeved shirt, for he was never cold. Over his knees he held a gun, for rabbit hunting. The boy didn't know what the name of the gun was, only that it was for hunting rabbits and only rabbits. He sat next to the man on their make-shift bench, his knees nearly to his chin, his round face and earnest blue eyes matching his father's. The entirety of him was rather round - his mother called him "sturdy." The boys at school called him chubby.

He shifted his weight, for he felt uncomfortable hunting.

His father looked down at him with an expression unreadable. The boy looked back at him with expectancy. "Did you see the rainbow droplets?"

"No." His father peered into the grasses, looking for rabbits, the boy was sure. Not for rainbows. "I don't know how you see those things, little man." He always called him little man when he was happy that he was his son.

"But our eyes match," the boy said.

"Yes. But you see things no one else does."

The eight year old wondered if that was good and then asked, "Like the geese flying in a V?"

His father smiled. "Yes, like the geese." They both went back to watching the grasses. The sun had gathered forces and rose more bravely, illuminating the grasses from behind, bringing to light the green of them. There were now shadows.

The boy looked at his hands and said, "Well, it was last night. The moon. It was the harvest moon, right?" He looked up at his father, looking for the nod. He answered without looking at him. "Yes, you are right, it was." The little man nodded gravely.

"So I went to my window. And I was looking at the harvest moon," he placed his cold hands on his red cheeks for warmth. "And there were clouds... with light around them." He pulled a blade of grass out of the ground and rubbed it back and forth. His voice went lower, nearing a whisper. "And then there were geese. It was like they flew right out of the moon. They were so white. And I could hear them calling to each other and even flapping their wings." His father had let the gun go slack, and was looking at him. The boy had gazed off, just past the sun, and the light was reflecting in his eyes as he remembered the geese from the moon.

"Did you really see geese flying at night?" His father asked simply. "They don't usually fly at night."

"Yes, I really did," he said, nodding slowly. "From the harvest moon. In a V, just like they say they do."

His father had lifted the gun again, adjusting his gloves. He did not like to hold the cold steel with his bare hands, the ones that liked to create and build. He hoped his son really did see geese flying from the moon. "Who are 'they'?" the father asked.

"Can I stand up?" The boy said, ignoring the question on accident. "My legs are cramping."

"Yes, but slowly. The rabbits."

He stood carefully, like his father told him. He squinted and scanned the land, looking for rabbit tails or tufts of ears, and whispering at them to run.

"What are you saying?" His father glanced up at him.

"Nothing." He scuffed his shoe in the dirt. His feet were cold. "Why don't we walk and hunt? Instead of sitting in one spot."

"Because. If you walk, they will hear you and run away." The boy sat down again with a sigh.

"And that way, no one gets hurt," his father finished. The boy's brow furrowed.

The father pushed his hat back from his eyes and they both remembered the brother, the other son, the one who made them laugh. There was a silence, both sad and comfortable. It lasted long enough for the boy's legs to fall asleep and the father to forget the rabbits.

Breaking it, the boy asked, "Can we walk? We will go quietly. Glide over the grasses even."

The father came back and looked sideways at his son, one eye closing in a half wink. "You are good. A good little man."

He looked down in pleased embarrassment. His father stood, not very tall and removed his hat, and the smaller one stood again next to him, his old jeans sitting comfortably on him.

As the two began walking into the waving grasses, ignoring the road that led to nowhere, the boy asked, "Who are 'they'?" And the October sun began to warm their blond heads.

"Hm." He scratched his chin. "Why don't you tell me what other things you see, that no one else does," the father asked.

"Like the harvest moon geese and the rainbow droplets?" The blue eyes twinkled and the sun sparkled in them.

"Yes, like that."

A rabbit whisked past their ankles into its hole.

And the gun held no bullets.

We On Dusty Roads

2008-09-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

In response to Acts 1:1-9 and a friend who asked.

These dusty roads
The graveled places
Seems where no one has been before
And those who have walked them have gone away
Taking all joys and hurts, triumphs and mis-adventures

For you were here
You walked and laughed you sat and wept
You ate and drank you slept and laid awake
You loved, you angered you gladly, with depth did live
You told stories and asked for stories and you helped to write our own.

Beside you these sun-washed few
These fishermen, these small town folk, these women of heart and duty and love
Walked along in the dusty tracks of the grooves of your holy calloused feet
As many, but known as each one by Him - the One who called them
Observing, recognizing, unbelieving, believing and faithful almost to the end

Oh to have seen!
Oh to have eaten!
Oh to have drank with hearty thanks!
Oh to have touched!
Oh to have laughed and sat and walked and smiled and peered in his eyes!

And then down the road he went
The dust, it settled
The sun, it hid behind the darkness and the blood
The birds ceased to praise
The wind refused to breathe

It was lost
The light - all the light had gone from the world
The shadows grew bolder, the silence fell hard, the stars did not quiver
Forgone, forlorn for everything chaosed like the beginning of time
But the Spirit did not hover there

And we felt alone without companion
For you were there and then were not
You promised much and delivered what to us, was nothing
You walked our hills and valleys and water and breathed our air and felt our hearts
And allowed yourself to be cowered over and trodden
O sacred head now wounded

And then!
The bless’ed ones who came upon you!
Padding down a dirt road with dust on your feet and sun in your hair and light in your eyes
It is finished! You said with earthly glee and kingdom gravity.
Death has died, Life has won! Christ has conquered all.

We began to rejoice
We breathed sighs of relief for we no longer had to search
As the wine began to flow and the fish and bread began to feed us, and all was warm and right
Away you went, o so sudden
We don’t know where to look for you
Speaking in riddles and stories
Maybe if we’d listened with more than just ears

Alas we think we are here without
Though left with a gift that you promised
A gift of power that moves in ways mysterious
Ways that are not our ways
Moves, not our moves

For these roads are dusty
These paths, long and traveled well in ever the same direction
You never said they would not be
It is we who see you here
We who see you walking, laughing, sitting, weeping, eating with the least of these
And we who see you hurting, clothe-less, hungry, comfortless, without refuge

O let us
Let us see with eyes wide
For it is we who walk these dusty roads
We who set our feet in treads of holy calloused feet
Let us love, let us communion, let us see glory in all things daily, reverence in all things common

Let us walk these dusty roads
And to know with whom we walk

Stuff of the Soul.

2008-08-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

I'm a firm believer in writing as puke. It starts with stomach pains. Your head gets fuzzy, the bile rises, and out comes the purge of words that has been clouding your mind, heart and digestive tract. It is sick and disgusting and it looks like one big pile composed of whatever you've consumed or thought of or observed in the last 24 hours but then, when your heart slows and your mind starts to settle and your stomach stops gurgling, you start to sift through the stuff you puked (and every metaphor breaks down...) - This is going to be one of those puke things.

I now work at Hot Shots in Cranbrook, a coffee shop, that makes wraps, paninis, and the best damn ice caps in the whole blue world. I stumbled into this job rather on accident - I had a high paying, outside job all lined up, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I was screwed out of it. So I applied there and was hired immediately, and it is going well. I am one of the only employees who actually drinks coffee, so I'm looking forward to being trained as a barista. If I'm here long enough, that is.

My other employment is out at Fort Steele Farms, sort of the on-call vegetable till person. I like that job also. I enjoy talking with people, hearing bits of their stories as they stand clutching their corn and cherries with eager anticipation.

This week, I rung a person through at Hot Shots who tentatively asked for "some kind of iced chocolate coffee thing", to which my coffee brain turned into an iced mocha. Once determined that she'd like it blended and not over ice (her eyes lit up with the option), we were all set. She was very pleased with what I made her (I am technically allowed to do all blended drinks, just not the hot coffee bar), and left with a smile.

On the weekend at the Farm, a woman who looked vaguely familiar said to me,
"Do you also work in town?"
"Yes," I said. "At Hot Shots."
"I remember you because of your eyes."
"Oh. Wait. You're the iced mocha lady."

We continued to talk for a moment and I told a bit of my Hong Kong story... to which she said, "I knew there was something special about you. You're a traveler." I wanted to say that I wasn't entirely sure about that... and then. "Let me give you my card. I do readings." Ahhhh.... I thought. I get it.
"I can tell things about people. There is something deep and special about you. I'll give you a reading for free. We don't predict the future or anything but..."
And I said, "Ah, I appreciate that, but I'm not... no. I don't put any stock in that stuff. Thank you though."
"Okay," she said, looking like she wanted to say more.
"It was nice to meet you. Come in for a mocha sometime."

I'm thinking about souls these days. The essence of you (I got an image of Owen Wilson in You, Me & Dupree). The fabric God makes us out of. What is it that attracts us to each other? I mean completely besides the beautiful eyes, impecible style and toned what-not. You meet some people and its like, "Yep, nice person" - moving on. There are those who are friends, even more than just acquaintances, those you can have good conversations with, a beer with, a meal with, and you feel like you've got a good friend and you can be satisfied. But. You meet others, and immediately there's a, "Yes. Here it is." It's like getting a 2 by 4 to the head - you're knocked sideways by the weight of such a beautiful reality. There are people who wiggle right into your soul without even trying, right under your skin, you understand each other without even having to explain how. There's a depth. Soul companions. And when you find that in someone, it changes you. Colours are more vibrant. Everything is brighter. And stuff hurts more. It sounds like love, but I'm speaking about (or trying to) something different. And I'm realizing that this is something totally and completely bigger than any of us. Something unexplainable, beautiful, painful, wonder full. Something that makes us truly human and truly imaging of God all in the same breath. If you're lucky to find your soul companion in another and bind yourself to that person for life, that is something, for I think it is not as easy as people make it out to be. Thankfully, I believe, there is more than one soul companion in this whole blue world for all of us - the trick, I suppose, is waiting for it.

The grin-bearer of song

2008-07-24T13:02:00.000-07:00

Josh Ritter played in Spokane on July 22nd, as part of his summer tour. The Troxels and I drove across the border (the morning after the concert in Starbucks, we met a guy who was astonished that we came "all the way from Canada"), to partake in this delicious smorgasbord of wonderful talent and passion, that is, Josh Ritter.

I love this musician. I will tell you why. As someone who loves words and putting good words on paper to express thought and emotion, I appreciate Mr. Ritter's thought and poetry he puts into his lyrics. David Gray is another musician who does this with wonderful ease and poetic motion.

Josh Ritter is from Moscow, Idaho, and he writes out of his home, out of his landscape and his growings up ("in the park underneath the trees, lying on your back as the sun goes down, you know it's perfect 'cause you gotta leave" "On a Saturday night in a town like this I forget all my songs about trains"). It reminds me of hometown Cranbrook and the area in which I grew up - mountain, sky and field. When I am not here, Josh brings me home.

He writes both fun summer nights songs ("sitting on the porch playing Townes van Zandt, play guitar to burn off the hours") and he knows there is something bigger, that life is messy but life is beautiful.

"It's a long way to Heaven
It's closer to Harrisburg
And if evil exists its a pair of train tracks
And the devil is a railroad car"

...

"Some say man is the root of all evil
Others say God's a drunkard for pain
Me I believe that the Garden of Eden was burned to make way for a train"

One of the things I like most about Josh Ritter is that he is an artist, but is not broody and disheartened. He is truly a joy-filled person, who by the looks of it anyway, loves what he does, loves that he gets to play his music for a living.

In Spokane, the venue, the Bing Crosby theatre, was quite small and hellishly hot. He entered stage right in a white collared shirt, black vest and jacket - and was so excited he didn't know where to start. His grin is as permanent as his curly bush of hair, and the smartness of his tie. I never knew it was possible to smile throughout an entire song, but he proves that it is.

For one of his more quiet of songs, he asked that Dave the tech guy, turn down all the lights and "let's just sit here in the dark." He played a song called "Wings" in the pitch dark, of course his hands knew what to do on his guitar, not a sound from anyone during the song. And at the end, there was five full seconds of silence - no one wanted to break it. It was beautiful and a prayer.

For one of his love songs, he had the bottom floor of the auditorium (Romeo) sing to those in the balcony (Juliet) - ("Don't let me into this year with an empty heart, with an empty heart"). During another, it was just Josh playing on guitar, and his four band members standing around a single mike singing into it like the Soggy Bottom Boys. His bassist has the glasses, eyebrows and moustache direct from the 1870's.

It was over after midnight. I wanted to meet him this time - second concert - but it wasn't to be. The evening was a balm to my soul - I left feeling watered and alive.

From his new album "The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter" - "Right Moves" :

On Letterman, "To the Dogs or Whoever" (a cacophony of FUN):

From "the Animal Years" - "Wolves" :

For all you Springsteen fans, here's a cover of "The River" :

The Doorknob

2008-07-13T19:49:00.000-07:00

He had left without his shoes - the dirty kind with long holes on the sides where rain water and dog spit and garden manure crept in. The morning was nearly adolescent, the sun high enough to cast shadows on anything with height. He knew it would be hot again, until mid-afternoon when the clouds would brood and sulk until they reached and wrapped the sky with its shadows - like the morning sun on the blades of grass that also cast coolness.

He walked on the red dirt, in his brown bare feet that were calloused. The walk would take him the entire day and he would not beat the rain home. He wore thick brown pants with no belt. In his hand the man named Mr. Sanja carried a canvas bag, tied with yellow string. Inside the canvas bag were doorknobs of many shapes and many sizes. Some were brass, some plain gold. Others were white and others clear. There was one red, the size of an apple, and one purple, more oblong and awkward to hold. Many were plain and ordinary but they all had one thing in common - they turned.

Mr. Sanja sold these doorknobs to a fat man named Ali in the market who sold them to another man and his even fatter wife. They in turn, sold them elsewhere. He never knew where his doorknobs went, whose doors they fit into like perfectly working keys, who turned the doorknobs, and where the doors opened to. He only knew that without his doorknobs, there would be many less doors, 25 less doors today in fact, having counted the knobs this morning, and without his doorknobs, the doors would be just thin standing wood, baring a person from going in or out. Baring people from having morning greetings and satisfying goodbyes, from arguments and from secret conversations, and from children listening at them. The doors would be useless without his doorknobs, just thin standing wood. This made him happy.

Mr. Sanja also left his one room shack without his shirt. The day before, as he was sweeping his front step, a young boy had come running to him, bloody and crying, his shoulder at a strange angle and tears and snot merging on his dark skin. His darker eyes stood out stark against his white teeth as he yelled, "Sir! Help me!" Mr. Sanja had taken the boy into his hut and washed his face and arms and delicate chest, thin as a chicken's. While he was cleaning him, the boy stroked Mr. Sanja's white hair and smoothed his wrinkled cheeks. Mr. Sanja remembered his aloneness and his tear mixed with the boys thumb. The boy rubbed it into his cheek like an oil or a salve and Mr. Sanja felt blessed from God. Mr. Sanja then took his belt off and gave it to the boy and told him to bite it and bite it hard. He was going to fix his shoulder. The boy sat with his sweaty arm around Mr. Sanja's neck and screamed into his closed mouth. For a moment Mr. Sanja thought the shoulder didn't go in properly, he wasn't as strong as he used to be, but then the boy spit out the belt, wrapped it around his waist, sinching it to the last hole, wiped his face and said thank you. Mr. Sanja gave the boy his shirt for he saw that he had none. The boy kissed the weathered cheek of the man who'd helped him and went out.

That is why Mr. Sanja had no shirt today. He stopped by the creek and took out his jug he'd made. He filled it and drank with great force. He hoped today that the fat man would buy all his beautiful doorknobs he'd collected, for he needed money to buy grain for his chickens and oil for his lamp. He leant over the water and looked at his old face. He felt the cheek where the boy had rubbed. It felt softer than usual. He hoped the person who bought the purple irregular shaped doorknob would use it to open doors to boys who were bloody and crying, and maybe to an old man who needed shoes. He closed his eyes and smelled the rain before it dropped in the water in front of him.

A Catholic and an "Uhmmm..."

2008-06-21T15:50:00.000-07:00

So I was at Starbucks. No, wait, don't navigate away from this page! I know that every other post on here begins with those five beautiful words, and if you want to get to second base with me on a hot day, all you have to do is buy me a grande iced latte with 1 1/2 pumps of vanilla, but please, just hear me out.

As I was considering Death Cab's new album while my very own Glorious Day in a cup was being iced up behind the counter, I stood aside for a guy in a wheelchair to go by. Nice looking, 30ish, and I noticed he had what looked like a Bible in his lap. I sat down at my table and pulled the books from my bag and my computer, and sat staring blankly, attempting to gather my thoughts to begin an outline for my paper.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy in the wheelchair comin' my way. "What are you reading?" he said. "Oh, just... stuff. I'm writing a paper on these, for English Lit." And the conversation went on. Hong Kong came up, I said that my dad's a pastor, and he said that he was a Christian too. A Catholic. We kept talking; he told me his name, Troy, and he mentioned that he used to live on the East Coast in Maine, and I said that I'd love to go there sometime because I love big trees - especially in the fall. And to that he responded with, "What do you think about the Virgin Mary?" Which stopped me short, as one might imagine. So I gave him my views, such as they are, and he, as a Catholic, gave me a very different one. We kept talking about other random things, I asked him how long he'd been in a wheelchair, he said two years, but didn't elaborate. Then Troy said, "What do you think about the Eucharist?" So I told him what I thought about Communion. He had his rosary with him and a prayer written on a paper - he showed me how the two end beads were the Lord's Prayer beads and the ones in the middle were Hail Mary's, and how you prayed the prayer with the beads. He told me that he wanted to work on the streets, but that Fort Collins was too nice of a place to do that. Maybe he'd go back to L.A. Then he asked if we could pray together "for a moment." Again, out of no where. I said "Yep, okay." So we did. He told me that he wished he could talk to somebody in depth about Catholic things - I got the idea that he was fairly new to it all - and I gave him the email address of a friend who is Catholic also, and wise about it. We parted ways, saying we'd probably see each other again at that Starbucks, but who knows, shrug, smile.

I gathered from Troy that he was quite lonely and maybe a little sad. I can't imagine being subjected to a wheelchair at his age, how long it would take for your soul to catch up to your body. I hope it was encouraging for him to be able to talk to somebody about faith and what kind of books he likes to read. For me, it was an interruption, I didn't get much done, but it's times like those that make me love the atmosphere of a coffee shop - like a church without the pews. Those times remind me to be entirely thankful for life as a life of surprises - not life as deadlines and schedules - "interruptions" are often moments of grace, if we are Listening. And Listening helps us recognize them when they arrive.

Stanley.

2008-06-14T16:27:00.000-07:00

I really suck at this blogging thing. My apologies.

I've been thinking a lot these days about... now see, I was hoping something inspirational and thought provoking was going to come out, but I got nothin'. I guess because this month has been about moving around so much that I haven't had time to ruminate.

I'll give it a shot. At the moment I'm staying with my grandparents in Colorado, in the country where recycling is still revolutionary. But hey. At the gp's, I get bottomless iced tea, cable tv (Scrubs daily at 5PM) and a sunny back deck. Just so we're clear, I am working while I'm lounging. Finishing up my course. Now that I've justified my existence (at least on paper), I shall move on.

We went to Wal-Mart. Me, my mom and my grandmother. This particular Wal-Mart was not your run-of-the-mill, garden variety Wal-Mart. This was one of the big ones. So big, it shouldn't be allowed. Where every box, every bag, every carton, is big enough to feed a family of 10 for about a week. Every other shopper is three times the size they should be, and trailing behind them - two or three kids, already three times the size they should be. Oh the excess!

Thus, I steered clear of the food aisles, due to rising bile, and wandered instead through the shoe department. I saw a little old man, wearing a blue vest with the words in bright yellow, 'MAY I HELP YOU?' He was putting price tags through those little plastic holders on the shelves. He looked like he stepped out of a Roald Dahl book, and his name tag read 'STANLEY.' I got the urge to sit Stanley down and hear his story. And ask questions like, 'How long have you been working at Wal-Mart in the shoe department?' 'Did you think you'd be working at Wal-Mart at the age you are?' Then I'd ask him about the old days, where he grew up, if he fought in the war. If he has any kids, and why they aren't taking care of him so he doesn't have to work at Wal-Mart in the shoe department. Then I thought, maybe this job is voluntary. I mean, he gets paid for it, but he needs some stimulation to keep him happy, because he's so sharp and bright and crossword puzzles and Thursday golf just doesn't cut it.

But I didn't go up to him with a cup of coffee and ask him to sit, and have a little 'chatski' with me... so I just walked by and said 'Hi.' (more of a chirp, actually). He said, 'Hello' and smiled. And I walked right past the sandals and pretended to look at some skate shoes, when I was really a bit misty eyed. I thought that I wanted some kind of interaction with him because I have a weakness for cute little old men, his name was Stanley, and I hoped he wasn't sad. And if he was, I wanted to try and brighten his day. I still think about Stanley and say a little prayer for him. That he finds satisfaction in his work, and that there's somebody who loves him. I guess that's all any of us can ever ask for.

The day of Reckoning.

2008-05-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

There are always tragedies aplenty in the world - always injustices and great sadnesses. But thankfully, if I'm honest, we don't constantly or fully feel the pain of them. If we felt acutely aware of all the horrible goings on, we would be pitched eternally into the depths of despair.

I go through periods where I do indeed feel the burden of these things, and the last week or so I have felt really almost desperate about the state of affairs in so many areas. The earthquake in Sichuan, the cyclone and refusal of aid in Burma, and environmental abominations - all left me feeling depressed and listless.

I read an article about all the plastic pollution in the oceans, how even in the middle of the Pacific, out where civilization is thousands of miles away, there are huge loads of plastics floating and killing fish, whales and wildlife. There was a photo of an albatross carcass, just bones, but inside its stomach and rib cage were piles of plastic. It had died because it had eaten the garbage and it had killed this beautiful bird from the inside out.

And a couple of nights ago I was watching the Discovery Channel and they were doing a program on moose. And they were talking about instances where ticks would get into the fur of the moose, in this case a calf, and suck the blood out of them until they get nearly transparent from lack of blood, and slowly die.

Well that was the last straw, really. I got into bed that night and cried and cried - for the mothers and fathers who are still searching for their one and only child in the middle of the rubble, who won't give up even though the chances of them getting out alive now, are very, very slim. They have no homes, no livelihoods, nothing. Those in Burma who are literally starving to death because the government (made up of living, breathing men and women) are refusing outside aid, and are failing to distribute it themselves, for the thousands who are absolutely desperately in need of the basic things of life, the BASIC things and are being refused them. How we're taking advantage of the world, of its resources, grabbing, snatching, hoarding gifts from the generous hand of God.

I was a bit of a mess and was asking the classic question to God, why why why does He let things like earthquakes that kill thousands of primary school children happen? And I asked Him why He doesn't step in and do something. I understand that we are His people, and its our business to do right, that its not only about where He is but where His Church is. Then I thought (this is really stream of consciousness, I realize) 'do I really want God to step in in a huge way and display His justice and His righteous anger?' Because if I am upset about these situations, think how He must feel. He cares a hell of a lot more about the world than I do. I don't even know the people of Chengdu, of those in Sichuan province, of the names of the children and their parents. But God knows every one of them. Oh the pain! Of knowing personally every little girl who is raped in the brothels of Thailand, of knowing every man, woman & child who is treated unjustly and as a commodity, of knowing every child who loses another parent to AIDS, of knowing and loving these otherwise, to us, faceless nameless people.

We get this view of God sometimes that He is love and only love. But He is a just God, and He loves justice because He loves us. And His justice and anger will be terrible to behold! Terrible and beautiful, but something we can not comprehend. I get a wonderful picture of God's coming and making things new - God's justice and power, in the Two Towers of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. In the film, it's the two scenes where Sam is speaking his monologue towards the end, where the Ents in their anger destroy Isengaard - the water rushing through the rocks and stones, washing away the Orks and their production of more Orks. Meanwhile, the rest of the fellowship are fighting at Minas Tirith, and all seems lost. But! The dawning of the third day! Gandalf arrives on the scene and He prevails. It is a beautiful picture of the day when God will perfectly end injustice and all pain and all sadness.

Let us pray for injustices to cease, and do what we can because He asks us to. Let us love mercy, seek justice, and walk humbly with Him. Let us not give up hope, though at times things seem dark and hopeless. The reality of His power is unimaginable, so if we ask for Him to step in and end it all, we better be ready.

Elaine & Daniel.

2008-05-12T02:25:00.000-07:00

Love this. Catherine Tate - actress & comedian - well known in the UK, and Daniel Craig (Casino Royale, Layer Cake) in a sketch for Comic Relief.

Bowling as Serious as Bubble Tea.

2008-04-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

Where I come from, bowling is for lazy, hazy Sunday afternoons with a friend or two, where the video store fails to entertain and you just don't care enough to make your own fun. And if you don't do something soon, you'll all just sink into a grump-fog and start snapping at each other, and then you might as well all just go home. And who wants to do that? So let's go bowling.

Occasionally, it could be a Friday night event, but it's always last or second-to-last on the list of Friday night funskis. It's usually suggested with a half-ass attempt to be heard, and if it is, it's often responded with a pasted on grin, and a chuckle or two. But all you need is one other person to agree with you, and then the gang's all in, like it or not. Small town hilarity. Bottom line: bowling's good for a laugh.

But guess what? I'm not in Cranbrook, where the men are men and the women are too, and the bowling alley is a smoky, nasty place to pretend to have fun. I'm in Hong Kong. I'm in the land of serious. bowling. seriously.

I went with a friend and a bunch of strangers from the church who could one day be friends. :D We started out with Thai food and yeah, not much to say about that, except it was Thai-tastic tasty. The restaurant was in a mall, and the bowling alley was to be found magically two floors above us.

As we took our place at a lane and started plugging our names into the screen, there were about 10 of us, I looked around and noticed that most lanes had one to three people at most, looking very dour about the whole thing. And everybody, I mean everybody's bowling hands were clad in a terminator-like glove. One guy's looked like the hand that Wormtail receives from Voldemort in Harry Potter - made of the strongest, flexible, most shiniest metal. The guy bowling right next to us was I could tell, feeling rather dismayed that 10 obvious non-bowlers were in such close proximity to his very professional, serious self.

He was most definitely training for I don't know, the Bowling Olympics or something. After every bowl, he used a very soft cloth to polish the ball. Like that helps, I mean honestly. He certainly didn't look like he was having very much fun. I tried to rile us up a little, cause a scene of sorts, but our crew was pretty chill - but at least we were enjoying ourselves, and enjoying sneaking covert glances at our fellow bowlers and shaking our heads - half in pity, half in envy. About halfway through our frenzied bowling hour, I was ready to be done. But there were so many of us, it took much longer than the average game.

Around the moment I was ready to depart the alley, I took a break after another strike-less go, and bought a bubble tea from the little kiosk. My first real bubble tea - originally Taiwanese - basically cold or hot tea with marble-sized tapioca balls floating within. Don't ask me why someone thought it would be a good idea to put balls of tapioca in tea. I got black tea with milk, iced. I enjoyed half of it, and then the tapioca got the better of me, and the gag reflex kicked in. Pretty much how I feel about bowling.

Once (A Movie Review)

2008-04-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

I never do reviews, music, film or otherwise. I don't usually get my jollies out of critiquing anything or anyones expression of art. Not because I don't think we should critique - as artists, what we create needs to be experienced by others and discussed, even criticized. But in general, I think it's part of my personality not to get in arguments or even heated discussions or have strong opinions about things like music and films. I usually don't care enough - and I honestly believe that people are entitled to their opinions and I don't really want to talk them out of them. Anyway. This will be more of my general musings on the movie, and not exactly a constructive review.

I saw Once, that little film which took home a golden god for Best Song. This may be old news for most of you because I know it's been out everywhere else in the world for quite awhile, but in typical Hong Kong style, it just arrived here in cinemas.

I liked this movie because it's set in Europe, and I would make-out with and marry Europe if I could - I hope to set myself up there one day.
I liked this movie because the main character (Glen Hansard - the Frames) is Irish - he is winsome and scruffy, kind and awkward. He also reminds me of a good friend who I miss, and wish I could hang out with again.
The girl who plays opposite him is Marketa Irglova, from the Czech Republic - who in real life, is a good friend of Glens. In the movie, they have no names - and in the credits they are only known as 'guy' and 'girl'. I like Marketa because I lived with a couple of Czechs, and others from central and eastern Europe, in Austria a couple years ago. Her accent, her mannerisms, her stand-offish way, but the very good heart of Marketa brought back a lot of situations and remembrances of my time in that castle.

Glen Hansard said he wanted Marketa to act in this movie with him because he was her friend, and so that they could make music together. It was a sweet and good time for them, and the movie as a whole really captured their friendship. Simple as that. It is indeed, a very simple film, and their acting is mediocre, because when they are singing together, they aren't acting. And no one cares that for the few scenes that they aren't singing they wouldn't win an Oscar for their acting, because the songs are wonderful and make-up for the rest. The music is achingly beautiful, and simply written, and for me personally, they tapped something in my emotions - made me long, and feel and dream and hope and pine (and want to move to Europe).

For those of you who've seen this movie, there are two scenes that have stayed with me. As Marketa runs out late at night to the corner store in her slippers to buy a package of batteries for her discman - so that she can listen to the disc that Glen made for her. And on the disc, is a song he has written, but for which he has only managed to write the music. He wants her to write him some lyrics. So as she's shuffling back to her rather sad apartment where her mom and little girl live, down a plain old Dublin neighbourhood road, the camera stays on her - just one long shot of her listening to the newly batteried discman, and her singing along to the music that Glen has written, her own lyrics that she's written for the song. The A.D.D. side of you is waiting and wondering when this long shot is going to end - but it keeps going, and we hear the whole song, while she's walking down the street, oblivious to everything else around her.

The other scene I really loved was the one on the beach. The 'guy and girl', the drummer and the bassist they hired, and the recording manager from the room they rented to record an album, have worked all night on laying the tracks down. The test to find out if the finished product is up to standard, is by getting it off the big recording studio speakers and getting in the car with it for a little road trip. If it sounds good on the shitty car speakers, you know you've made a good record. So they take a drive to the beach in the wee morning hours - with the dog and a frisbee. The guy and girl are very aware of each other. There is something plaintive and yet hopeful about the scene. Again, very simple and beautiful.

It doesn't wrap up tidily, but ends messy and full of questions, like the way life is.

So - see it. It is basically a film about music. But it doesn't feel or move like a musical. It is a great offering and John Carney who wrote and directed it, should go to bed every night with a satisfied smile on his face.

PS. After writing this post, I think I know why I don't write movie reviews very often.

Speaking of rain:

2008-03-31T18:32:00.000-07:00

A favourite poem.

The Deluge, by G.K. Chesterton

Though giant rains put out the sun,
Here stand I for a sign.
Though earth be filled with waters dark,
My cup is filled with wine.
Tell to the trembling priests that here
Under the deluge rod,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
Stood up, and drank to God.

Sun has been where the rain is now,
Bees in the heat to hum,
Haply a humming maiden came,
Now let the deluge come:
Brown of aureole, green of garb,
Straight as a golden rod,
Drink to the throne of thunder now!
Drink to the wrath of God.

High in the wreck I held the cup,
I clutched my rusty sword,
I cocked my tattered feather
To the glory of the Lord.
Not undone were the heaven and earth,
This hollow world thrown up,
Before one man had stood up straight,
And drained it like a cup.

The day after Good Friday, the day before Easter Sunday. It was a rainy one.

2008-03-28T23:16:00.000-07:00

I guess I just managed to squeeze two posts into this month. I'm rather abashed, considering it was one of the long ones (peak, valley, peak, valley...) I could give excuses, even half-decent ones but in the end I'd wind up bashing the education system and I don't wish to do that. Not today anyway. It's a consolation for me that I did miss posting.

Spring has sprung here in the land of the rising sun. No wait, that's Japan. Same thing, right?

At any rate, here in southern China, we're feeling the first warm gusts of the spring season. Spring and summer mean the rainy season, and we've had one good baptismal drench thus far. This day happened to be a Saturday, and the weekend of Easter. The powers that be in the Discovery Bay community held a Easter egg hunt for the kidlets, amongst other things (I would imagine). That afternoon, I eyed the clouds, determining when I should head down for my daily study, feeling particularly focused. I took an umbrella with me just in case of rain. Sure enough, as soon as I banged out of our apartment door and trotted down the steps, the skies opened and the deluge ensued. What I should have done was turn around and gone back inside until it passed. Of course if I had, this post wouldn't exist. I figured that 'this little rain shower' would indeed pass, so I should just run it out. Between our apartment and the central area of D.B. is a fairly long set of stairs and a road where the buses rumble and roar passed. By the time I got down to the main square, I was from my knees down, soaked - my feet sloshing in my red converse like I'd just done a good old fashioned leap into a puddle. My right arm was relatively dry, but my left was very wet. As my main goal was to keep my MacBook dry and cozy, I had clutched my shoulder bag to my chest like there was a real live baby inside. Which left my shoulder to elbow area exposed to the elements. The bottom line is that I was wet.

Most people when it begins to rain, head for cover (unless you're dancing lovers in the 40's). And this is what everyone who was on DB this soggy day for their Easter egg hunt and general Easter well-mannered frivolities, did. They all (men, women, children, dogs, everything alive and breathing) ran under awnings, under covered areas of the plaza, inside restaurants, inside bathrooms, inside shops. I arrived at my usual coffee haunt, and of course, it's packed. Standing room only. The lucky ones who had arrived before the downpour were huddled around tables, sharing 2 ft by 2 ft circles with absolute strangers. The mood was generally cheery, people smiling at each other knowingly - 'Gee, this rain eh' - and were happy enough to be spending time with their little families dry and cozy out of the rain. Oh but I. I was not so cheery. I had anticipated a good, solid afternoon of working on my paper and starting to revise for my exams, which were to follow alarmingly soon. You could say I've carved a little nook for myself in this coffee shop and to have it filled to the utter brim by pesky non-locals (I know! I'm so lame) and their offspring all hopped up on chocolate easter eggs and bunnies, did not sit well with me. So I stood there despondently by the sugar packets and straws, hood up, bag slouched over one shoulder, staring listlessly into the rain spattered nothingness, not even hoping for a place to sit. Because until this rain stopped, no one was going anywhere.

After I tired of standing garbage-side with a kid that wouldn't quit screaming to my immediate left, I thought I'd try McDonald's and see how the crowd was in there. A lone figure darting into the ocean that had somehow flipped itself, I made the couple hundred yards alive. It too was packed - humid, smelling of all things fry and burger, and pulsing with sweaty, chubby children. Next. I hit up the bookstore. At least if I couldn't sit down I could stand around and stare at books. Maybe even take a good Stephen King off the shelf and slide to the floor, and wait for this blasted rain to stop (as you can tell, my mood had not improved). So I took my McCafe cappuccino (hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it), and entered the relative calm of the bookshop. This particular bookshop actually has a couple of couches to sit on, and coffee too (it's the stuff that George Clooney's been advertising - 'Nespresso' - the espresso comes pre-packed in little squares. Yeah, not so much). There were two couples with two kids occupying the couches, but there was a chair right beside them that was miraculously free. They spoke French rapidly, and allowed me the seat beside them. I sank into it with relief, heartily wishing I hadn't left the house that afternoon. But having done so, I was obviously determined to make some sort of headway on my paper. With my laptop fulfilling the name which it was given, I sat hunched, wet and successfully tuning out the French spoken conversation not inches from my left ear (much easier to do with a language you don't understand), I did write and finish my paper. The rain had stopped at least enough for people to emerge from their various modes of coverage. I was at last alone in the bookstore. One of the employees of the shop came around to clean up the damage left by the people who just left, and I could tell he was just aching to tell me to leave, because of my coffee not purchased in their store. And sure enough,
'You go to McDonald's for that?'
'Uh, yes, yes I did. (eyeing the rather large M emblazoned across my cup) 'It was raining and I had to get out of it.' *smile*
*nod*
I wanted to say that as hot as George looks advertising for your coffee, I've tried it once and once was enough. And if you kick me out soaking wet, you're just not a very nice person. I left soon after, back home in my sodden shoes, smelling the fresh, new air and appreciating the sky in all its washed glory. The green looked so much greener. Is it possible that one can be genuinely grateful for something and at the same time genuinely disgruntled?

Rain, Rays & Relaxation.

2008-03-02T00:17:00.000-08:00

I went to Thailand for a week. The reason for the trip was two-fold, as they say. First and foremost, my dad had to get away for a much needed holiday - he was barely functioning. I was given the job of wiping the spittle off the side of his mouth and enduring hours of his glazed expressions. He was constantly yawning and seemed to be continually ill. Time for a break. It was also time for me to leave again, for visa reasons.

So we went to Thailand. Friends of ours have a time-share - two weeks at this 5 star resort. They gave us the one week they didn't use. It was a glorious place on a hill above a beach, which had a bunch of Thai restaurants along it (infinitely cheaper than eating at the resort). The way it was situated gave one a great view of the crashing waves below. The pool was beautiful - one of those 'Infinity Pools' where you can't see the edge of one side, so it looks like it's simply flowing into, well, infinity. Pretty cool. Happy Hour from 4-5 in the afternoon was most delightful - two-for-one. It rained half the time, wonderful heavy tropical rains. I wandered barefoot, intoxicated by the humidity and sun (when it came out), the smells and feel of the warm ocean, the night-time sounds, cheeping, croaking, aliveness. It was all reminiscent of Papua New Guinea and of my family when we were young.

A couple events took place on our trip, worth writing about.

We were walking the street of one of the busier tourist spots on Koh Samui, Chaweng, busy with scooters and trucks, everywhere selling everything - bags, shoes, 'DVDs', the bulk of it - when a white guy on a scooter pulls up and says, ''Scuse me, do you speak English?' (Good trick, that). Turns out, he was trying to sell us a time-share at this resort (which so happened to be the one we were staying at anyway), and he had those little cards they give you at grocery stores - you scratch the lottery-like gray peely stuff, and if you get three-of-whatever, you win something. So there we were standing on the side of the road with this guy (British, quite sincere), scratching our little cards, feeling quite dubious about the whole thing and mom scratches and wins big. A free trip! To somewhere in Thailand, to some resort. Mom couldn't believe it, as she never wins anything. (The only person in our family who ever wins anything is Zak, who has magic in his hands). Not only did we win one week, but after making friends with one of the salesmen back at our resort, who took the place of the guy on the street, he threw in another week. Even though it became quite clear very quickly that Mr. & Mrs. Robert Jones wouldn't be buying a timeshare anytime in this life. So... two weeks free! One of you lucky readers will get to come with us next year to Thailand - but most likely it will be one of the immediate family. All that happened really fast, and I celebrated with a Happy Hour and a read with Charles Dickens.

We rented a jeep to zip 'round the island. We considered scooters, but after being in town and watching the madness that is scootering in Thailand, and seeing some young guy get blindsided by a car he didn't see, a reconsideration was made. We drove rather non-descriptly for a couple of hours, besides the occasional seriously stereo-typical fights over the map, and how to read it and where the scratch we were trying to go anyway. I definitely had some head-in-hands moments. Somewhere in there I made dad make a harrowing u-turn because I saw the first ever resemblance of a coffee shop on the side of the road [it was called 'the coffee shop' and had a picture of a steaming mug on it, so I figured that it was a safe guess] . The cup they gave me had a lid like a slurpy cup, you know, with a hole in the middle for a straw, which I didn't have, and given the state of the roads on that island - serious, serious pot holes, rivals Cranbrook even, most of my thanks-a-latte, ended up on me or the back seat.

Dad was hungry. It finally stopped raining. Where's a beach, so we can stop and eat food? Not one to be seen. A lot of it is private, owned by numerous resorts. Finally, in desperation, we pulled over on the side of the road seeing somewhat of a beach. I say, sitting in the stopped Jeep, 'UM, why don't we just eat at one of the dozens of quaint little Thai restaurants we just passed?' But oh no, we brought sandwiches obviously, duh, wrong question, thanks for coming, see you next time. So in typical Jones fashion, we pull out the 'food bag' which is crammed between me and dad's backpack and our towels (the backseat is very tight) get out and stumble down the slight decline to the 'beach.' Which is obviously where our local fisherman pack up their boats and unpack their boats on their return. Fishing lines, netting, plastic randomness, flotsam & jetsam of all sorts, litter the sand. The water doesn't look much cleaner. There's scooters and trucks whizzing by at alarming rates. I'm standing on the edge of the road looking down with, yes, disdain, glancing sidelong at the happy little Thai cafe just yards from us. Dad is all keen, of course, and is looking for somewhere in which to sit, to snorfle down his packed sandwich. A tire. Half buried in the sand. Why yes! A perfect seat. I act like a child, groan, roll my eyes and grudgingly accept the sandwich, and sit on the other side of the half of buried tire. I marveled at our Jones-style. So classy. And wished I had a sibling alongside to sympathize. In the end I thanked my mother, and laughed at my father who was wandering down the littered beach like it was the most beautiful thing ever. We were still young in our holiday, and one must excuse him.

The day before we left, dad comes up to me all excited - 'I rented us a kayak!' Now, I'm not exactly a curmudgeon when it comes to activity, but I'm not an 'activities' kind of person. Plus, it'd been done somewhere in my life, and I felt that I had completed that necessary (?) part of ones Journey. But who can turn down their father in that state of elatedness? He tried to act like it was no biggey, he'd go by himself, etc. but I wouldn't let him do such a thing. So we took it out into the ocean. The whole beach is sort of in a cove, and at one end there's an island in the middle. Between the small island and the land where the resort is, there's a section where the tide comes in and out, creating waves. Not massive, but decent sized. That's what dad wanted to kayak through. So we did. I screamed like a girl - dad put me up front - and I felt like Tom Hanks in Castaway, trying to get over the breakers and into the open ocean on his raft. Then we'd get to the end, turn around and attempt to ride the waves back in. That was mostly a failure. We rode a couple, which was surprisingly exhilarating, but we were tossed out and bashed about and crashed upon by those suckers for an hour. Would've been longer, but that was how long our rental lasted. We stumbled back onto the beach, the resort guys helping us up with the kayak, and they're looking at me with my hair all messed about and slightly limping, and asking if I'm okay, and me saying yes, yes, I'm fine. Later on at Happy Hour, dad goes to get our Singhas (Thailand's lager), and the bartender goes, 'You have fun out there?' Apparently, a bunch of people were lined up in the safety of the pool and around it (including my mom) watching dad and I from on high, and getting quite the kick out of it. I guess people don't generally go through the 'gnarly' place we did. Which in reality, is the least of the gnarlyness of the surf of the world.

Trip - success. For photos of said trip, go here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=43875&l=fc2bd&id=554225830

Karaoke, ok?

2008-02-20T00:53:00.000-08:00

I was holding off posting because since I put up my story, it's been hard to go back. But let's face it- I won't be able to post short stories every few days. Who do I think I am, Stephen King? I am working on something now, but I don't like to leave my faithful readers hanging onto scraps of previous posts whilst I attempt to wax creative.

I am pretty sure I should tell you about an interesting cultural experience I had a couple weeks ago. Karaoke. Whenever I think of karaoke, two things come to mind. Two films actually. One. 'My Best Friends' Wedding' - Julia Roberts, Cameron Diaz, and that inane man they end up fighting over. It's the scene in the bar where they make Cameron Diaz's character get up and do karaoke, when she really, really, would rather not. It turns out she ends up indeed, sucking horribly and everyone loving it. The other film I think of is 'Keeping the Faith' - Ben Stiller & Edward Norton. They're looking for a karaoke machine for their senior citizen, Jewish/Catholic disco. And there's that classic salesman, who is Hong Kong embodied. 'For YOU, good price. Berry grood deal.' And after a few negotiations, in hushed tones he says in perfect American, 'Okay, here's the deal. I like you guys, so...'

That's what I think of when anyone mentions karaoke. In Asia, it's big. It originated in Japan, and obviously spread to N.A. so though some may think it is confined to nasty bars in Buttcrease America, thankfully, it is not. It is indeed part of the culture on this side of the globe. I'll admit, I wasn't thinking, 'This will be a good cultural experience, self,' I was thinking in Will Smith speech: 'Aw, hell nawwh.' I'm really more of an observer, a background-er, than a doer up front. But in the end, in typical me fashion, I caved and went along with the crowd.

After Indian food and picking up a beer from 7-11 (it feels strange walking down the street drinking a beer. My Canadian sensibilities say, 'Wait. This isn't right.') the five of us, go into this building which is rather, er, dark. Up an escalator and down a dark hallway. Listening to muffled snatches of canto-pop songs, strangled by thin doors and thick second-hand smoke. We are shown to a room of our own. Black leather couches, black walls, and a television. How... cozy. We are given three golden microphones. Okay, just microphones. My images of being humiliated as an unattractive Cameron Diaz, in front of a room full of Hong Kongers all hopped up on Carlsberg were disappearing with intense relief.

The four people I was with had done this sort of karaoke before and were already picking songs and putting them in order. Then you go through the list of songs you picked and sing them, or don't sing, if you don't know it. Pretty soon, we were drinking ourselves, the Carlsberg, and singing with vigour and free abandon. The best part about it was probably the awesome music videos that played on the screen with the song. Most of them had absolutely nothing to do with the song that was playing. For example. Carly Simon's 'You're So Vain' had footage of a Buddhist monastery. Tried desperately to put two & two together on that one and failed. Or 'I'm a Survivor' - backgrounded by horses in a field. Very pastoral.

All in all we sang for about four hours... with some clever math, we deducted that we chortled, shouted, laughed, opera-ed, and crooned through about 70 songs. Needless to say I felt a wee bit rough 'round the edges the next day - a bit croaky and gravelly and quite dehydrated. I think once was good enough for me, to the chagrin of my karaoke-crazed friends.

'What was the one with the rose petals? ... ?'

2008-02-04T06:35:00.001-08:00

Maybe it's because I happen to like John Cusack a lot but this clip made me laugh and cringe and appeal to the gods of Journalism with a resounding and guttural - 'Why?! O, why...'

Bobby

2008-01-27T20:39:00.000-08:00

Dr. Samuel Samson stood in front of his sixth-story window, looking through the dirtied glass at the crane, which over the past two months had muddied his existence. The city had assured him that the crane would not be there for long - just a couple of weeks. They were tearing apart an old apartment complex next door and only needed it for the clean up session. That had been exactly 9 weeks ago, and three ignored phone calls later, it was still hanging there, staring at him with its gaping, metallic grin. He swore it was inching closer by the day.

He moved to his little sink, with the miniature cactus perched on its edge, emptied his mug of the dregs, rinsed it, and set it aside. He turned it around so the words, ‘PSYCIATRIST & DAD OF THE YEAR!’ were not visible. It bothered him that his son had omitted the H in Psychiatrist – even though he was eight when he gave it to him, and it was most likely just too long of a word to fit on a mug in the first place. He flipped the WARM switch on the coffee maker and sat heavily in his large swivel chair (brown, not black, which he was very pleased about) and moved it around with his tennis shoed feet to look again out the window. He couldn’t concentrate with it sitting there, all big and in the way, taunting him with its damned craneness. He could barely see his favourite tree in the park across the street. Only if he leant forward in his chair, paralleled himself to the floor and closed one eye, then he could make out its gloriously orange leaves. Otherwise, well, it was just too much effort.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, he realized his three o’clock would be along momentarily. Unless they were late, which was possible. ‘You never know with people like this,‘ he mumbled cryptically. Samson moved the two wing-backed chairs into place in front of his oak table. He had found the table at a garage sale in Brooklyn. It had scratches and scuffs, it was more yellow than brown in some places, and one edge had given him some nasty slivers, but he liked it. Mostly because it matched his brown wing-backed chair. He liked things to match. And he liked things that were brown.

Pouring into his mug a fresh splash of coffee, (‘Maybe I should just get rid of this thing. He forgot the ‘H’, for Pete’s sake.’) Samuel straightened his tie and tried to hide his tennis shoes under the table. Finding his shoes that morning, the brown ones, had been a fiasco and had consequently started his day off badly. Shuffling through the profile of the couple that was coming in as his three o’clock, he made a few mental notes. ‘This should be interesting,’ he said. There was a rather forceful knock at the door. He lined up the edge of the manila folder with the edge of his desk and said standing, ‘Do come in.’

The door swung aside and a woman of vast proportions stood in it’s opening. But instead of looking at him, she was craning her short neck to the side and down the hallway.

‘Benjamin! Leave him!’ she whispered as hoarse as possible, so it came out more like a shout. Samuel heard an indistinct mumble from where he could only assume was his waiting room. ‘He can’t come in!’ she barked again.

Samuel stood, waiting for her to engage. Perhaps remembering that she had just knocked on their psychiatrist’s door without acknowledging his acceptance of it, she turned and smiled, quickly walking into meet him, chubby hand outstretched. The distance she covered in two shorts steps astounded him.

‘Hello. Marilee Harper.’

‘Nice to meet you, Marilee,’ he said, his hand being squeezed as if by a giant fat snake. ‘Samuel Samson. Is your husband, uh, here?’

As if in answer to his question, a man of about 6’5 lumbered into the room. He was an imposing figure but had eyes like a puppy dog. The office of Dr. Samuel Samson just got a whole lot smaller.

‘Yeah hi,’ he said, chortling, shaking his head. Obviously a joke no one else was in on. ‘Ben. Good ta meet ya.’

‘And you, Ben,’ he said. ‘Please sit.’ Marilee sank into the chair, looking as comfortable as a pig in a pen of warm mud. Ben sat carefully, his legs straight out in front of him.

‘Nice crane,’ he nodded toward the window.

Samuel smiled sardonically. ‘Yes, well, that’s not usually what comes to mind when it greets me every morning.’ Marilee gave a great bark of a laugh. Despite her bulk and rather awkward social graces, she was quite pretty. Her face was pleasant, her skin clear and glowing. Her eyes were blue and set evenly spaced, her blonde hair was very blonde indeed, and in two short braids. Still, Samuel couldn’t help thinking she looked like a moderately attractive pig in a wig.

Ben seemed gentle and good-natured. He was one of those people who Samuel thought he’d like to hang out with on a summer Saturday evening, sitting on his parent’s porch, swilling scotch. He didn’t know why he thought of that at all. Something in his persona he supposed, brought him back to the small town in Maine where he was from. All of this went through the doctor’s mind in about seven seconds. It was his profession, and he was good at it.

‘Beverage? Either of you?’ Marilee’s eyes lit up.

‘Coke? Water? Coffee?’

‘I’d love a Coca-Cola,’ Marilee said smiling.

Samuel leaned down to his mini-fridge to fish out a Coke. ‘Ben? Anything?’

‘No, no. Tryin’ to quit.’

Handing Marilee her drink, Samuel leaned back in the chair and folded his hands in his lap. He hated that he was the stereotypical psychiatrist but he also knew it was true. He just couldn’t shake it.

‘So.’ He smiled. ‘Why are you here?’ A good question he thought, that by the time people actually made it into a psychiatrist office, the answer to was often forgotten.

‘Well.’ It was Ben. He looked sideways at his wife who was busy carefully pulling at the tab of her Coke can. ‘Mary?’

‘Mmm,’ she said nodding, and having successfully unsnapped the tab, took a big swig. ‘You read our notes and all that? Our letters?’

‘Yes, I did. But it’s always helpful to have you tell me in person. Right?’ He cleaned his glasses with a soft cloth that was always folded inside his top pocket and set them gingerly on his rather beak-like nose.

‘Yes of course,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ Ben reiterated.

‘We’re just a bit concerned about Bobby and his… communication with us. Or really lack there of,’ she said, looking pleased with her proper usage of ‘lack there of.’

‘Yes, I got that much from your letters,’ said Samuel. ‘And this is something new? His not being interested in communicating with you?’

‘Something new, yeah.’ Ben said, leaning forward and resting his folded hands on Samuel’s desk. ‘He used to be much more demonstrative with us. And now… ‘ He lifted his hands a bit and shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

Marilee nodded. ‘I think you’ve got it right there, Sweetiekins.’

‘Bobby is how old now?’

‘Bobby is seven in April.’ Marilee answered promptly.

‘Seven in April,’ Ben nodded. His voice was low and melancholy.

‘Okay. Can you tell me perhaps, what led up to his withdrawal from you as parents? Any significant events?’

They looked at each other.

‘Well, we moved.’ Marilee said. ‘From a little cottage out in Westdale into the city.’ She had finished her Coke and had set it carefully on the edge of his desk. ‘This was nearly two years ago now. I think that could have been upsetting to him. Big change and all.’ She crossed her chubby legs as daintily as she was able.

‘Yeah, upsetting.’ Ben shifted his bulk in his chair and continued. ‘I got a job working with well. Not worth going into really,’ he chuckled with a glance at his wife. She avoided his eyes. He cleared his throat. ‘We tried to make the move as seamless as possible for Bobby, but you know how these things go. We had to find another school for him – more of a daycare I guess you’d say.’

‘That’s good to know. Helpful,’ Samuel said.

Marilee beamed surprisedly at her husband, as if to say ‘Well done! You’re smarter than I thought you were.’

Samuel felt something akin to bile in his throat. He suddenly didn’t want to be in this room. He could see the crane out the window, and fervently wished to be in its cab, having the power to tear the place limb from limb. Maybe it was time for a sabbatical. He gave his head a mental shake.

‘Let’s nail this thing in the first session,’ he thought but aloud said, ‘Anything else out of the ordinary for Bobby?’ He discreetly massaged his right temple.

They seemed more reluctant to talk about the next ‘out of the ordinary’ situation. A silent battle of wills took place between the couple until Ben leaned forward again, his hands on his knees. Marilee had taken to chewing on her lip.

‘It was our anniversary. Romantic day and all of that.’ He waved his hand, as if to waft a smell displeasing to him. A hurt look passed over his wife’s face, but disappeared so fast, Samuel thought he’d imagined it.

‘We were in the bedroom.’ He looked at Marilee. She nodded subtly. ‘And we… well.’ He cleared his throat, as the heat rose to his face. Samuel raised his eyebrows as if asking what came next, although he knew very well what came next.

Ben seemed to have stumbled permanently over what he was trying to say. Marilee was wringing her hands.

‘We were having intercourse!’ she stated vigourously, taking over. Then she went beet red

‘As in… you were talking? A romantic anniversary conversation?’ Samuel wanted them to say just what it was. They were all adults here. How ridiculous.

‘No,’ Marilee said. ‘Sexual. Intercourse.’

Silence reigned.

‘So. You were having sex. Got it,’ Samuel said, knowing he sounded more snappish than he should but he was getting frustrated with these people. Ben seemed to regain his composure and decided to redeem his lack of ability to communicate.

‘As we were… as this was going on,’ he made motions so large with his hands that Marilee backed further into her chair, at risk of being accidentally slapped. ‘He came into the room.’

‘And what did Bobby do?’

‘Nothing. He just stood there, looking at us.’

Samuel looked at Marilee for confirmation of this. Her eyes were wide and staring, like she had fallen into some other dimension. She blinked.

‘Yes, that’s just so,’ she fiddled with the zipper on her Abercrombie sweater that was much too bulky for her. ‘Looking at us. Maybe judgment. Like we shouldn’t have been doing anything without him. He felt left out I bet.’ She gestured towards Samuel. ‘You’re the doctor, not me. I don’t know, really. But we are much more careful now.’

Ben nodded. ‘Lock the door and stuff.’ Samuel decided to get them back on track. That bit was too disturbing to tackle right away.

‘Okay. Describe to me more of his interactions with you. Maybe how he acts during an argument between you two, or if he is keen to be with you, or...’ He was aware that his questions were a bit disjointed but his headache was worsening and he didn’t know quite where to go with this. He wasn’t used to not knowing.

‘He was more interactive before. Looked us in the eye when we were talking to him,’ Ben answered.

‘Did he respond to you when you spoke with him? He’s seven years old, so he should be quite verbal now. Very, very verbal.’

At this, Ben and Marilee looked at the floor, then at each other. Marilee began to struggle to remove her sweater.

‘Is it hot in here?’

Samuel was beginning to feel nervous around them and it was disconcerting. He raised his eyebrows in order to remind them of his question.

‘Well. He’s…’ Ben stammered. ‘He’s verbal in his own way. Quite verbal. He’ll tell you what he wants in no uncertain terms.’

‘What about his interactions with others his own age? I assume he’s in preschool now? Or is it first grade?’ Marilee decided to tackle this one. She was fanning herself with a receipt she’d pulled out of her bag. It was doing a very poor job but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘I’d say he interacts well with… others. He’s in a very good school.’

‘Very good,’ Ben said. ‘That’s partly why we moved. We felt he wasn’t flourishing well out in the suburbs.’ Marilee again, nodded in agreement.

‘They were always agreeing with each other,’ Samuel thought. ‘That’s funny. Funny strange. Definitely not ha-ha.’ He rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head and wished, not for the first time, that it wasn’t there. He went to the sink and filled up the biggest glass (‘or is it a flower vase?’) he could find with water. He made a few ‘hmming’ sounds, so it appeared like he was thinking about what could be making Bobby uninteractive with his parents. ‘Uninteractive? That’s not a word, is it?’ He downed a glass of water. He refilled it and returned to his chair. The leather, the brown leather, squeaked familiarly as he sat. He fished Ibuprophen out of the top of his desk drawer, and dumped three in his hand. He popped them in his mouth, reminding himself not to tilt his head back. ‘Tilting your head back only makes your throat constrict, and ultimately harder to swallow the pills,’ he recited in his head. He saw the crane out of the corner of his eye.

‘Doctor Samson?’ Marilee asked. They were both leaning forward, looking concerned.

‘Yes. Let’s cut through the bullshit, shall we?’ he smiled. ‘In my professional opinion, you two need to be worried about yourselves and your marriage first. There are some obvious things that I am quite concerned about. Perhaps if you got your own stuff together, you can start worrying about your son.’ He paused for dramatic effect. Also, he had just realized. ‘If that is indeed, what he is.’ He looked at them. They looked a little afraid. ‘He is here, is he not?’ They nodded.

‘He’s in the waiting room,’ Marilee said quietly.

‘I’d like to meet him, before we end this session.’ Ben looked at him his eyes narrowing, however slightly and asked,

‘Why?’ He suddenly didn’t look so friendly and definitely not the kind of guy Samson wanted to sit with on his parent’s porch on a summer evening. The doctor made a tent with his fingers. He was enjoying this but was feeling a bit sick at the same time.

‘Because I think it would help if I met Bobby, in order to continue with our conversations.’ They looked awkward. ‘Get him please, Marilee.’

‘Okay but before I do,’ She said in a rush, ‘I want you to know… we want you to know, that we didn’t tell you before because we didn’t know if you would talk to us otherwise.’

‘Marilee, you used the word ‘know’ three times in that sentence, you dumb ass,’ Ben grumbled harshly. She flinched.

Samson tried to look pleasantly expectant, and said, ‘I’m sure you had your reasons. Bring him in please.’ Marilee and all her bulk pushed back her chair and stood, not looking at her husband. She waddled from the room. It was quiet in the office. Ben had his face in his hands. Samson heard a bird sing. He then heard six pairs of legs coming back down the hallway, and Marilee talking soothingly.

She re-entered the office, followed closely by a massive Great Dane.

‘Bobby.’ Sam said, nodding, his eyes closed. He shook his head and stood at the window. The crane had moved closer, he was sure of it. It smiled at him and he was glad.

Not now.

2008-01-10T00:57:00.000-08:00

I was at my usual haunt, seated in one of those ridiculously large coffee house chairs, wading through Bleak House. Seated to my right was a man about 45 years of age, graying, thinning hair, glasses. One of those ruffled types. Life had dealt him quite the cards, I had imagined and he was doing the best he could with them. He had papers and things scattered over two round tables, a sad-looking laptop balanced on his knee. He was perhaps European... maybe eastern or thereabouts. He was on and off his mobile, seeming annoyed at all the calls. Gruff, no formalities - no informalalities for that matter. 'Bring her to Pacific Coffee,' he said to someone on the phone. Moments later, through the door came a wee girl of about three, dressed in a uniform from her preschool. She was accompanied by her Filipino helper, which is very common in Hong Kong. He hardly greeted the helper, and gave a brief side squeeze to the girl. Dark hair, dark eyes. Definitely his. The woman left to do the shopping, directed to do so by him. Before she left, she gave her 'young charge' (as they say) one of those cheese string things, pulled down for easy eating. So then I watched the father and daughter. He went up to order a panini and she sat on the couch contentedly eating her cheese. Until she got to the plastic bit. She tried to pull it down to get to the last bit of cheese but her little fingers couldn't manage. I looked at her and said, 'Would you like me to help you?' She either couldn't understand English or she was painfully shy. Either way she only looked at me and continued struggling. Her father returned with his lunch and she offered him her cheese. 'You all done?' He said. 'No, she isn't done, I thought. She wants the rest unwrapped.' Indeed, she put up an argument until he realized what she wanted. 'Gosh. Duh. Obviously.' I thought. I mentally slapped myself and continued with Charlie. The man read his paper while he ate his panini. The girl sat. Very quietly. Her little sweater and collared shirt underneath looking far too grown up and dull. I watched her stroke her dad's arm hairs, his fingers clenched over his paper. She stood up and traced his ear. She pulled a notepad out of his front pocket, and he said, distractedly, 'No darling, don't do that.' So she didn't. And ended up sitting very subdued and well, almost eerily placid, playing with her cheese wrapper, looking at me from time to time. All she really wanted was her dad's attention. His affection. Or even just an acknowledgment. But oh no, 'not now' he said. Not now.

The Russian (clowns) are coming! The Russian (clowns) are coming!

2007-12-27T23:27:00.000-08:00

I don't know if any of you are deathly afraid of clowns. I am not deathly afraid. I don't like them, like the way I don't like brussel sprouts or Kevin Costner. I'll eat them, I'll watch him, I'll entertain the idea of clowns if I have to but really, I'd rather not.

Last week I ran headlong into a stage full of clowns. We were all rather surprised. I did not run physically into a stage but I did sit through two hours of clownage in 'Slava's Snow Show.' Nightmare, right? I had my doubts as well, as I sat in the second-to-front row, flipping dubiously through a glossy program full of grinning clowns, flying snow and brightly coloured balls of all sizes. At one particular photo of one clown with a rather satanic grin on it's red & white face, I slapped it shut and laid it gingerly on the floor with a groan and a shudder. The only consolation I had, as the lights dimmed and a 'hush' went over the crowd ('hush' in Hong Kong is not your average 'hush' - more like a dull humming), was that a) I wasn't paying for this (thanks Michele & Glenn) and b) this was Russian. The Russians, who gave us borscht, vodka and beef stroganoff, who produced Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Tchaikovsky, not to mention Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, and Sleeping Beauty, couldn't give us a crapshoot with clowns running hither & yon, could they? But Russian clowns still sounded a lot scarier to me than your regular 'Happy 10th Birthday!' clowns.

I guess you could say I was top-to-bottom, 100% wrong. Well, there wasn't really a story line. It was more of an art show. No narrative (this is clowns we're talking). These clowns were not scary. They were dressed, sort of as street people. Or monks. Or wizards, attempting to dress as muggles. Big cloaks with pockets, toques with ear-flaps, ratty mittens and big shoes. Russian clowns. They were melancholy, thoughtful, lonely clowns. They could be playful, like at the intermission and into the second half when they'd go walking into the crowd and over the crowd with their silly antics - I got a full on hug from one of them, and my bald friend Glenn got his head all shined up. Most of the acts involved just one or two clowns on stage at a time, involved with one thing or the other. Something simple that took up all his attention and consequently, the raptured attention of the entire audience. It had, at times, a Charlie Chaplin vibe. There were more light-hearted scenes and more heart-wrenching ones... but all of them with a sense of loneliness and melancholy to them. I think that is where the Russian feel came in. There was lots of snow, and parts where it fell from the ceiling onto us snow-starved Hong Kongers. There were moments of anticipational terror at the beginning, or like at the end when the music and lights went full blast and we got utterly blown away by a simulated blizzard, but that was more friggin' awesome than terrifying. And as a finale, these massive balls came flying out that bounced over the heads of the audience. Huge rubber flying balls, along with more snow.

It is very hard to write about, to convey the absolute magic and feel the show gave off. I felt sad at the end. And not because it was over, really. But because the clowns had emitted so much emotion, that it came onto and into me. The mark of a good show I suppose. It made me want to go to Russia and take up residence in a little house in the middle of a howling and frozen wasteland.

When I got home that night and disrobed for bed, my floor became covered with the snowflakes. I am still picking them out of my bag today.

Christmas Poem

2007-12-24T02:10:00.000-08:00

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost---how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

G.K. Chesterton

Anti-Christmas comas.

2007-12-19T23:15:00.000-08:00

Yes, the true meaning of Christmas is difficult to see displayed on the streets of our world. You don't see baby Jesus' (Jesi?) on billboards, 'God in a Bod' adverts, or mangers in the mall (and if you do, they're small and tucked away in the corner behind Santa and his workshop). It is glamour and glitz, buy this purchase that, oh and be nice to poor people and hang out with your family for a couple days - come on, you can do it (*wink wink *nudge nudge, '10 Handy Tips for Dealing with Those Pesky Relatives'). I am astounded in Hong Kong with the level of big, glitzy displays they go to such great lengths, engineering feats! to put together.

But this is not new. We've been celebrating the watered down version of Christmas, as history turned mythology, re-written, tweaked and patted down, dried out and spit out as so much less than it really is, for centuries. We've always been consumers. This is our culture. And 2000 years ago, God 'moved into the neighbourhood' of the culture of Bethlehem. They missed it, too. Where was everyone else when Jesus was born in a donkey's food box? Besides a few shepherds and a couple of kings, and Jesus' parents, where was the rest of the town? Of the world? Going about their business of living, working, buying, trading, selling, plodding along, in their culture of...consumerism. Okay, not on the level that it is today. But it was there, nonetheless. And did Jesus, once he was cleaned up and dried off, rise above the town in a glorious halo of light and speak out, 'Hey everybody, I'm here! Check me out! Forth stable on the left!' No. He entered quietly, and as He grew up, worked and came up from underneath, through the culture and the in the time he found Himself.

And He's still doing it today. Do we, or do we not underestimate the power of the Holy Spirit? Don't you think He can work around (and more importantly, through) this 'stuff of the Holidays?' I guess I'm just frustrated with the response from Christians at this time of the year. Instead of celebrating, contemplating, marveling over what we know is truth and something so beautiful and striking, awe-inspiring and yet stark in its simplicity, we spend more time whining and complaining about all the consumerist frenzy. This is where we are! Deal with it people! Will the secularists view of Christmas change next year? In ten years or 20? It'd be awesome if it would, that there'd be a major uprising of belief and we put away our Santa's, our shiny, lacquered doodads and fat little elves, and focus on Jesus. (And here's another question for you: How would we really feel if all that one year, just went away? That we were really only left with some straw and a baby?) But will that happen? I'm thinking no.

So. Maybe we shouldn't worry so much about this one day. Yes, note it, of course, pray, give glory and praise to the Father, Son & Holy Spirit, speak to your friends about why you're going to the Christmas Eve service instead of the party that everyone's attending, or why your kids don't get to turn psycho-crazy-go-nuts about presents, but don't stress about how the message simply can't get through. That really, no one knows why we celebrate at all. And drive yourself into a self-induced depressed anti-Christmas coma. Let's live it all year, and not focus so much on this harried, stressed-to-the-max two months of every year. But day in, and day out, speak, using words if we must, of this Jesus of Nazareth, who humbled Himself to the lowest and showed up in the noise and mess of our lives.

I had a vision of myself today, in the middle of this city, surrounded by boxes and gifts, things and stuff, noise noise noise noise noise... and digging through it. Throwing it up and behind me, shoving it aside, until I uncovered the box where my Saviour, the Son of God lay. As C.S. Lewis speaks of Christmas: 'The Son of God became a man to enable men to become the sons of God.' Let's celebrate that.

'Permitted to remain 90 days.'

2007-11-30T23:28:00.000-08:00

As I sit in Pacific Coffee, typing on my beautiful MacBook, glistening white, listening to 'Walking in a Winter Wonderland' on the overhead speakers, while the palm trees wave lazily and the blue sky sits bright and bold above the sparkling water, I think that life is good. And why exactly do I get to enjoy it? Why was I born where I was born, into the family I was born, into the country of freedoms, where nothing of importance has been or is denied me? Why do I get to sit here, drinking coffee, applying to Hong Kong University? Where, if I get accepted, I'll be spit out three years later, with a degree in heaven knows what, and begin to search for a job that will, hopefully, keep me fed and satisfied. Maybe it will even be a job that will be big enough for my soul.

On Thursday, I left Hong Kong because my tourist visa was up. Mom and I went up with our friend Iris, who is Hong Kong Chinese, and speaks both Cantonese & Mandarin. It's really quite simple. One just has to board the train, the KCR (Kowloon-Canton Railway) - above ground - and ride for about 30 minutes to the border of China. We purchased a visa for Shenzhen (they have a separate visa than for the rest of China), and there we were.

Iris had been wanting to take us up to Shenzhen for ages because of all the great shopping one can do. With that lain before me, I had decided I simply wasn't interested. But when it became necessary for me to leave the city, we decided to take her up on the offer. Not only is the shopping good but there are tailors everywhere that will alter, or make you a new pair of pants altogether (along with shirts, jackets, and anything else you can think of). So, mom and I brought up with us pants to be hemmed, or remade (choose the material, and they will use the measurements and/or style from the pants you leave with them). Consequently, I am wearing shorts today because my jeans are still in China, serving as a carbon copy for a pair of brown corduroys. They will mail them to us next week.

Anyway. We crossed the border and walked right into this mall, that was taller than it was wide, with escalators going every-which-way. An aesthetically horrid place it was indeed. The postage stamp sized shops held, and usually only one or two options of: watches, bags, jeans, shirts, 'DVD's', sunglasses, shoes. On one level, there was an entire floor of material. And only material. You choose your material, choose a tailor, and within days, well, see above paragraph. So much stuff. Stuff, stuff, stuff. And where does it all come from? I didn't want to know the answer.

Basically, everyone is selling the same stuff. Competition is fierce. I am white. Very white. All day long, from 11 a.m. - 4 p.m., I got:

'Hello Missy, you looking?'
'Hello, come look?'
'Hello, shirt for you?'
'Good price for you.'
'Massage ('Massageeee')? Pedicure, manicure, you pretty.'
'Hello, DVD's good price.'
'Hello you want jean? Tommy Hilfiger, good quality.'

I tell you. 10 minutes was enough to get me going absolutely nuts. It was incessant, non-stop noise. People begging me to buy from them. Fawning over me, petting my arm as I walked by. They sat on their stools outside their shops and verbally diarrheaed until I had turned the corner. On one hand, I wanted to yell, 'NO, PISS OFF.' But I tried to remember that he/she (mostly shes) was a person and deserved to be treated like a person, even though I wasn't being treated like one. We got our clothes to the tailor, ate some very good Chinese food, and I bought a pair of sunglasses (that was all I could handle. I almost killed the guy who, when I decided to buy a pair from him and talked him down, asked if I wanted to buy another pair. When I looked at him like he'd gone off the deep end and said, 'Uh, NO,' he whipped out his laptop, which had slides of all the 'DVD's' he had to sell me. I walked off, feeling, I believe rightly scandalized).

On the re-entering of Hong Kong, I was on the receiving end of a good long lecture from the immigration officer, with lots of questions about who I was, what I was doing in Hong Kong and that it wasn't 'permissible' to do what I just did: Leave HK, go into China for lunch and come back in, expecting another 3 months. Secretly, I agreed with him. But he let me through, (I like to think it was due to my winning charm and these baby blues) basically saying, 'Next time, go somewhere a little further away, for longer than 8 hours.'

Sitting on the KCR headed home, green countryside swishing by, (and when I stopped wishing I was really on the train to Hogwarts), I thought about those store vendors who were most likely just eaking out a living. And how demeaning it would be to have to basically throw yourself at people like me walking by. (This is where my appreciating that I can apply to HKU and where I was born, comes in). Being thankful for the small stuff in my existence, which in reality, is very very big stuff. Because today, right now, in that never-ending mall in Shenzhen (to think there is more than even one!), there are tired & dejected people sitting on their stools, in jobs too small for their souls, just trying to sell a pair of jeans, and knowing they are stuck in a never-ending trap of, 'Hello Missy, you looking?'

Sauna Experiences.

2007-11-19T01:40:00.000-08:00

It's gotten cooler. As November wans, the humidity has dropped, the air has cleared, the sun shines brighter. The pool I swim is still open, the palm trees still wave as I surface to breathe, the lifeguards are still sitting, bored out of their minds, but the best part is, the person count has dropped along with the temperature. For me, it is still plenty warm. Plenty. It's still 20 degrees for Pete's sake. That's not to say my body doesn't feel it - mentally I say, 'Man, it's chilly today,' but I won't let myself turn into a wuss. Today the water certainly had a nip to it - they don't warm it up, even when the air gets cooler. After I lapped, I have to admit, for a shorter than usual time, I made for the sauna.

Inside there was one other Chinese woman. Topless and stretching. Slightly unexpected but I moved on. As I was sitting there, sighing with absolute delight, breaking out in goosebumps of pleasure, I began to think of my sauna experiences. There have been many, and varied.

Schloss Mittersill. Winter. Just the girls. Russians, Ukrainians, Canadians, Poles, Brazilians, Latvians. For a moment, we are country-less, just a bunch of sweaty, drippy, contended folk. We only cranked up the sauna about twice a month, due to the expense it was to run it. One realizes, rather quickly, that every country has different saunaing rituals. Fully clothed, stark naked. 15 minutes, shower, back in, or as-long-as-you-can-without-passing-out. Scented water, un-scented water. Special exfoliating lotion, or salt shaker from the dining room table. Mhm. The Russians and the Ukrainian brought salt shakers into the sauna ('You are going to wash those before returning them, right?'). Olga and Zaliah and Irene were flat on their backs, (we all, as one United Nation, decided towels would be best), and shook the shakers over themselves, as if they were salting vegetables, or a piece of meat. I asked them, as the 'crazy Canadian' if they were salting themselves to marinate like steak. Ah ha ha, the said, tittering loudly. No, it's just good for the skin, they said. Softens us up. Yeah, like steak. I said. Ah ha-ha, titter, titter. I raised my eyebrows to Christy, fellow Canadian, and we shrugged and smiled and helped them salt their backs. When we had just about as much heat as we could handle, I said we should go out into the courtyard and run around in the snow. WITH our towels on, I specified. I could see the crazy look in some of their eyes (they call ME crazy). There were, after all, guests in the castle, though it was a low time at the moment. I did not imagine they would appreciate looking out their windows into the snowy night, and seeing pieces of steak sans-towels running around. Ah ha-ha, titter, titter. So about 5 of us (a few decided they were not quite done marinating), ran through the laundry room, down the hall and out the wooden door with a bang (I can hear it now), and delved into the deep, luscious, purely beautiful snow. It was dark, except for the lamps along the castle walls, and the yellow glow from a couple of the windows. The snow fell huge and slow, the steam rose off from the heat of our bodies, we stood in silence, until our barefeet lost all feeling. The next day, one of the students asked us if we enjoyed our sauna last night.
'Oh yes, indeed. Why?'
'Because I saw you out the window when I was in the Sunroom getting coffee.'
Ah ha-ha, titter, titter.

Vancouver. The Troxels and me. Lord Byng - a small community pool, bright and clean. This sauna was small and full of the regulars. There was a group of old guys, skinny and wiry, rotund and cheery, who would go in together and talk about the old days. Kate, Nathan and I would sit and listen, being secretly amused. An unspoken rule in saunas is to talk quietly. Or preferably, not at all. For these guys, it didn't matter. They'd been there so long, no doubt, that they figured it pretty much belonged to them anyway. Sometimes, when it was just me & the Troxels, we'd talk about how great it was being in Vancouver, feeling like we were the only ones we knew. Because they are from Cranbrook and so am I. But randomly, we ended up in Vancouver for a few months together, and it was nice having only to hang out with your best friends. We'd talk about doing Wednesday Night Wings at Earls, renting another Scrubs DVD. Raspberries and cream. Coffee at Think. Our next exploring venture. The sauna at Lord Byng holds delightful memories of discussing day-to-day things like they were the next great adventure, with my best friends. It was just us, and the city was our oyster.

When Brooke and Matt came to Vancity on the way to the Island for their holiday, we treked to the spank-swank Vancouver Aquatic Centre, primarily for the sauna experience. This one was full. Lots of speedos. It was in this sauna in particular, that I thought of how odd saunaing really is. Here you are, sweating and being in general discomfort, with a whole crapshoot of people you don't know. Lined up, end to end. And of course no one talks, which somehow makes it seem even more awkward. It's one of the most intimate experiences you can have with others, without any interaction. Apart from getting to be with my sister and brother-in-law, there was one man on this day, who made it stand out in my mind. He was very, er, relieved to be saunaing. He was sighing and groaning and moaning and whistling and heaving and hawing and horking and grumbling and altogether breathing like it was his last breath. For about 20 minutes. Why no one told him to shut up, I don't know. I almost laughed aloud a few times, after exchanging glances with my sister and brother-in-law. I finally had to exit to the shower, for fear of starting something I wasn't prepared to finish.

Another experience was in Cranbrook. Christmas last year. My brother and Matt built a sauna. We used Brooke's greenhouse for the basic covering and another tarp for the inner cocoon. We made a fire and waited for it to turn to coals, and placed in it, pieces of railroad ties from the valley floor. Then we all stripped to our skivvies and hunkered in the cold darkness of the tarp, watching Matt & Zak make their way through the snow in the moonlight, carefully holding the searing hot pieces of metal on rods. We poured out water with eucalyptus (thanks to Brooke) slowly and the steam filled the plastic cave and our noses ('Ah, that burns'). The family Jones sat quietly sizzling, happy to be together, and happy to not be talking as the snow melted around our toes and the sweat dripped into our eyes. The boys and Brooke lasted the longest (this falls into the 'as-long-as-you-can-without-passing-out' category). What fun.

So today, in Hong Kong, after the stretching topless lady left, I sat alone and felt alone. The saunas I had always known were full of people I loved and knew (apart from the strangers). They were intimate experiences. Here I was on the other side of the world and somehow today, I really felt it. It felt sad to be solo in the sweet wooden heat.

Poro in my dreams

2007-11-16T02:40:00.000-08:00

Well, I almost bought a puppy. Or more like, my parents almost bought me a puppy. Whether they really wanted to or not, I almost had 'em won over. It all started with a dream... as 'it' often does. In this dream, I was in some sort of prison, concentration camp type place, with a few others. We were hiding from the gestapo or guards, or the guys with the guns. And as we were crouched in hiding, an unseen someone, slipped a Schnauzer through the gate, (I once had a Schnauzer named Poro ('friend' in Melanesian Pidgin) and he went straight to me, and I held him, and comforted him and told him it would all be okay.

And I woke up and started researching where I might find such a one to love. I found a seven year old Schnauzer, at the Hong Kong dog rescue. This guy.

And if THAT wasn't enough, I soon found someone who was selling purebred (no additives or preservatives) miniature Schnauzer puppies, for only about $400 CDN. These little ones.

Gack! In the end, there was a list about as long as my arm as to why it would be a bad decision at this point to take on such an endeavour as a dog. But it didn't make it any easier to forget about the homeless Schnauzer and the little pups. So, I thought I'd share with you my heartache.

'Ein bier, ngoi sai.'

2007-11-04T21:49:00.000-08:00

That's how I felt, not quite sure which language would be preferred (not that I could do anything about it in practice), when I entered Oktoberfest here in Hong Kong.

A friend had received two free tickets from work, and as she pondered who could possibly want the other ticket, she came to me. I suppose that's a good thing... though my father shakes his head.

The location of this Oktoberfest was on the sixth floor of the Marco Polo Hotel. I had visions of one of those horrid ballrooms hotels often have - and of being trapped inside it, huddled around round tables under glaring florescent overhead lights, gulping warm beer (with your choice of rice or noodle), and enduring insistently loud unintelligible (to my ears) chattering which is trying desperately, and succeeding, to rise above the canto-pop karaoke. Basically, visions of your run-of-the-mill Dim Sum meal on a Friday night.

Thankfully, I was wrong. We came outside on the sixth floor onto an open-air car park (this happens often here. Randomly unexpected things like open-air car parks on the sixth level, or a park with palm trees and fountains in the middle of a sprawl of buildings).

At the far end of this car park was a tent. A tent! Glory be. Warm lights and the sound of happy Hong Kongers off work, poured forth. Though we had free entry, it did not buy us a beer or a stein. So we payed the 90 HKD instead. It was about 7.30 when we arrived and the tent was already packed. They had two options on tap. Becks and an unmarked. I assumed the unmarked held a more traditional German Oktoberfest brew, so I opted for that one. I handed the bar maiden, dressed in a cat costume (I forgot to mention that this night also held the title of Halloween), my recently purchased stein, and she shook her head, no. She then proceeded to pour my brew into a plastic cup. I smiled and accepted it and stacked it lamely into my empty stein. Classic Hong Kong. For sanitary reasons, undoubtedly, they would not use the steins. It was funny and weird seeing everyone sitting around drinking out of a plastic cup, set inside a perfectly useful stein.

I think by 8 the entertainment arrived. Six or seven men and one woman took over the stage. Some dressed in Halloween garb and the others decked out in the good ol' fashioned lederhosen. Their instrument choice was varied and fun, their German natural (most were indeed from Deutschland), they engaged the normally stoic HKers, and dare I say it, I felt like I was in Munich. With the small variant of Chinese delivering beer in lederhosen.

I enjoyed just looking at people. There was an equal amount of young businessmen and women, obviously just come from work, still in their suits. In the beginning when the Oompa-ers took the stage, people were quite subdued. Enjoying themselves but subdued. By the third or fourth song, there was a lot more swinging of (empty) steins, and shouting out the proper responses to certain lines in the songs that were being sung. A lot more grinning and laughing, a lot less ties tied and buttons buttoned. Some even stood on the benches to fully engage, as it were. Granted, there was no one standing on tables and carousing with other drinkers - we were not in fact, in Munich - but the guys up on the stage did well with loosening up their audience. The whole experience was rather surreal.

I ate 2.5 pretzels and drank 1.5 pints (no litres like in Munich), and as I went out to find the bathroom, was astonished at the view just steps from the tent. I forgot where I was for a moment, which I suppose, is the intent of such an evening.

Nay! Look to the skies!

2007-10-24T02:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, something rather dramatic happened on a walk with my mom the other day. As in every community it seems, there will be not far away a golf course. Discovery Bay's golf course is up at the top of the mountain just behind our apartment. The only way to get there is by golf cart, or on foot which is a sweaty, indeed, a very sweaty affair. If you manage to haul your sorry self up to the course, you first have to be a resident of DB except on 'every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday from 7.30 a.m. to 1.42 p.m. by prior arrangement.' Green fees average around $200 CDN.

We came upon this on the trail up.

And when we reached the road heading for the golf course this sign was posted.

Humourous in the extreme and very Hong Kong. Giving inanimate objects the personality of hostility, like they plot your demise on a daily basis.

So we laughed and chortled and in true Jones style, disregarded the sign entirely and continued on up the road. However, not two minutes past said sign, did we hear the thunk of a golf ball on the road. Very close to my head in fact. Maybe we misheard? We searched both sides of the road on the way up and the way back and did indeed come upon the golf ball, sitting very white and clean in a gutter/culvert thing, which dear mom climbed down into so I could photograph it.

It was funny. And there's a lesson in there somewhere, I'm sure.

Take this with a grain of salt

2007-10-16T21:39:00.001-07:00

I thought this would be a nice segue from my Creation homily...

I was sitting at my local McCafe this morning,

www.mcdonalds.com.hk/english/mccafe/index.asp

I'm not endorsing, just informing. They are I believe, non-existent in Canada, perhaps even in all of North America [feel free to inform me otherwise]. But their coffee is more than decent and I get to sit outside at a table facing the ocean. Not to mention their prices are well, low. And that's good for someone like me who's barely working. So until I get a job, Starbucks will have to wait.

Anyway. I was there. And this guy came out, white, 30's, with his tray. Big Mac, the works. He sits and starts doctoring up his food. The ketchup, the salt. He opens the salt, dumps most of it on his fries and puts the rest in his hand, which he proceeds to toss with vigor over his left shoulder [if you throw the entire shaker over your right shoulder however, you may just get your burger hawked on by a large man named Seabass]. I was rather flummoxed. Who does that anymore? I thought it had gone the way of all witch burnings and wooden duck floating [my utmost respect if you caught that film reference]. So, the rest of the time he was there munching away on his heart attack, I often caught myself looking sideways at him - I guess to see if he'd sprout funny ears or whip out a wand or give me some sign he was from a different world or lifetime. He didn't.

And I went back to my essay.

Genesis.

2007-10-04T22:49:00.000-07:00

Creation. A word not often thought of or experienced in a super-urban setting like Hong Kong. My dad [who had his 60th birthday on the 2nd of October], is working through Genesis on Sunday mornings, hitting people right between the eyes with words of creation. How we can't understand Jesus until we understand Genesis. That the creation story is not a 'once upon a time' tale but a right now story; something that takes place every morning, all through the day, God is present, creating, re-creating, re-freshing, re-making, re-doing. Day in, day out. The sun comes up, He says 'Good morning!' and does the work again. Creation is present.

We are living Genesis every week. Doing, shaping, making, forming and on the seventh day, we Sabbath. As Eugene Peterson puts it in Psalm 51:

'God, make a fresh start in me, shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.'

Mothers, business men, teachers, doctors, students; whatever you spend your days doing, it is Genesis work.

Those of you who live in Western Canada, who are surrounded by this creation, mountains, sea, sky, open spaces- transport yourself out of that, if you will. You have lived in Hong Kong your whole life. Trains. Malls. Buses. Round tables and glaring overhead lights. Air conditioning. Desks. Noise. Never ending cell phones. Every now and then you'll take the ferry and notice the ocean. Huh.

How can someone have a full understanding of Jesus without looking at and understanding creation? The basis of everything. It upholds us, keeps us fed, watered, provided for. And through it, God works, everyday.

10 He makes springs pour water into the ravines;
it flows between the mountains.

11 They give water to all the beasts of the field;
the wild donkeys quench their thirst.

12 The birds of the air nest by the waters;
they sing among the branches.

13 He waters the mountains from his upper chambers;
the earth is satisfied by the fruit of his work.

14 He makes grass grow for the cattle,
and plants for man to cultivate—
bringing forth food from the earth:

15 wine that gladdens the heart of man,
oil to make his face shine,
and bread that sustains his heart...

17 There the birds make their nests;
the stork has its home in the pine trees.

18 The high mountains belong to the wild goats;
the crags are a refuge for the coneys.

19 The moon marks off the seasons,
and the sun knows when to go down.

20 You bring darkness, it becomes night,
and all the beasts of the forest prowl.

21 The lions roar for their prey
and seek their food from God.

22 The sun rises, and they steal away;
they return and lie down in their dens.

23 Then man goes out to his work,
to his labor until evening.

24 How many are your works, O LORD!
In wisdom you made them all;
the earth is full of your creatures.

25 There is the sea, vast and spacious,
teeming with creatures beyond number—
living things both large and small.

26 There the ships go to and fro,
and the leviathan, which you formed to frolic there.
These all look to you to give them their food at the proper time.

He didn't set the world in motion and then let it all happen as it will. He didn't wind it up and let it go. He's involved. Daily. And in us. Daily. He made it so and it was good. Creation on its own isn't anything. Without the power of God, it is nothing. As C.S. Lewis says, 'Creation is an echo, not a voice.'

As you can well imagine, all this is new to a lot of people on Sunday morning. My dad passionately speaks about this because he knows it and has experienced it, like the rest of our family. I never appreciated this part of my faith as much as I have recently. I will not take for granted that I can see God easily in everything green and beautiful around me. Because so many don't. Or they at least haven't yet tapped into that part of their spirit.

So what do I do here without so much of how I see God? There is something missing, yes. But here I am and there is so much that is good and beautiful and so much that speaks of God in the absence of mountains and clean air and all those elements so vital to my soul. He is still here. And in the middle of the night, when I get up to get a glass of water and I'm standing in the bathroom, the sound of the crickets and insects, the frogs, the slithering snakes, the snoozing birds, come through the open window. I want to get out, break through and venture in the jungle, to touch, feel, smell this 'wildness' that is kept at bay. I want to be in it. And somehow I know that's how we're made, how we're created, to feel.

the way home

2007-09-19T01:35:00.000-07:00

i'm leaving the 38th floor. after keeping vigil over an apartment with two rascally little people deep in sleep. long elevator ride. it's 11.30 pm and i am tired. i can see that i am. because there are always mirrors in elevators. i wander across the road after thanking the doorman in cantonese for opening the door for me. and after thanking the gateman who opened the gate for me. doesn't appear either has heard. the station is not far. down two escalators and through the turnstiles. down another escalator. it's cool and quiet. cool from the air conditioning. there aren't many people waiting for the train. it comes, after a calm british woman tells me it is about to. twice. it will arrive in two minutes. it will arrive in one minute. i've never waited longer than three minutes. and it's almost midnight. i slump into a seat. and go one stop to central. i stand on an escalator. and walk up another. i am inside a mall. the shops are closed. there are weary people like me, shuffling home. most in suits. most don't go home until late. what's there to go home to? there are cleaning ladies. some late night restorations. i exit through glass doors and walk across an outdoor covered walkway. it's warm. too warm. why is it still so warm when the sun has gone away? there's an old man sitting in the middle of the walkway. tin in front of him. i give him 10 hong kong dollars. 1 dollar & 30 cents canadian. i touch his shoulder. he smiles. i step onto an escalator. and step on the walkway that runs along the harbour. the breeze picks up as i walk to my ferry. uncle russ's coffee is still awake. i get an ice coffee. $20 hong kong. $2.60 canadian. it goes down good. like liquid gold. does that farmer know? i wait for the ferry and sip. i walk onto the swaying boat and sit. settling in for 25 minutes. i listen to josh ritter. his free & unbridled guttural exultations. he sings i got a girl on my mind. maybe it's me. the ferry docks and i disembark. i think the buses aren't running because it's late. but they are and i get on one. five minutes and i'm at the front door. the security guard waves. i wave and smile, through my o-so-tired state. i code myself in. step into the elevator. up 7 floors. key into flat E. i feel good, however tired. maybe it's the ice coffee. or josh ritter's i-just-gotta melodies. or maybe i feel contented being with my constant companion. who, no matter how far i have to go, how many devices i use before i find my way home, he remains the same and in the seat next to me.

The Red Button.

2007-09-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting in our apartment. And I note the phone hanging innocently on the wall. But it's not really a phone. It's one of those apartment phones, where if it rings, it means there's someone outside trying to get in and thus you push a button to allow them entry [unless they're an ax murderer or a stalker or someone you just really don't want a friendship with].

On this particular phone, there's another button. It's red. I wonder what it does. I push it. Nothing happens. I hang the phone disconsolately back on it's bed and turn to the kitchen and fridge for comfort. One minute, maximum, later, the doorbell rings. I think for a moment, perhaps it is my Macbook arriving [got to love student discounts + no taxes]. I fling it wide with a look of eager anticipation thrown across my face, and I am faced with one of those Rent-a-Cop's in a security suit. I recognize him. This guy sits in a room, near the front of our building and watches us residents code ourselves through its doors. All day long. He says, 'Can I help you?' And I almost say, 'I don't know, can you?' Because I have no idea why he has showed up at my door. Then the wheels in this blonde head start turning and I realize. The red button. 'Oh.' I say. 'Is that what this does?' As I lift the phone again and point to the button. He looked at me and just nodded. I sort of laughed, in an apologetic, I'm-such-a-loser way. And profusely apologized. I then realized he wasn't havin' any of it as he promptly turned and walked down the hallway to the elevator. I did feel bad. Then I thought, as I closed the door and returned to the kitchen, at least I probably got his heart rate up and his sense of purpose plugged in. He probably even appreciated the fact that I emergencied him up here from his quiet little room. You know, a little sense of adventure. Perhaps not.

Flat 7/E Vista Court, Discovery Bay, Hong Kong

2007-09-09T23:50:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Discovery Bay. A piece of Lantau Island, opposite Hong Kong Airport. Where we boast of clean air, blue waters and a high rise free skyline. We cater to your different and diverse needs. Whether you're a pilot from Australia, a helper from the Philippines or a young, professional family from Britain, you can find something for you here. Get away from living a hectic and scheduled life on Kowloon or Hong Kong Island and enjoy the serenity, culture and outdoor lifestyle of Discovery Bay.

I could say I read that on a pamphlet I picked up on the ferry over but I did not. Most of it's an exaggeration, some of it's true. A bit of it's almost true and a lot of it must be taken with a grain of salt. But, truths or falses aside, this is where I live.

It takes 25 minutes by ferry from Hong Kong Island. Discovery Bay is directly opposite Peng Chau, on Lantau Island.

Let me give you a few numbers, here. There are approximately 15,000 souls on this island development. Two-thirds are Asian, with 1/3 of those as Hong Kongers. One-third, being the rest, are expatriates, or a family favourite, whities. Many are from Britain and the 'continent' [France, Belgium, Germany, mostly], some from Australia and Canada but there are very few Americans. Many pilots and their families live here, simply for the easy access to and from the Airport. Lots of people with money [funny, we Joneses seem to just slip right into these situations], a plethora of dogs, ridiculously small to seriously huge, a lot of Indonesian and Filipino helpers, and consequently, loads of children.

The air here is somewhat cleaner than it is on the main areas of HK. Depending on which way the wind is blowing. Some days, like today, I can see about 4 1/2 kilometers out the window and then the ocean gets lost in a fog of pollution from mainland China. But on days when the wind blows up from the South China Sea, the ocean gets really blue, and the mountains very green, and the buildings in the harbour sparkle and glow, it really is spectacular.

Coming from our last apartment, in a seriously Chinese area of Hong Kong, it feels a bit strange living with all these other expats. Annoying sometimes. I'm noticing that most of the people of non-Asian decent who reside in DB, don't exude friendliness or wear particularly open expressions. Maybe we all think we're some kinda special, living over here. Heckifiknow. It helps me to watch my attitude, though.

There is something of an introduction for you. More to come. And photos when the air clears. But I didn't want to start telling stories about this place, until you knew what 'this place' was. You gotta know your setting.

Oh, the free days of summer

2007-09-02T03:26:00.000-07:00

I have left the Kootenays. And a summer full of delights, both small and large, rich and good in so many ways. So, as I move on for now: Here's to the gardener, my small companion, to good food that was made with the fruits of the earth, to the steeples and the Mount, to the deep of the sky and the sketch of the clouds. And here's to that silty blue lazy river, soul of the Kootenays. Thanks for having me on your banks. I will say no more because I'm about to cry, but will leave you with pictures. A virtual smorgasbord of visual ecstasy, if you will. So, until I return, you all keep well and take care of that beautiful piece of absolute perfection. And never take that air for granted. Love, Morganne.

The Carrs

2007-08-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

Miriam and Jeremy Carr were married on August 14th. It was exactly how I would wish a wedding to be. Small. But not so small that the day feels unimportant. Their colours were nice. Not loud or gaudy or too pink or too orange or too muted. Colours that everyone and everything looked their best in. My mom and dad were there. They walked her down. That's when everyone in our family got a little wet behind the eyes. My dad did well -- he spoke hearty and strong of weddings and wines and the Jesus who was present, crucial but behind the scenes. My dad only cried once. He did better than we all expected. Those invited sat on benches my brother made ['Yeah, I can whip somethin' up'], we the bridesmaids, stood under the apple tree. Jeremy and Miriam knelt and took communion and sang a hymn to Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Jeremy's sister played Miriam in on the cello, his parents looked on the ceremony with quiet pride. We love his family. The wedding feast was eaten; the wine did not run out. Breads and cheeses, chickens, veg from the sister of the bride. The speeches were perfect in length and perfect in content. One heart-wrenching, gutsy and glowingly beautiful, one dry, witty and terribly funny, the other, I dare say, was a mixture of both. The place was warm, happily abuzz with friends and new friendships being created. We were all there for Jeremy and Miriam. He, a man of honest vulnerability and heart, and she, a brave, determined beauty of song. See you soon, lovers, whether you're ready for me or not. :)

Rogue: no longer obedient, belonging, or accepted and hence not controllable or answerable; deviating, renegade.

2007-08-17T17:33:00.000-07:00

I rogue. Officially, the contract is up, but I still like to think of myself as a roguer. Who wouldn't, really. Every morning for the last 25 days, Brooke and I would drive five minutes down the highway and turn off down a dirt road. We would soon come upon a 5 acre field, covered head to toe in yellow flowers. It is actually more organized than it appears. The field is made up of alternating male and female plants. Our job, is to make our way down the female rows and pick out the [rogue] male flowers. And pull out the plant. The point of this, is to keep the seed pure, when it is harvested. This would take us about an hour. The first day we found 21 plants and it decreased to 1 or 2 by the last day. The difference between a male and female flower is minimal. The males have slightly larger flowers and have pollen on their stamens. I tried to take a picture comparing the two but it was horribly out of focus.

Though this process got to be tedious, and I would get cross-eyed and psychedelic from the continual sight of yellow flowers and the constant hum of the happy bees, it was in a beautiful place and I got to spend it with my sister. Many mornings, we would disturb a baby fawn or two from their morning nap and they'd go galloping off down the aisle into the woods, joining their ma, who was often standing in the shadows.

What else to say, except that the pay was good and roguing in the winter months in Chile, may be in our future.

A Tom & Huck Story.

2007-08-07T12:58:00.001-07:00

It was another day. Adventure, just on the horizon. Brooke and I had finished our daily rogue [post coming soon, re: the daily rogue] and were trucking along the Bull River road, hats pushed back, sweaty feet out the window [me, not Brooke, who was driving]. A hot day it was, the garden awaiting our arrival for its daily tending. And suddenly, it was said. And once it is said, there's no going back. At least not mentally. From the lips of my dear sister came, 'Let's go tubing.'

So. It was done. We rummaged in the barn and found them. Black rubbered and flat as that guy in church who always ends up sitting right behind you. It was easily remedied by whipping by the Fort Steele store and using the tire pump. Which, consequently, is only used for car tires, so it didn't quite fit securely. Thus, they were deformed, with one side quite a sight pumped more full than the other. Don't really know why that happened. With one more stop for cherries and a cinnamon bun from Fort Steele Farms, we were on our way. It didn't take long for us to reach that 'secret dirt road', which could only lead to Destination Fun.

We sat first by the river, which flowed lazily along, nibbled our cherries and read the paper. Then, we approached the water's edge, looked at eachother and flung our bodies onto the rounds of rubber, with screeches of, 'Oh, it's chilly!' Brooke chose the belly-down method, her legs sloshing and slapping, and I the bum-down method, my hands flapping through the water like makeshift paddles. We didn't go very fast. And it was beautiful. Who else was floating down the Kootenay, at the foot of the Steeples, on a Friday afternoon? No one! But us! Oh glory!

Then Brooke said, 'Listen.' Even the birds seemed to cock a feathered ear. 'Hissssssssssssss......' 'Ah,' I said. 'Is that, your, um, tube, making that sound?' It sure was. Brooke was sinking lower into the green, chalky water with frightening speed. Okay, not really. Quite slowly actually. Significant, but nothing severe. But our legs were beginning to loose all feeling and I couldn't actually tell if I still had fingers, so we began looking for a good landing spot.

Directly ahead of us, was a long and narrow, sandy island. And we had been watching, for quite some time now, a whole herd of elk, probably 50 or so, swimming from the other bank, to this island. They were making loud sounds, almost like squawking birds, as though they were trying to pump themselves up for a swim, and then plunging into the icy water. We could hear them snorting and snuffling, as they made for the same island as we were now headed. They watched us on the approach, simply wondering what exactly we were and why we were most likely going to be intruding on their space. Before we could set foot on their ground however, they had all turned and thundered off to the end of the island, where they lept into the water, and reached the other bank in a few kicks and strokes. When Brooke and I reached the island, we collapsed on the hot, dry sand and let the feeling return to our numbed limbs. We then wandered 'round, feeling as though we'd landed on some deserted island, the only people alive for miles. When, in reality, we were but a few kilometers from not one, but two major highways.

Eventually, we rather reluctantly flopped ourselves back onto our, now, very flat tubes, and made for the shore, the current wishing otherwise. We padded down the dirt road, dripping and sun-drenched. We knew there was work to be done not 15 minutes from that moment but we only relished in the freedom that we had, in which to play in the rivers and the mountains and to only have to share it with the elk.

Harry, Lightning & Harried Lightning

2007-07-20T17:41:00.000-07:00

I am a Harry Potter fan. So much so, that right at this moment, I am wishing very heartily to be in Chicago, where the biggest book release party in the world is in full swing. They transform part of the downtown core into Diagon Alley. If you're lost on what Diagon Alley is, or where it is, then you have no excuse. Read. The. Books. There's a reason why there are 30 million copies of the 7th and last installment of Harry Potter in stores, packaged, and breathlessy waiting to be opened by millions of equally breathless fans. In some cases, like Europe for example, there are those even now, who are propped upon pillows, lamps burning brightly, teas on bedside tables, eyes fuzzy but minds, oh so alert and hungrily munching the glorious world and words of J.K. Rowling in Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows. Tomorrow is when I get mine.

I digress. This little story begins when Matt, Brooke and I, strolled happily dazed from the Cranbrook theatre, having just thoroughly enjoyed Harry Potter & the Order of the Phoenix. Coming out the back door, passed the dumpsters, we all stopped and took in the awe of the sky. The light was unreal, subdued shades of oranges and pinks, the air deathly still. Magical. There was no other word for it. By the time we got home, the storm had started. Lightning like I'd never ever seen. Almost continual flashes, like someone was flicking the bedroom light on and off, on and off. We went across the lawn, dodging the trees that had fallen from the last storm and sat in the barn, taking in the glory of such a spectacle. As it so happened, there were 3 more storms that night, waking us out of our sauna like sleep, with thunder immediately overhead. It rained too and the garden [and the mosquitoes] were happy.

I'd never seen quite the storm of lightning. It was as if God smirked at us coming out of the theatre and said, 'You think the special effects in Harry Potter were good? Watch this.'

[Here are a couple pictures Matt took of himself and the lightning on long exposure and one of the house. One can't capture it. I also randomly added a few shots of us the day we ran up Lakit Lookout].

A Very Long Weekend [it's gonna get worse before it gets better]: A tragedy by M.A. Jones

2007-07-07T09:58:00.000-07:00

It all started with a breeze that swiftly turned into a gale force wind. I was, at the moment of it's inception, standing in front of a barbeque, paper plate in one hand and a flipper in the other, assessing my options. I noted the change in weather. The trees began flapping animatedly, the grasses leant together in one direction, flattening themselves in self-defence. The clouds were gray with menace, the air deliciously cool, changing dramatically from the intense heat we Cranbrookians had been experiencing. I selected my unsuspecting burger and flipped it onto my plate rather hastily because then, the rain had begun and I had come to the conclusion that this was no friendly storm.

I headed home quite soon after, the storm, just as quickly as it had come, passed on, having done its damage. No more than 20 minutes. As I drove back out to Fort Steele, into the driveway of where Brooke and Matt rent a section of a big old house, I gaped. Trees, huge, massive trees were down all over their green, lush carefully manicured lawn. Some had fallen to their death straight from the roots, others had snapped in half. Branches, leaves, and all manner of tree anatomy were strewn hither and yon, a veritable graveyard of lofty and noble Keepers of the grounds. As it turned out, Brooke had been alone during the storm, had noted the way the trees were severely swaying and falling with mighty crashes and had headed for the basement. I wished I had been there to cower with her in the dark instead of where I was, stuffing my face with delectable barbeque delights.

Her garden suffered not too terribly. It was rather humourous in truth. All the vege tops were laying down in one direction, but had buckled down the hatches below. 'Hold on boys, it's gonna be a good one.'

As a result of the storm, we had no electricity. For two days.

On some morning during this long, long weekend, Brooke and I had a visit in the garden from a man who knows their landlords... and their dog. He said he thought he saw a black bouvier on the side of the road, quite un-alive. So we got in the Honda and drove a couple kilometers down the road and pulled off, emergency lights flashing and found yes, their dog Kelly. She had been hit somethin' fierce. We couldn't put her in the car because it was just too messy. Later on that day, their son came and picked her up, and ended up burying her in one of the giant holes a fallen tree had made. The landlords here are still out of town. When they get home, they will be in for sadness. Their lawn, their trees, and their dog. All in one go.

That day and for the next one too, our water went. Randomly. We boiled water from the Wildhorse river. The river also served as our showers. Very, very cold ones. There also happens to be a family of mice that we are trying to be rid of. The traps are working but since we had no way to wash our hands, the dead mice, well, they just had to stay there for a few days. It was/is also killer hot and the mosquitoes were/are out and nasty -- vindictive, plotting, evil, mosquito mafia.

I feel like I'm missing something. I guess only to say, that it was the best worst July long weekend. Ever. I'm sure one day it'll be funny. Happy Canada Day.

'I love the way the rich live. Better yet, I love the way I live when I'm with the rich.'

2007-07-01T08:42:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the delay in duly setting down characters, or however it goes.

Last weekend my folks along with my aunt and uncle, drove up into Rocky Mountain National Park [Colorado] to 'live in the mountains' for a couple of days. Generally when I, or most people who've grown up in and around the mountains, think of 'going out into the mountains', or 'spending the weekend away', we envision tents, tupperware, dry noodles, rustling sleeping bags, crouching in the dark, and general exclusion from all things 'convenient.' But this weekend, we were livin' large.

I was skeptical from the first. I'm a wilderness snob. If somebody says, 'We have a house in the mountains; really, we do.' I am usually inclined to glazed over eyes and a subtle nod of half interest. Especially if they're Americans. Most of them have a different idea of 'wild.' And I'm allowed to make that statement because my entire family is American. Anyway, my point here, is that my snobbery was proven unnecessary [as it so often happens] and I was promptly de-snobbed. We didn't have to drive very far -- it was only about 10 minutes outside of the town of Estes. But it was indeed in the mountains. High atop one. And the view was fairly fantastical. I'm getting ahead of myself here.

As we trundled up the dirt road and turned right at their sign, amongst other signs of families who also spend their long weekends and holidays reclining at their second home, we came eventually to the end of the road where there sat a modest sized logged cabin, with a view to make one freeze for at least 10 seconds. And as my uncle tried the key in the shiny nobbed door, he said, 'As nice as this place is, I don't think this is it.' The key refused to fit [obstinate key]. So they called their friends/owners on their cell [we really weren't so far away, even though it felt so] and it was confirmed. We had the wrong house. This was their 'guest house.' Ah. The main one was up the hill, which we passed on the way down ['Whooo, look at that one. Lucky suckers']. So we backtracked and yep, the key fit, so we took it. This two story house of logs and wood and stuff [I need my brother for this one], was really very nice. It had a deck that went 3/4 of the way around, which is where we spent most of our time, reading and wining and dining. It was lush.

The strange thing was this. I had a whole room to myself, fisherman themed, a fake Christmas tree left from the recently passed season [?] and white lights adorning its plastic arms, a double bed, sinfully comfortable... and yet, I didn't sleep well at all. At least it took me a long time to get to sleep both nights. Now, either fisherman paraphenalia scares me, or what I deduced in the end. It felt strange being out in the mountains, coyotes howling in the not too distant distance, the pines blowing and whistling, being in all the beauty of where I feel so very comfortable, and yet being inside this great big house, enjoying its luxuries. I am all for enjoying luxuries. Just ask my family. But I felt, as I was lying in the dark, waiting for me to grasp onto sleep, exposed. Like an imposter discovered and being only half dressed. I felt like I wanted to be out IN IT. In a tent, at the very most. But at least blending in, at least entering into 'their' territory, the territory of the sacred wildness, as I should.

However, that did not prevent me from enjoying the weekend fully. The folks who own the house are very generous and often open it up to friends for retreats and such. Cool. I'll leave off with a few photos.

the domesticated wildlife.

Uncle Raymond, Aunt Judy and my parents.

Time? What time?

2007-06-13T10:04:00.000-07:00

Spending time with my 87 year old grandfather really puts the meaning back in 'spending time'. He, like most men of his ripeness, moves rather slowly, though is in good health and great humour. He is still working. Ed goes into his son's irrigation business, 5 times a week, and does whatever little things that need doing, and he takes it very seriously. The other day, I went with him to help fold and stuff envelopes [I had a momentary flashback of growing up and sitting at the van Leusden's table, folding and stuffing piles upon piles [or so it seemed] of Young Life newsletters].

As we entered the office, my grandfather shuffling along, leading the way, the familiar good-natured hustle of boys under deadlines, was much apparent.

'Hey there, Edwin,' chirped the bouncy secretary behind the desk. 'We're not quite ready for ya.'

Little did we know that 'not quite ready' in office speech really means 'it'll be another couple of hours'. But that didn't matter. I was on grandfather time now. And he had no intention of leaving in between. Instead, he took me around to the cubicles, introducing the designers, engineers, all 'round computer gods, to his granddaughter from Canada. 'Who has lived in Papua New Guinea, and Hong Kong, and where were you last year?' 'Austria.' I'd say, more than slightly abashed at subjecting these poor souls, who just really wanted to get back to work, to the wanderings of myself. But those I met were very sweet and I could tell, would stop doing pretty much anything in order to speak to the respectable Edwin Hines. They'd nod and smile, genuine nods and genuine smiles mostly, and say to me, 'Nice to meet you,' and 'See you around, Ed'. Then they'd swivel back around to the warmth and glow of their monitors.

I ended up in the corner office with a view [not really] of my uncle Jimbo, who's large and cushy chair was filled by his son Nate [my cousin]. He is at the helm of the great ship Hines Irrigation while his dad gallavants in Europe. So I sat and doodled on things, every so often pretending to scratch on the impressive and calculated irrigation plans laid out on the table. Nate gave me his iPod to show me what he's been listening to/to keep me out of his hair. He had me calculate square feet of water or some such thing and write it out onto the aforementioned plans. I bent with much concentration over the calculator, warning Nate that in the end, due to my less than fabulous mathematician skills, he may just be transporting the entirety of the Pacific to fill these water holes.

Eventually, ev-en-tu-al-ly, it was stuffing-of-the-envelope time. With a beer offered to me by one of the boys [Friday afternoon], granddad and I went about the business. I was glad I wasn't going to be receiving one of these gems in the mail, as they showed the amount which one owed to the services of Hines Irrigation. As granddad sat there benignly, and me swiggin' on my beverage, in the silence and comfort of office sounds, I stuffed and sealed 3 envelopes to one of his. Slow and meticulous is he.

All in all, I spent more time at the office on a beautiful sunny day than I would have preferred. But it was a good reminder that sometimes, you just gotta shut up and adjust your clock. Or forget that there is one altogether.

Rain = soggy fertilizer.

2007-06-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

I was in Cranbrook a few days ago. We drove down from Vancouver with all our stuff in two Budget trucks and our Honda. The 'two Budget trucks' was slightly unexpected - we thought it would all fit into one. But that's another story for well, never. So mom and dad each drove a truck (His & Her Budgets. Quite sweet, really) and I drove the Honda (killer tunes, man).

Cranbrook was hot and hotter and hottest and I spent most of my time with Brooke on her acre garden, scratching in the dirt and transplanting tomatoes, weeding onions, putting up fences for the peas to grow up big and strong. The sun baked and we dripped.

A couple of days before I left, the weather changed, the clouds galloped in. I followed the sheeting of rains, coming across the hills towards us, small in the field. And then it fell. But did we, the farmer and her sister, retreat? Nay! We had to replenish the supply of manure to keep the little sprouts and plants working on their strong roots.

So we trundled off in the truck, the wipers swiping madly. Thunder rumbled through the valley, lightning flashed and cackled. We ambled slowly down the dirt road, the trees dark and tall in the afternoon rainy dimness. Soon, we came upon the pile. It was skulking in a clearing like a round soaking animal.
I asked, 'Did you bring a shovel for me?'
'Ahhh, no. Just now thought of it,' said Brooke.
She backed the truck up to the pile and banged down the tailgate. I retreated inside the cab and slid open the back window so I could talk to her while she shoveled. Pretty soon the rain got a tad fierce, so she came inside the truck for a small respite. We talked while she worked on her dreds [twist, twist, yank, yank, ruffle, ruffle] and the windows got all steamed up. Ha-ha. Eventually my brave sister ventured back atop the pile and got all she needed and the rain never did stop. And as far as I know, it has not yet done so.
That was a day which was good.

Who knew so much fun could be had with six treadmills

2007-05-26T12:15:00.000-07:00

I'm banking on it.

2007-05-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

I hear that going to Europe drains ones funds. As I didn't have much to go on in the first place, this was certainly true in my case. Yesterday I took a whole bag of pennies, dimes and nickels, dumped them on the floor in my living room and started rolling. Technically, I just rolled the pennies, as I only had those cardboard things for that size. As for rolling the nickels and dimes, I used scotch tape.

I set out for the bank and on the way up, did a wee lil' detour into Starbucks. Paid for my coffee with taped up dimes, thank you very much. The guy was even appreciative - 'Now I don't have to break one of those paper things!'

When I arrived at the bank, I got a young, bright-eyed man as my bank teller. Little did I know, the light would soon drain from his eyes. I heaved my bag o' pennies up onto the counter and said, 'Get ready to live, my friend.' I started pulling out roll after roll, lining them up just so. He looked on benignly. When I took out my taped dimes and nickels, he went, 'Ahhh.' I replied, 'I bet you didn't sign up for this when they hired you,' (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). Unfortunately, we had to untape them all because he had to know how many individual dimes and nickels there actually were. If I knew that, I wouldn't have taped them all up in the first place. [Is there no justice?] With much counting and recounting, frustratingly scraping tape off said coins, picking them up off the floor and me trying not to burst out laughing because it all seemed so darn funny, he finally, with relief in his eyes, placed a crisp ten dollar bill, one toonie and one loonie, one quarter and one dime in my hand. 'Have a nice day,' he said. [ie: 'Please, just leave.']

That minor trip to the bank made my day. It also happened to make me thirteen dollars and thirty-five cents richer.

Goats upon Goats

2007-05-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

Thus, I hath returneth to Canadia. Who has time to blog when there are actual (as opposed to virtual) people to be with? No excuse, I realize.

A few days ago, the family who I was staying with and the family Gompertz and myself, went up to Hintersee for a Sunday morning gallavant. Hintersee is a part of a National Park and is quite stunning, in the midst of the general stunningness of Austria. The wind was blowing somethin' fierce and strong, coming down warm from Italy. We were soon met on our walk by a gaggle of goats, highly, highly domesticated. As you can tell by the photos below.

The Cliffs of Insanity!

Adam. Amazed at the goat population.

This is assuredly, the Billyest of Goats. I am inclined to believe, that upon milking this one, Stiegl (the local beer) would flow.

As I can't really think of a good story to tell, I will just sign off my trip to Austria with a few more random photos. It was a jolly grande three weeks, with a lot of good conversations, good dancing and good beverages. I also got to spend a lot of time with my darling Brits, Adam (see above photo) and Charlotte and their rascally, beautiful kids. It was one of those things where you are surprised and completely happy that you got to spend so much time with people you weren't expecting. I was well loved up and well fed (thank you HG's) and it was a marvelous time. Here is a shout out to the Remnant in Mittersill. Thanks for being there.

Cheerio for now.

Charlotte and I agree that a Brit must've had a hand in naming this flower shop.

Yes folks, that's right. Dog in a Tube. It doesn't happen just in China. Okay, not true. It's just really weirdly packaged dog food. It took me more than a second to realize it though.

It snowed the day before I left. Half in black and white and half in colour.

Me saying farewell.

And the Farmers Rejoice and the Oompa-ers Oomp

2007-05-07T01:32:00.000-07:00

The first thing I noticed as I was being driven to Mittersill from the Airport in Munich, was how little snow could be seen on the mountain tops. At this time last year before I left, there was still much remaining on the mountains. But we also had copious, ridiculous amounts of snow last season. Everything here is still green; just a lighter shade of dark. Yet the farmers are worried. Their worries have lessened, however slightly, because it rained all of yesterday. Ain't no tropical rain but it was a good steady water from the heavens.

I took my books the other day and wandered along the river, to plant myself upon an unsuspecting bench for a few hours. It looked out across the fields with the cows and up the slope of the mountains to sheep, no doubt bahing to themselves, under the protective shadow of their master's homes, precariously perched (or so it seems from a distance).

Went to a mini Oktoberfest with my friends Christy & Mariusz and Danuta. Two Canadians and two Poles inside a very Austrian tent. There was beer of course and pastries of sorts to buy and long tables with flies making themselves at home in the warmth, oh the warmth, of the tent. There was also Herr keyboardist up front, Oompa spewing from its speakers. Most of it was electronicized - one key for each particular jarringly manufactured sound.

Save Us

2007-05-01T02:38:00.000-07:00

Hey there. It has been hard to know what to write about where I am. So, for now I'll just put up something I wrote about this Austrian village and the hill up top. What was and what is. I'm sure it is still a work in progress but I wanted to post something to ensure you all that I am indeed alive. I don't want it to sound dramatic but in a way, what has transpired here over the last few months has been. A lot of people's lives have been utterly altered by only a few. But I am encouraged, so encouraged, by those here, by the grace that they have and the faith in the One that holds them, in the midst of a whole lot of pain. The following scribbles are dedicated to those who journeyed at this place of Schloss Mittersill. To my faithful readers, more soon, I promise.

There once was a castle, up on a hill
Where people Lived
Together they'd eat and pray and play
Working as artists, as students with theses
Working as cleaners and makers-of-beds
Working as welcomers, as fathers and mothers
One who fixed leaky pipes and drafty hallways
Broken hearts and broken minds
One who milked the cows and tamed the horses and moved the mountains
One who with passion unfettered moved us aside and brought us trembling
One who fed us and kept us at peace with our Austrians

God Almighty, save us from ourselves

There once was a castle, up on a hill
Where people Lived
It was there on hands and knees
Finding the way of their journeys
And as one, our Journey
There were parties, with lights, with Stiegl beer
Food, fun and fellowship and all hilarities
The world represented 'round one table
Pipes and stars on warm summer nights
And cold snowy ones
Where the mountains glowed
And Jesus is born
There once was a castle, up on a hill
Where the Spirit lived

God Almighty, save us from ourselves

Then one day
Through the back door that creaked and groaned
Down the squeaky hallways
A pursuit of some thing
Masked as 'for the good of all'
Funds, funding, fund-tastic funding
A new direction
From the Lord, no doubt
Sacrifices must be made
And they were made

God Almighty, save us from ourselves

There once was a castle, up on a hill
Where people Lived
Now they live
This castle is no more
It is there, up on that hill
I walk the halls the floors still squeak
I open the doors and the doors still close
And through the windows the Alps still peek
But there is no one inside
The stone walls hold nothing

All that was good
All that was holy
All that was beauty full
All who came expectant
All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost

Yet there are some who remain
The Few
Guardians over what
With a new cause
Alone and
Spirit-less

God Almighty, save us from ourselves

Out of the Cloud and into the Clear

2007-04-26T21:07:00.000-07:00

Another typical Vancouver day (these days anyway). Pissy. Rainy. Grey. Poo. As for my disposition, it is not such. Because as of tomorrow (well, technically Saturday), I will be in Austria, where the weather report today was '23 degrees with a few clouds'. I am beginning to realize that when my head is clear and my days ahead are bright, the filter between my brain and my mouth becomes as useful as Crocs on a rainy day. Example. I was exiting a video store today and coming up the sidewalk was a good lookin' boy. I noticed. And instead of me thinking, 'Well now, what an attractive person,' just as he walked passed me, I said, [I SAID], 'Whoa. Hot.' Let me tell you, in my utter mortification of realizing of what just came out of my mouth, I did not turn around to see if he heard me. But there was no way he could not have. I better have made his day. Anyway, I leave tomorrow. Should be able to write while I am there, but it may take a few days. Jetlag's a you-know-what.

A Post Script re: the CPR

2007-04-25T17:32:00.000-07:00

I forgot to relay a highlight of the trip.

As we were driving out of Cranbrook at the crack of dawn (Oh, 8.30 or so), we were looping around Moyie lake, smoothly ascending the 'still seems new' paved portion of the highway. When along the lake, 'round the bend, out of the mist 'n the fog, chugged a train of the Canadian Pacific Railway. I went 'Ooooooo....', rolled down the window and leaned out far. Eyes watering instantly in the delicious Kootenay air, I pumped my arm up and down, fist to the sky. And the man up front [I thought for a moment it was Mr.Plant but knew he was not working that day] obliged with a piercing couple of whistles from the train. It was beautiful. I rolled up the window and turned to the back seat where my soon to be brother-in-law sat benignly. "I hope you realized that you just experienced a truly Canadian moment just now, Jeremy." "Oh," he replied, "Oh, right."

This East Kootenay Soul

2007-04-23T09:33:00.000-07:00

With nary a glance and not a thought to exams just written, we (the aforementioned and myself) left the city behind and entered into the Blessed Glorious Euphoria of Driving Long Distances, armed with music and various snackies in various bags. This is also known by some as a road trip. Reasons for trip (if so needed) on this particular occasion, were these: Miriam's cd release at the StageDoor in Cranbrook (thanks to those who came. Jolly good fun.) and attending a wedding of a close friend, Lynelle Prier, now known as Lynelle Bachmann. These two events are perfectly good pillars to build a trip 'round. And both, equally enjoyable.

However, my time was mostly spent with my sister Brooke, on her almost-acre, transplanting tomato plants and nestling seedlings into wee pots. Her garden is large and though now is a square of dirt, she hopes it to be prolific for this seasons sellings and eatings. Come July, I'll be back there, likely bombing around in a soon-to-be farm truck, delivering dark-in-colour vegetables and scratching around in the dirt along side this farmer sister, who I am infinitely and glowingly proud of.

We ate eggs from the chickens in the yard, homemade guacamole and bean dip and salsa, we drank ciders and Kilkenny's (word, Matt), in jam jars, Roastarama with a hint of warmth, mochas and espressos, we sat on the back 4o, 'round a cold, crumbled fire in the April sun, smoking Djarums, talking and not talking, soaking in the richness of this land and the goodness of its Maker. It was a short, whirlwind trip, I am tired now, but let me tell you, it doesn't get any better than that.

Here is something of this town. It will make more sense to some and no sense at all to others.

A place where trucks and dogs, shotguns and the Great Canadian Super Store shopping reside

Mullets and shirts with plastered lions and tigers and bears O my

Bonfires, skinning parties and Kokanee, Kokanee Gold, Rickard's Red if you're lucky
At Denny's, kids eat free Tuesdays and Saturdays - throw 'em in the truck bed, honey

A place where everyone knows you and all knows you and everyone knows your business and businesses know you
They know how you like your coffee and your wife

A shout and a wave from across the street with a 20 minute discussion to follow
How your truck's workin' out for ya and the three pointer you shot

Where change, new ideas, epiphanies, are looked passed and looked through
Coming and going, no thanks, pass the TimBits, I got too much deer in the freezer

Beautify the Strip, Public Transit, what happened to the waterslides?
I can not stay, I will come and go, it will be the same

Perfect for home

'This East Kootenay Soul'

A place where mountains carved in warmth and definition, sloping up to crevices, to tips and saddles, bowls and grooves

My soul sings

And dark rivers, rushing with whites and foams and streams snake through golden wheaty fields,
lightening, drying, as August moves to autumn

My soul sings

Vast spaces with clusters of trees, colours thin and wide, evergreen, changing, growing, shakes and pushes its leaves with the seasons

My soul sings

Oh, how engaging

2007-04-11T20:24:00.000-07:00

Well, my sister's engaged. To a man named Jeremy (Jez) Carr. He's funny and sweet and theologically sound, not to mention a jazz musician. He proposed to Miriam under a tree in Stanley Park a fortnight ago (I think we should use that expression more often. It's a shame it was left behind in the Shakespearean era). I have to say that without me, they would not be engaged at this moment in time. Yes, I played a crucial role. After a covert-op with Jez, where he gave me a map with actual photos from his digi-cam, and detailed instructions of what to do, I set out that afternoon with all the focus and seriousness (and somewhat stress) of a air-traffic controller. 'If I screw this up... well, that would suck,' was my constant refrain.

I picked up her ring from being sized (an old family heirloom), had it, with its box, wrapped in a box of chocolates, drove to the flower store and had my eyes glisten when they brought out her flowers and drove all the way to jolly Stanley Park, almost across the Lions Gate bridge. I tromped into the restaurant, on a mission, where they would be eating dinner and gave to the hostess a single rose with a note tied to it. I looked her straight in the eye and said, 'When a girl who looks like me and a boisterous Brit named 'Carr' comes in and asks for their table, hand the beautiful blonde this rose. Got it?' Then I ran outside in my flip-flops and skirt (flip-flop, flip-flap, swish-swish), remember, going to my Bean Bros. staff party after this and put the bouquet of flowers under the so-appointed by my trusty map, cluster of trees. With a glance 'round just to make sure no one saw me place the flowers and had any nasty ideas, I ran down a path and into some trees where Jeremy told me to 'walk 250 paces and look for a really big tree with a knot about 10 feet up.' With that found, I went around the base of it and stuck the wrapped chocolates/ring, into a hole. I mean, not IN a hole, but just on the outskirts of one. Then I signal-rang Jez's phone so he would know that I was in place, and sat down on my book I had brought to read, to wait for them.

My mission once there, was to watch that a) no one would come and steal the package with the million dollar (or around there) ring so cleverly hidden inside it and b) that some runner wouldn't decide that 'round this tree would be a great place to relieve himself. I sat, in my skirt, thinking how I would look to somebody coming through the woods. I phoned my dad and said, 'guess where I am,' and sang as much of the American anthem that I could remember. I threw sticks and looked at the leaves and gazed at the sky through the branches and watched my legs become covered in goosebumps. Then I heard Jez laugh and Miriam respond in kind. Then they came around the tree and Miriam went, 'Ooooh...' I was instructed by Jez not to watch and listen as he proposed but I said to myself out of his earshot, 'Yeah right. I go through hell and highwater and then I don't even get to listen and watch the proposal? Fat chance, Carr.' Lucky for him, I couldn't hear from that distance, but I did see him kneel down. After which he called me from the woods and Miriam laughed and hugged me and her ring glistened and sparkled through the trees. From there I took some photos of them, and they went into dinner, which looked quite nice. The quite small ceremony will be in Cranbrook in August.

And a glorious Resurrection day to you

2007-04-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

Somehow 'Happy Easter' just doesn't cut it. I hope that today we are more than grateful and in awe of what Jesus and God the Father went through and sacrificed on behalf of all us wretched sinners. It really is ungraspable (new word?).

[Here is a little tidbit of trivia (this one's for free). The word 'excruciate' was actually created from the gruesome and anguish-filled act of crucifixion. It was such a horrid death and process-to-death, that a word had to be created for it.]

And now to some words that others have written.

'Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.' (Hebrews 12:2)

'And we are raised with Him, death is dead, love has won, Christ has conquered; And we shall reign with Him, for He lives, Christ is risen from the dead.' (From 'See What a Morning/Resurrection Hymn)

And all God's people said: Amen!

'The Incredulity of St.Thomas' by Caravaggio ca.1601, at the Neues Palais, Potsdam

Soon to be jobless

2007-04-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

Today I quit at Bean Bros. This occurred for several reasons. For starters, I am soon to be gone away for pretty much a month. And my guess is they would love to find another sucker to put the dishes through in my absence. Secondly, the management is absolutely horrid and due to recent events, I do not wish to remain in the same 5 foot vicinity of them. Also, working outside when it gets nice is something I relish. And lastly, well, let's face it. One can only wash dishes for so long.

A few nights ago, as a nice way to end off my working relationship with Bean Bros., the entirity of the staff were taken out for supper on the tab of the new owners of Bean Bros. Rumour had been circulating amongst the coffee cups and sandwiches and those who fill and prepare them, that the present management had sold the place to a Russian. As this was confirmed, I furthered it by stating that he must be of the Russian Mafia. As a token of his newly acquired management status, he invited us to a restaurant he owns and bought us all dinner. There was also another group of staff from a coffee shop down in Granville Island with whom we will be joining forces. Anyway, the meal was terrif, and the alcohol flowed (by some more than others, as usually is the case) and then the Russian got up to make a little speech. Somewhere in it he mentioned 'all zeh restaurants I own around ze vorld' and I leaned over to the barista Melissa sitting beside me and said 'See? Mafia.' Overall, he seemed like quite the man, and quite lovely (what with treating both his staff to supper, which he does twice a year, apparently). When I left, I shook his hand and thanked him, and walked frozen in my skirt and flip-flops to the car (*swish swish *flip flop *flip flap), which I left on a yonder side street by a dimly lit park. It was kind of sketchy.

But I still quit today. It was sort of weird. Larry-the-boss seemed pleased to hear that I would soon be leaving. He said, 'Perfect! Love ya!' I was rather taken aback by his jovial attitude but didn't care to find out why he suddenly loved me and why it was perfect that I was leaving not this Saturday but next. Some people will just never be understood. Now I have nary a job and exams looming upon mine academic horizon. Ha!

Firemen and Seagulls

2007-03-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I truly believe I have an invisible sign (to me only) around my neck that says, "Please, talk to me. I'm not really working here - the books and pens and papers are just props to hide the fact that I have nothing to do." I'm speaking of this last week at Starbucks. I had a massive paper due yesterday (which is partially the reason for my silence) and so I spent much time there between my classes furiously turning pages and typing on my trusty iBook, whilst trying to physically and mentally balance numerous texts and sources. On one particular day (they're all running together as one large headachey day), it was insanely busy at the coffee shop and I was sprawled across one table - it happened to be the wheelchair table which was the largest one in the place. Hem. Part way through my session, five firemen came in, got their coffee and were peering around looking for a place to sit. I felt somewhat guilty for taking up such a prominent table so I told them that they were welcome to share my table if they wished. They did sit. Four of them were in their 40's to 50's and one could've saved me from a burning building any day, I can tell you that much. They were friendly and asked me what I was studying and I asked them what they were doing today (saving any kitties from trees?). Between our conversation, one of the guys' walkie talkie's crackled and a disembodied voice from above said, 'Niner-niner (okay, I made that part up) can we have a location?'
'We're on 49th and Fraser over.' *cshcshcshcsh*
'Are you at Starbucks?' came the voice again, having lost all sense of importance and formality, 'Roger that.'
'Can you pick up some coffee? Ground. And some chicken breasts.'
'Full or half?' After their little interchange had wrapped up, the guy said to his buddies, 'Well, they need coffee back at the base. And chicken breasts.' I piped up and said, "So this is what you guys do all day." Anyway, it was a humorous experience and I got absolutely nothing done.

A few days later, back at the place with the green sign with the white lettering and the half naked mermaid, I shared a table with a youngish Pakistani or of-that-area guy. We worked in silence for awhile until he looked up at me and said, 'Do you ever wonder why no one ever sees baby seagulls?' I squinted at him, knowing I had heard that random question somewhere before, quite recently. 'Where did you get that from?'
'No where. My friend asked me that the other day.' Suddenly it hit me and I felt embarrassed. 'The back of the Starbucks cup. That's where I read it. There's a thing on the back of every cup (twisting my cup towards him as I said so) called 'As You See It' and people put their random comments on it. Like stuff about world peace and well, baby seagulls apparently. So tell your friend that he's been found out by another Starbucks dweller.'
He thought that was pretty funny. It ended up that he was attending this tech-school for producing music and was working at a recording studio. I told him I was studying writing and English lit ('I've read a book or two, you know' he commented airily). It was weird - we were joking around and chuckling and telling the other to 'Shut up so I can work - Gosh.' And when I was leaving he introduced himself as Mo. 'No you're not.' I said in disbelief. 'That's my name, too.' It turns out he's a Mohammed and I'm a Morganne. Maybe it was because we shared the same name that we were insta-friends, if only for half an hour or so. I think it was worth the time I could've spent plodding away at my paper.
So this is my thesis. Since living in Vancouver, I've come to notice that in the city, coffee shops are an extremely important part of people's community and interaction with others. They are the secular church and we can and should learn a lot from them.

of blossoms

2007-03-25T13:02:00.000-07:00

there still are clouds today
white and blue and darkish gray
woven through sunshine streams
my eyes don't know these clear light beams
it has been o so long
since the day has sung its marveled song
the rain was bold and hard and never ceasing
all beneath this strange world and never showing
we could not see
these blossoms freed
yes the colours bright
but the darkness of each day clouded our should've delight
and now its here released of doubt
today i woke, i awoke, i arose to its glory
hallelujiah and the sun came out

Bean Bros. Part 2

2007-03-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

Before I head off to my place of employment this afternoon, there's just a couple of things that were noteworthy of my work last weekend. I had prayed earlier last week that I would get more money somehow, as I'm leaving for Austria soon and feeling the lack of depth in my proverbial money bags. And wouldn't one know it, that Saturday at work, my boss asked if I could work the next morning for a few hours, because as per usual, they had failed to organize their employees properly and were simply shocked to find that there was no one working Sunday. I had a brief thought of, 'but it's Sunday...Sabbath and all that...' and then remembered the feverish prayer I had uttered during the week and didn't think God would mind if I accepted the offer it seemed His fine self had orchestrated. The next morning I showed up at 10 and Kelly was stirring soup ingredients. He looked at me with one eyebrow raised and said, 'Morganne of the Morgannites. Shouldn't you be at church?'
'Well. Techically. But I'm here. I need the money.' He responded with a challenging grin, 'Jesus don't pay the rent, does he?' I had to laugh and say no, he doesn't (except in special circumstances, which I didn't add, but thought. 'Church Geek' flashed alarmingly in my head) I told my dad about this little exchange later and he said I should have told Kelly that, 'No, Jesus doesn't pay the rent, but he grows the coffee. And without that, you wouldn't have a job.' Ha, sucker. But I wasn't quick enough. Ironically, when engaging in a Battle of Wits, one doesn't usually think of such things.

Later on that day, I was behind the coffee bar, putting away some mugs, when one of the barista's took a bag of those round butter packages out of the little fridge just at her knee. The bag broke open and I, being always a Live to Give sort of person, got down on my knees to pick up the scattered butters. At that time, she was ringing in a customer's order. As I lifted my head to make some sort of comment about butter always causing trouble, she hit the enter button or whatever, and the drawer popped out, I'm sure with the intention of inflicting pain on the nearest forehead. Incidentally, the nearest forehead was mine. Direct contact was made. It hurt. I laughed. Until I turned away and grimaced, pressing my hand to my head and seeing little spots of colour. Nice work, Jones. My day ended well, with a quick break with Daisy and Lee, sitting in the corner sipping soup and chomping sandwiches, making fun of eachother's accents and the way in which we try to imitate the other's language. Much guffawing and snorting ensued. That's the end of my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Bean Bros. Part 1

2007-03-20T18:13:00.000-07:00

Last August I got a job bussing at a local coffee shop, cafe, what have you. It's actually rather confusing, as it's not really a restaurant - nobody seats you, you're not assigned a waitress/waiter, you don't tip (most people don't anyway), but there is food to be bought (pizzas, salads, sandwiches, soups, even some curries) and tables to be sat around and er, utensils to be used. Most importantly, there is good, good coffee to be drunk (best mochas in the world). I was hired to clear dishes, wash them and return them to their respective places. I like this job. Going into the 7th hour of an 8 hour shift, my head gets fuzzy in regards to that fact, but at a healthy distance from it, I like it. Plus, it is within walking distance from our apartment, I am never bored and I am allotted free coffee whenever the fancy forms. What could be better?

I've been there for awhile now and as inevitably happens, whether you like it or not, you get to know the people that you work with. Since I am mostly in the kitchen, standing in a perpetual sauna from the steamy machine constantly being opened and slammed, the cooks and I have become friends. They like to make me food. Daisy, from El Salvador, is about 40 years old, 5 feet tall, and very shiny and beautiful. She is also a Christian, and we've got a kinship. Mansour also works back there, arriving at ungodly hours and baking all sorts of delectable delights (which he likes to place on my shelf above my head on intervals throughout the morning - 'Mansour! I can't eat all this! What do I look like??') He is from North Africa, enjoys the weed every now and again and believes he is God's (Allah's) gift to women. Most of the time I can't understand a thing he says. Lee is the sandwich maker. She is from Hong Kong. I throw in my two cents of Cantonese every now and then and she cackles and giggles and shakes her head. And the last of these is Kelly, Kelly the cook. Who happens to be a guy. Kelly's a stand-up comedian when he's not at Bean Bros. - having stood up with the likes of Robin Williams. And having been to one of his shows, I can attest to him being a funny guy. If somewhat off-coloured (but what comedian isn't). Kelly calls me 'Morganne of the Morganites' because he thinks it sounds like an Old Testament tribe. Yeah, he knows I'm a church kid and I get nothin' but flack for it - but I don't mind.

The barista's up front come and go a lot (high turn over rate - says so much for the management) but there are a few long timers who I've come to appreciate, and they me. They're always trying to get me to come out and party with them after work (at times, we don't get out until close to 11) and I usually always say, with a typical Jones response, 'Heck no! I'm going to bed.' I did go out recently to a going away party for one of them and they were amused to see that yes, the church kid can drink a pint (or even two) without getting whisked away and punished by the Guy in the sky. Yeesh. I think they are beginning to understand who I am now. As my time there is coming rapidly to an end, I know I will miss it. It has become a community of sorts for me in a time where I would've been very lonely without one. It's funny how community does pop up where and when you're not necessarily looking for it.

St. Patrick liked his Guinness?

2007-03-17T19:22:00.000-07:00

For a while there I was going to delve into the great mysteries of how we get green beer and shamrocks out of a 6th century Catholic English guy who happened upon Ireland. But then St. Patrick's day passed us by like most days tend to do, and I sort of lost interest in weaving my yarn, or whatever. If you have any ideas or conclusive facts on the matter though, do enlighten. I'll be back soon with a more lengthy post on my weekend at work. Get ready to live.

Looks like this guy was delving into the mystery himself, on good old St. Patrick's day.

Be-goggled

2007-03-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

I've started swimming. A good, low-impact exercise, sans sweat. When my sister Brooke came to stay at the end of February, we went to this community centre where Katie and Nathan go as well, called lord Byng (it's imperative you say it with your best English accent). It has the feel of a small town, where all knows all and there is zero degree of pretension. The pool is unobsene in its unolympic size, the dry sauna warm and delicious, the hot tub spacious, bubbly and bright under skylights and large windows.
I often go and swim after class around 2.30 or 3.00, before all the squawky kids in their ridiculous albeit sweet enthusiasm show up. Around this time is also when those of the older generation come. The women arrive in their over-sized, skirted, flowered bathing suits and the pale and wrinkly gentlemen in their baggy, colour-faded trunks (there is a lack of Speedos here) matched with a complete lack of self-consciousness.
I note that I'm usually the only one present under 50. All swim better than I. Their methods and strokes differ greatly from person to person; adjusting in different ways and means to what their tired, well-worn bodies will allow. There's this one man about 70, who walks the length of the shallow end and only when the water gets chest-high does he glide into a rather awkward breast stroke. It's pretty much awesome.
The other day, I had finished my time in the pool and was standing in the shallow end removing goggles and water from my eyes, when this little old lady who I was sharing a lane with had also finished and was making moves towards the ladder. She was a slowish, methodical swimmer, and I had, without irritation, passed her at times leaving allowances for her semi-strokes and bobs. As she was about to hoist herself up the ladder, she said to me with a self-deprecating frown and slight head shake, 'I'm sorry to be such a nuisance.' To which I faltered and stuttered trying to portray that, she was not at all such a thing as a nuisance. As she went shuffling, dripping off towards the sauna, where I would soon join her, I was thinking that I could only hope for her dedication once I got to be that age. Hopefully I can acquire it even before then.

An intro and a really nice person on a rainy day

2007-03-14T12:59:00.001-07:00

Will I be posting, as Kate pointed out so graciously, what I had for breakfast this morning? Or the state of my socks, which may or may not be mismatched? Perhaps why I can't stand the taste/texture/personalities of lentils? Lord save us from such a day. Some people maintain extensively detailed, effort-induced blogs speaking of theological and important, life-altering or at least thought provoking topics [this I say in all sincerity]. Others it seems, simply maintain their blogs for their children who can not articulate such daily things - these tend to keep far off grandparents and aunties and friends pleased and fulfilled. Some tell of their adventures both on and off this planet, climbing mountains and throwing themselves off all manner of cliff and rock and living to tell about it. These induce envy and make us say such things as 'I should get out more.' All are great and worthy contents for blogging. I suppose mine will be composed mostly of stories. I've been living a rather solitary existence for the last year in Vancouver, and encounters with strangers and occurrences on my excursions these days have become particularly significant. Por example'j. This first post is about a barista in a little known coffee shop called Starbucks. It's quite urban in its feel, I'm somewhat embarrassed with how many times the word 'latte' appears, but this is the now. And this is where I'm finding myself. What else is there to write about?

Between my Russian History class and my International Relations lecture, I've got a couple hours to spare. Sometimes I get on the number 41 bus and go home for about 45 minutes, but most times I take the time to study at a close at hand Starbucks. It gets to be a costly endeavour. I mean, who wants to drink black coffee when you've got ($3.50) tantalizing options displayed before your very eyes? Cinnamon dolce lattes and vanilla lattes and all manner of combinations of such? But, looking ahead to my future with financial eyes, as I always do (grin), one can not buy such extravagances all the time.
However, there is one girl at this particular Starbucks who has taken a shine to me, apparently. On this rainy Tuesday when once again I entered their warm and welcoming interior, I asked for a coffee. She looked me in the eye and said, 'Are you sure about that?'
How does one respond to such a question? I rather guessed where she was headed however and said quite hesitantly, 'Um, a grande vanilla latte?'
To which she nodded approvingly, rung it up and pointed to the displayer of the amount - $1.50. What I would've paid for your regular cup of coffee.
Nice.
I said, 'bless you,' took my stuff over to a table and arranged my studies, and sat. Five minutes passed and people who were behind me in line, had started getting their drinks called out, so I went up and leaned my head over to the barista steaming the milk and asked if he had a vanilla latte somewhere back there.
He was flustered for a moment and then realized he'd forgotten it. When he passed it over to me upon its delicious completion, he gave me a coupon for a free drink.
'The next one's on us,' he said. Boys howdy, could this Starbucks experience get any better? Could my morning get any brighter? And at this point you're asking, 'Could this story get any longer?' Almost done.
A couple hours later, I'm about to leave and as I hand back the washroom key over the counter to the girl who gave me the deal, she goes, 'Want a refill?'
'Can't say not to that.' I gushed/beamed/made a fool of myself.
I got another one, on the house. If she was a boy, I'd think she'd want to date me. Or maybe she just recognizes a poor student when she sees one. I introduced myself to her before I left, and walked out into the dripping Vancouver day with a fresh outlook (not to mention a fresh latte), with the Shins singing in my ears.

[As it seems to fit the theme... the Starbucks in Oxford that I enjoyed in December.]

Foreword by M.A. Jones

2007-03-12T13:24:00.000-07:00

I was encouraged by my friend Mark to build a blog. Not for the good of all people; to have my knowledge and thoughts on life thrown on decent unsuspecting friends and others, but for the creative side of me, who is trying desperately to get some sort of a foothold in the world of writing. As my dear father is fond of saying, this will be good for me. You don't even need to read it. I think I just need to write it.