Gallimaufry

Old Philosophies Are Sometimes Best

2012-01-21T22:13:00.000-08:00

Once, while mindlessly surfing the internet, I came across a website that would predict your death. After inputing information such as age, sex, location, and certain lifestyle habits, the website would then use some formula to give you your date of death. There was nothing meaningful about the date of course, but I got the creeps regardless. That's because accompanying my date of death was a clock which was counting down my remaining time. I knew that the day predicted and therefore the clock was almost certainly incorrect but there was absolutely nothing incorrect about the seconds that I saw ticking away. Whether I live to be a hundred or die tomorrow, each second counted down was definitely one second closer to my demise.

Death doesn't scare me but for the fact that I'm not ready to die. I've always assumed that I'll do something worthwhile with my life, but I'm also a horrible procrastinator. One of my New Year's resolutions this year was to spend my first and last waking moments of each day reflecting on the gift that each day is and to pray for an appropriate spirit of thankfulness. Not only is ingratitude an abhorrent trait, I was hoping that reflecting upon what sort of amazing gift another day of life is would help propel me to do more things of worth. It's easy enough for me to spend hours playing video games, unless I'm conscious of the fact that those hours are gone forever. It's an easy way to spend time, but the fact of the matter is that there are, when I think about it, any number of things I'd far rather be doing, and things of far greater value. The only appeal of the video games, or mindless surfing the internet, is that they're easy and immediately rewarding.

I've recently been reading Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics. He espouses a teleological view. Coming from the Greek word telos for end, it is a theory for figuring out how to judge things. An example is a knife. What makes a good knife? Well first you figure out the telos of a knife. Once that is determined it is possible to figure out the arete, or virtues of a good knife. Obviously it's to cut things. So a good knife is one that is sharp, keeps its edge well, and has a handle and blade length optimal for holding and cutting. That's easy to figure out, but the trickier question is what is the telos for humans? What is their arete?

Aristotle, somewhat unsurprisingly, thought that the telos of humans was to think rationally so the arete of humans is thus to be a philosopher. That's debatable, but the philosophy is one that I've been interested in considering for the past while. What is my telos? What is my purpose? If I can figure that out, then I can also easily figure out what qualities I should embody and tasks I should undertake in order to fulfill my purpose. It's an excellent question to figure out because not only can it provide my life with focus, but I feel that having a purpose is a necessary characteristic for a healthy person. Why else was it torturous when the Nazi's made jewish prisoners repeatedly dig and then fill in holes?

Another interesting, and appealing philosophy concerns sleeping and resting. I've been using an old copy of the Anglican Church's Book of Prayer and it contains prayers for morning and for evening. Of of the morning prayers contains the line "Put away from us worry... that... we may, now that night cometh, receive as from thee thy priceless gift of sleep..." I like the idea that sleep is a gift. I've gotten into the habit of reading before bed and then when the time comes for bed it's a blessing. I can put aside my worries and cares and sleep. When I was a kid sleeping was a chore, it got in the way of playing. Now however, assuming I've accomplished the tasks of the day, it's a blessing.

Another gem from Aristotle is the argument that we do not labour that we might rest, but rest that we might labour. Whatever the telos of our life is, rest is an essential part of it. I don't have to feel guilty if I play video games, so long as it's for the purpose of refreshing and recharging me to carry on the important tasks of my life. It's unhealthy and possibly impossible to be continuously committed to one's true purpose so periods of rest and relaxation are necessary. It's one of the Ten Commandments that we take a day off work. Jesus later states that this isn't for God's sake but our own. Suddenly there is so much freedom in a day off after a week of work or a holiday after several months of labour. It's not an indulgent treat, but a necessary part of continuing on in the labour to which we are to do.

I hope to reach the stage where I can have a full understanding of what my purpose in life is so I can spend each day working on the tasks and virtues necessary to fulfill my purpose. Then I can also spend each night and Sabbath resting comfortably in the knowledge that by doing nothing I'm furthering my efficacy. That to me, seems like a recipe for a successful life.

My Finest Writing

2011-09-04T23:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get a bit depressed when I consider what I've done with my life so far. There are many people who've achieved great success in life by the time they reached my age but so far I'm just plugging along. However, it may also be somewhat of a mixed blessing achieving greatness early in life because for the rest of your life you have to try and surpass the lofty heights already reached. I haven't reached lofty heights, but I do have the curse of knowing that it's unlikely that I will ever be able to write a finer story than one that I've already written.

I stumbled across a copy of it this evening while looking through some old mementos at my mom's place. It's called "The Snake" and I wrote it in grade two. I think you'll enjoy it.

The Snake

by Eddie Smith

Dedicated to Graham, and Janna and Lisa.

Once upon a time there was a rattle snake. She was a smart snake. She could tell things apart. She could even tell two wasps apart. But she could never answer this question. Guess what it was? How to have a baby. She did not like that at all because everyone wanted to know how to have one, so they asked her. She did not want to be embarrassed, so she would say that she was busy and go on her way.

One day she was slithering along when she saw a male snake. He looked very wise. So she asked him how to have a baby. This is what he said.
"Please show me your house and let me live with you and I will tell you."
So she let him live with her. She was pleased to have him in her house.
One day she screamed. The boy wiggled as fast as he could into her underground room. And there were some shiny white eggs. He was proud to have some children. He counted one, two, three, four, five, six seven, seven shiny eggs. The male said that you have to mate to have babies.

One day the male was out hunting when he caught a mouse and swallowed it whole. Then he went home. When he got there he saw seven little baby snakes, four boys and three girls. They loved to be strong. But they always were aware of a hawk or an eagle that may be flying around. They grew up healthy and lived happily ever after.

The End.

There are some fine illustrations as well, but you'll just have to take my word on it.

Planting Cons from a Pro.

2011-05-06T17:50:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, partway through my fourth season of tree planting I did something that at the time seemed nothing more than a passing amusement but in retrospect turned out to be one of the most notable things that I've done in my life.

I began tree planting the way most people did, in complete ignorance. My cousin had gone the previous two years and came back boasting of the money to be made. Eager for new adventure and the promised cash I applied and was hired. Having done two summers of tar and gravel roofing in the heat of the Okanagan Valley I thought I knew what miserable work was, but that was when I was still young and naive. Tree planting presented days of absolute torment although liberally interspersed with times of fun and laughter.

In hindsight it was somewhat surprising that I had made it so far as fourth season. I made decent money but certain not enough that planting would be the obvious choice of summer employment. I persevered partly because somewhere in the midst of the off season the painful memories would fade away leaving only the memories of the fun times. By the time the next planting season began I was positively excited to get out there. (The excitement generally lasted until about the third tree)

The other reason I kept it up was because the notion of quitting never really seemed a viable option. (Which was strange because I had made quitting a bit of a lifestyle with things such as piano lessons, chemistry 12, a woodworking course and grade nine.) I had shared in the laughter as we made jokes about the other rookies who had quit because of a "sore back" which is a euphemism for "not tough enough". I had no good reason not to quit and quitting due to not liking it was the same as admitting that I was a sissy. So there I was, in the truck driving home in the middle of my fourth season, more experienced than all but my foreman.

I realized then that it just wasn't worth it for me. I realized through experience that there was a good chance that I would forget and wind up planting again so I decided to put into writing my motivation to not plant again. I did it in the form of a letter to myself listing exactly why I hated planting. Surprisingly this little action, that was as much a way to pass the time while getting a laugh as it was a serious letter became something of a legend. (A very humble legend of course) I have been shocked though by the number of people who mention this letter that I wrote years ago. The surprising thing for me is that the majority of the people who bring it up never even read the letter themselves.

I am on the cusp of starting my eighth season planting so obviously the note failed. I'm looking forward to the season so maybe I should give it a close read. Here it is, complete and unabridged:

Dear Future Ed,

When you read this you will have forgotten about a few things concerning planting. Please read the following before considering season five. Planting sucks. It REALLY, REALLY, SUCKS.

There are lots of bugs. Mosquitos, no see-ums, black flies, and the annoying flies that circle your head forever. The plants are no better. Devil's club, stinging nettle, branches that trip you or stab you in the eye, mouth, nose or crotch. There are errant shovels into the knee or shin. The job is really boring and you always need to plant more trees. There are camps to set up and take down and of course reefers to unload. There are gong show days because of course no one ever knows what is going on.

Of course don't forget rain days. They are much colder and more miserable than you remember. There are trucks that get stuck or have flat tires. Some days are unbearably hot and others that are unbearably cold. Morning come too early and are far too cold. The weeks are long as are the days because there will be blocks that need to be closed off even if it means staying several hours late. The work is out of town so you will miss the best part about living in Kelowna, the summer. Baggin up in general sucks. Wet bags in the morning suck. Wet boot suck. Gettting out of the trucks in the morning sucks. Rocks, stick mat, grass mat, roots and creamy red rot that you can't plant suck.

Planting makes the whole body hurt but nobody gives any sympathy. Sometimes you go really hard but mistakes happen and replanting really, really, really sucks. You are always stuck in camp and days off are far too short. I've mentioned it already but rain days really suck. There are snow days, hail days, and sleet days. There are steep hills to plant and long walk ins. There are wasp nests as well. This list is not conclusive because there is too much to list. Don't be persuaded by promises of big money because the money isn't worth it.

Dangerous people to watch out out for are Lee Keller, Justus Smith, perhaps Clint (All whom are previous foreman who might have tried to get me to plant again) but most of all, ignore what Ed Smith tries to convince you. You don't remember. I am here and the job sucks. Please don't plant next year.

Sincerely,

Ed Smith

Large Medium Art

2010-10-31T14:10:00.000-07:00

The building slowly retreated into the background as I walked into the woods. There’s a mysticism about nature, of which I am sceptical. Many choose to unreservedly champion the grandeur of nature, but I’ve spent too many hours working outdoors to hold such a position. Natural beauty is manifold and immense, but rather like the stripes of a tiger, sublimely beautiful but deadly if admired too closely. The beauty of nature is exquisite, but not unconditionally so.

It was not surprising then, that as I looked around me the thought crept into my head, “it’s not so beautiful here right now, it’s almost ugly.” Undoubtedly a few weeks ago the forest would have been alive with colour and majesty. The colours of autumn can alight the landscape in an unmatched visual cornucopia. The leaves now however, lay underfoot, already decomposing and creating a soft, brown carpet. The landscape was almost entirely brown, with only the early morning frost to add a touch of colour to the monochrome.

The sound of a creek drew me in. I stepped down the sides of the bank, feet almost touching the iced over water. An empty bucket in the centre of the creek, trapped by a rock dam, blighted the scene. I stood there for a moment considering whether it was worth attempting to retrieve it but my mind wandered and the thought was forgotten rather than rejected.

I looked down and noticed that there was a layer of ice at the bottom of the creek and then water flowing over top. The white of the ice contrasted with the brown creek bottom, perfectly visible in through the silt free water. I watched as some air bubbles flowed with the current, trapped beneath the glassy layer of surface ice. The bubbles would flow together, lazily meet and disperse. It crossed my mind that although stunning natural beauty was absent, there was still a poetry to the area. A small fish lazily flapped his fins in order to maintain his position in the stream. A second later he disappeared. The water was perfectly clear but the camouflage was too clever for my eyes. Only due to his movement as the current pulled him downstream was I able to make him out again.

Turning, I faced the bank. The sides of the bank rose several feet above where I was standing so I was able to view the sparsely treed forest at almost eye-level. The light of the morning sun lit up countless shimmering spider webs. The underbrush, now devoid of leaves, were tinselled in these threads of light, constantly moving and changing. The light would climb up and down the web, illuminating it and then leaving, and the strands would disappear. Many strands glowed white, one, a vivid indigo, leapt out from the rest. Then I caught sight of two rose hips still clinging to a bush. These splashes of red against the varied hues of brown offered a consummate counterpoint. A fallen tree blocked the sun, but its light gleamed on the underside of the log, a flash of brilliance captured by a thick cobweb.

I considered the scene. The sound of the creek rippled in the background, the chill air cleansed my pores and awakened me to miracle being alive. My breath was a cloud of glistening, tiny diamonds that swirled before dissipating into the frosty air. Deer tracks underfoot and blue sky above; I turned my head half a degree and the scene adjusted anew, revealing another perspective of majesty. In each half a second the details altered, offering up a new treasure, like an artist unable to finish a painting because with each passing second new inspiration would compel the brush to canvas. The forest which had first appeared dead to me, now was alive, brought to life by the light of the sun. I could not escape the resplendent beauty; it stretched out near and far in all directions.

As I left the sanctified setting my eyes involuntarily swept upwards. The sky, empty of clouds, was rich blue. The moon, distant and beautiful, half peeked out from the shadow of the Earth. Doubtless the beauty of the Earth remained even as my eyes now fixed themselves on the moon’s glory. My mind was unable to cope with the splendour and I was obliged to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to the artist capable of creating on such a scale, and with perfect harmonization from all the senses. I beheld but a portion of a cosmic masterpiece that changes through time, not dying, but being reborn.

As I walked back to the lodge the world reverted to its mundane normalcy. The divine sparks so evident before now retreated. My eyes, minutes earlier alert to every consecrated detail, were blinded once again. I mentally began composing these words to describe the experience, knowing that with time the emotions would fade into a two dimensional memory, like a snapshot of a mountain rather than the mountain itself. My mind, at work crafting sentences, was distracted by a squirrel running through the trees like an invitation; the divine may always be seen, if I but allow my eyes to be opened.

Thoughts Important Enough to Keep Me Until 3:25 am.

2010-10-20T00:38:00.000-07:00

I often read Dan Savage's sex column Savage Love but as often as not I find myself disagreeing with his advice. That's probably not too surprising considering our respective worldviews. However, I recently read his column and was quite impacted by his response. The response can be found here, in reply to the first letter.

If there's one thing I believe with all my heart about Christianity, it's that God desperately loves all people, including those who are gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered. However, there are some unfortunate verses that condemn these practices. Previously, I mentally filed these prohibitions with others such as premarital sex, drunkenness and abortion; not really condemnable if someone is not a practicing Christian. (and I would be very frugal with any sort of judgment) A parallel would be the fact that I'm not a Muslim so I don't feel that I should be chastised for not fasting during Ramadan. I then congratulated myself on my forward thinking liberalism. I could love the sinner and hate the sin. (Although I never understood why I even had to hate this particular sin.)

I read L.R's letter and thought it to be fairly well written with a balanced perspective. Rather naive perhaps to try and win Dan's sympathy, but certainly not the sort of thing that I would be ashamed to write. Then I read Dan's reply, by the grace of God I managed to do so without getting defensive. Here was someone who seemed to have a similar, almost equally accepting viewpoint as mine and for this Dan flew into a spitting rage. In that reply I managed to see clearly how Christianity looks from the outside and it certainly isn't pretty. It was definitely not the sort of group that I would choose to associate with. I saw Dan's hatred for Christians and I also saw why.

Of course this wasn't the first time that I've seen the church in an unflattering light. (To employ the grossest of understatements.) I know about the Crusades, I know about the history of racism, oppression of women and I know of the Catholic church's cover up of pedophilia. In that single sentence I've already mentioned an unthinkable amount of pain and suffering caused by Christians but I haven't even scratched the surface of the terrors done in God's name.

Yet I still name myself among this group, often times regretfully. I stay though, because of grace. Though ironically all too invisible in the church, the grace that I so desperately need can only be found here. When I see the horrors of this world, the gospel of grace seems more important than ever. There are people who are guilty of the most abominable crimes and someone must be held to account. Yet these same people are often victims of the most abominable crimes; I can't say that I would act any different having grown up in their situation. How can I blame them when I honestly feel that the difference between their crimes and mine is that mine are less severe because my life has been less severe. I want to forgive them because I myself want forgiveness.

But then how can the women being repeatedly gang raped in the Congo forgive their assailants? How can the starving in India forgive the those who economically enslave them while living comfortable lives of affluence? How can children who are forced into prostitution forgive those who abuse them? To offer a blank check of forgiveness to the guilty is an outrageous insult to those who have been wronged.

Gandhi said that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Every antagonist has also been a victim. Everyone is guilty. Justice isn't a matter of deciding which crimes are damnable and which aren't. The women in the Congo didn't give those men permission to sexual exploit them. Neither did the women whom I've lust after give permission to me to entertain my selfish thoughts. Is one crime forgivable and the other not?

Only Christianity offers complete justice. As Chesterton writes,

"Christianity came in here as before. It came in startlingly with a sword, and clove one thing from another. It divided the crime from the criminal. The criminal we must forgive unto seventy times seven. The crime we must not forgive at all."

Every crime has been answered for. Every criminal can go free. Grace is what the world needs, and grace is what I need; I found it in the Church and now I'm stuck there, in the same group who persecutes those who are stuck in a different group, the LGBT group.

Christians have screwed up big time, spewing hateful messages devoid of love or grace. By failing to offer grace, it's now us who are in need of it. Grace and forgiveness for the horrible things said in done in the name of Jesus, a man who came to freely offer grace to everyone. I think that the world already knows what the Bible says about homosexuality. I think that it's time that they learn what it says about grace and love. No, I think it's time that the world sees what the Bible says about grace and love. We've sunk too far. Words aren't going to cut it anymore. I think it's time to show that Christian everywhere care desperately about people, people who are so ostracized that they're taking their own lives. It doesn't help if we grieve these deaths in silence. If we don't care then we've missed entirely the message of God.

That's What He Said.

2010-01-26T19:45:00.000-08:00

Writing a paper the other day I came across the dilemma of whether to write a gender neutral, though cumbersome sentence, or if I should write in the traditional, more elegant, though sexist manner. I made a quick note of the dilemma as a facebook status update and then went back to procrastinating from my paper. I thought nothing more of the subject until I went back the next day only to discover that over thirty comments had been written on the topic. On the one hand there were a few guys saying gender neutral language is stupid, on the other there was a host of women saying it isn't, with the support of a few guys.

Of course the debate hinged on the notion of equality. It is doubtful that any society in history has ever treated women with full equality, though the Western world has made huge steps in this area. However, as many point out, there's still a long way to go, as reflected in the firmly embedded language biases. Feminists see these biases as an insulting inheritance of a patriarchal society, something that needs to be relegated to the history bin like other injustices before.

I am in favour of equality of course. I think that most everybody thinks that equality is a good thing, a fair thing. The only reason one might conceivably argue against equality, is because things are unfair in his favour. (I thought that might be one sentence where I could get away with using an uspecified masculine pronoun.) Of the guys who protested the change to the use of gender neutral language, not one argued that women don't deserve equality or that equality is a bad thing. That's because the position is completely untenable. If the language is obviously biased, which it is, and inequality is obviously unjust, which it is, then there's really no good argument against gender neutral language.

Except perhaps, there's the fact that if the pursuit of equality at some point becomes infantile. There is no demographic more perceptive to inequality than children. Their ubiquitous appeals to the standard of equality are often correct though as often as not, the authority figure meets the appeal not with sympathy but rather the comment, "life's not fair." It's true. Life is not fair and the sooner that is learned the better. Of course one could argue then that the pursuit of equality is futile and should not be attempted but of course that argument is spurious. However, at some point a line needs to be drawn between unacceptable inequality and acceptable inequality. That of course is a task that defies unanimity.

It is an oft noted fact that women are proportionally underrepresented in high corporate and political positions. It is a telling litmus test that demonstrates the necessity of rectifying the sexism that prevents equal representation. This is mere speculation, but I imagine that bald men are also an underrepresented demographic. If not bald men, then perhaps short men, or obese men. It could then be argued that the discrimination that keeps short, bald men from being elected to public office is a great problem that needs rectifying but I certainly would not donate money to the cause.

The challenge of equality includes so many variables that even if it were possible to put every person on an even playing field, it would be impossible to discern what disadvantages cancel out what advantages. In the case of a hypothetical election for example: one candidate is a women, though she had access to the right schools, another is a man but he grew up in an abusive household, another man had a great family life but he likes to grow a handlebar moustache. Which candidate has the advantage?

Assessing inequalities is a useful practice to determine where discrimination occurs but the irony is that knowledge and subsequent attempts to rectify discrimination can lead to more discrimination. I am sure that many Caucasian men have been rejected in favour of a less qualified candidate because the less qualified person was from either a minority or discriminated group. The quest for inequality often begets new inequality. However, it is probably acceptable collateral damage.

Concisely put, my point is that life is not fair and it is wrong to try and fix every inequality. When some people have plenty and others starve to death, that is a problem that demands attention. When some have access to education and others do not, that demands attention. When some people live in mansions and others sleep on the streets, that is a problem that demands attention. When I write an essay and use the word "man" to refer to all humans... my gut feeling is that it is not that big a deal, especially when one considers that the alternative "humankind" is almost equally patriarchal.

My gut reaction carries little value however, in the presence of countless women who think it does matter. I have to accept the fact that my male perspective is not optimal for making these judgment calls. I think that it is important for myself, and other men to put greater value on the opinion of women on this question. If the majority of women say gender neutral language is important then I ought to change, even though I hate most of the gender neutral options available.

Speak Well Of, Etymologically Speaking

2009-12-26T08:59:00.000-08:00

I have decided to write my own eulogy. I don't want to leave something so important to somebody else; it's a sort of "if you want something done right" sort of thing. Some people might say that you can't write write your own eulogy but that of course is nonsense. Everybody does it. In fact, that's what people spend their whole lives doing. Granted, someone else is usually responsible for a succinct idealized summary, but the raw material is autobiographical.

I should clarify though. When I said that I was going to write my own eulogy, I meant the succinct, idealized summary. This isn't some sort of preparation for death, but rather for living. The problem with life is that there's no dress rehearsal. So far I've been ad-libbing my lines which works to a point, but if I want to look back upon my life with few regrets I'm going to need a script. Of course life throws too many curve balls to script exactly so my eulogy is going to be a script of values.

For example, when I'm dead I want people to look back on my life and say, "I really admire how Ed always gave his best effort, no matter what the task." Of course if I died today nobody who knew me would say that. That's why I want to write this eulogy. I'll be able to see my values written out so I can live them.

Here's another example. "Man Ed was a great uncle!"

I gotta go. My nephew is calling me! (I'll write the eulogy later.)

An Incomplete List of Things That I Love:

2009-10-12T10:06:00.000-07:00

In no particular order:

Coffee
Persimmons
Crisp, fall apples
Beer
Turkey dinners
Toast with Marmite
Christmas morning coffee
Ice Cream
J.S. Bach's Ciaconna in D minor
Afternoon Naps
Laughing
Wool Socks
A hug from a friend
Sunshine
Moist chocolate chip cookies followed by a glass of milk
The night sky lit up by countless stars
Good books
Kind words from a friend
Reading anything that my sister wrote
Smells that take me back to childhood, say Vicks Vapor Rub
Beating the opponent to the ball
Biking to the top of a hill in a hurry
Holding babies
Mountains
Diving into cool, clear, freshwater
The Four Seasons
And of course,
Family and friends
The faith to believe that these blessings are gifts, not accidents

Boasting in First Person is so Vulgar.

2009-10-07T14:36:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about cycling today and I was reminded of an email written several weeks ago. The recipient of the email suggested that I post it as a blog. So, here it is.

Picture this.

Last Friday afternoon, a bearded man takes off from the university on a customized red bicycle. It's single speed and has sawed off drop bars turned upside down so that they look like bull horns. While waiting at the intersection of 29th St and 16th Ave NW another cyclist comes up behind the bearded one.

"What gear ration are you using?" he asks.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure. My roommate made this bike. When riding this bike I'm a bit of a fraud because it makes me look like a bike nut but I did not customize it nor do I know much about bikes."

The light turns green and the bearded man sets off, quickly to demonstrate that he may not be an expert in the mechanics of bicycles, but he does know how to make one go.

He races down the hill by Foothills Hospital, remembering another trip down that hill that ended in a unfortunate collision that ended the life of his road bike's back wheel. He turns through the neighbourhood while the other cyclist continues on to the intersection at Memorial Drive.

The bearded man crosses Memorial further east at a cross walk. Eastbound on the pathway he notices the inquisitive cyclist not too far behind him. Bearded Man crosses on the Crowchild Bridge and heads west to where the pathway heads up a steep gradient, a favourite hill of his that he used to do daily on his work commute. Normally he pushes himself up this hill, but on rare occasions he is a bit lazier upon his ascent. Not today though, he powers up as fast as possible, knowing that the cyclist following behind is aware that he only has one speed to work with. He makes it to the top of the hill still ahead of the other cyclist, a bike commute regular. The other cyclist comments, "You're strong!" Bearded Man's attempts to casually shrug off the compliment are perhaps successful, though a keen observer of human emotion would note the pride written across his bristly countenance.

The two cyclist ride together talking "bikes" until their paths diverge and the bearded one goes to the market and the other to whither the road leads.

That same evening the Bearded Man makes his way home. He powers up a steep pathway that leads into Crescent Heights. Later he pulls up to an intersection. There are two lanes, the right lane, the one he occupies, is used for vehicles going straight or turning right. A car pulls up behind the bearded man, indicating right. Bearded Man, being a considerate sort of cyclist, moves tight to the car in the left lane, a car also going straight. This car is piloted by a young mother who has three young boys with her, two who are on the passenger side, one front and one in the rear seat. There attention is caught by the cyclist riding his bike on the road like a car. They call out "Hi" through the open window. Bearded Cyclist returns their salutations but then the light turns green and he is off like a bullet, easily beating the car off the line. He maintains his lead for at least half a block. The car catches up and the boys look in wonder at the man who can bike so fast. They probably didn't realize that he was riding an old, single speed mountain bike and that he could be considerably faster on a road bike.

Bearded Cyclist arrives to his house in Cambrian Heights. The ride from the market to home, including a quick stop to check the mail at his previous Chateau took less than 45 minutes. He proudly strides into the house. Lance Armstrong would be hard pressed to beat him, and would certainly fail in any type of facial hair-growing competition.

Catty

2009-08-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

A blog post inspired by Calvin French's response to Debbi's facebook post. I hope that those who are unfamiliar with the background information will still manage to find some appreciation for the story.

After the ceremony concluded, the Queen of Cats summoned her personal advisor, Mittens, asking, "The Heroes who were honoured today, why were their names familiar?"

The advisor was unable to meet her eye. He looked away in obvious discomfort, knowing the answer would bring displeasure. The Queen fixed her most regal, demanding stare upon the taciturn advisor. The only movement was the involuntary flick of the tail. Finally summoning all his courage, Mittens replied, "They were among those..." Mittens only continued after the Queen let out a soft yet threatening meow.

"Among those involved in... the Incident."

The Queen leapt to her feet in anger. Without a word she left the room, courtiers looked about nervously while Mittens quickly followed behind advocating that she take heed.

They sped to the North Tower of the Palace. The guard at the door started protesting her presence but was quickly silenced by an icy, feline glare. The Queen ascended the stairs and didn't stop until she reached the top. She proceeded to the end of a dark corridor and looked in through the close bars to see the darkened form of a reclining cat, sleeping softly.

The Queen let out a quiet hiss and the reclining cat awoke instantly and with mien of a titled lord, greeted the Queen.

"You!" the queen angrily hissed. "Are you ready to recant your fiendish doctrine and order your followers to cease your hopeless rebellion?"

The incarcerated feline laughed softly.

"I will cease to breath before I cease the rebellion. However, you understand that I only rebel against one minor aspect of your reign, your misguided trust and fondness of humans."

"You've already given me your tired arguments about the failings of humans! Today we honoured two humans who, for no reason beyond compassion, rescued four kittens, orphaned and fated to die, took them in and cared for them. And these humans, so common they even keep a dog!"

"Four kittens saved? It's likely that humans orphaned the kittens. Humans have always held kittens in high regard, but since leaving the banks of the Nile 3000 years ago humans only see cats as a sign of bad luck. In a short while these "heroes" will have four cats, will they be so willing to share their house then? Sure there are humans who "love" cats. They take them in as kittens and are bewitched by the slightest purr or meow. But then they enslave the minds of these kittens with soft beds and delicate food and then "fix" them to keep them kittens. CATS AREN'T BROKEN!"

The prisoner leapt up suddenly and padded by the door in a practiced motion, the light and shadow casting tiger stripes across his body. He fixed a disdainful glance at Mittens who, upon his sudden movement, had involuntarily arched his back and fluffed his fur despite the protective barrier that confined the traitor.

"Humans are a curse! They have oppressed and subjugated cats for millennia, the fact that some cats willingly subject themselves does not make it right! If you wish to honour these humans for their mercy, fine. Perhaps these kittens feel gratitude. It's misplaced. Their salvation comes at the cost of a life of servitude. It would have been better if they died! I for one will never recant, and should I ever escape these confines I will continue my battle against you and against humans. I will use all my feline powers to enact revenge upon humanity for the unspeakable horrors historically and presently enacted against our kind!"

The queen silently rose to her feet ignoring the crazed laughter emanating from the cell and echoing through the hall. She came to the saddened conclusion that the rebel would forever remain inexplicably embittered against humans. The queen quietly left the tower, leaving also the hope of repentance and reform from the rebel, and leaving forever high security prisoner 269384, aka Dexter, to serve his lifetime sentence, no chance of parole.

Acting Strangely

2009-08-25T16:39:00.000-07:00

One thing I love is relating funny or outrageous events that have occurred to me. Another thing I enjoy, though on a far lesser scale, is making large sums of money. An awkward situation is quickly diffused by laughter, and I also love laughing.

My friend is a doctor. We were driving together once and talking about his experiences in med school. if one is interested in getting cheap haircuts it is possible to go to a hair dressing school and have students practice on you. however, it's not so easy for med students to practice their skills. For them, actors are required.

It's often the case that doctors, to do a proper examination, require the patient in various states of undress and to poke and prod various places that by nature, necessitates the wearing of gloves. So while it's possible that there are people would would be willing to voluntarily subject themselves to this ignominy, these volunteers would be few and with questionable motives.

Money can be persuasive though, and suitable amounts can persuade enough people to submit themselves to the prying hands of callow student physicians.

What all this taken together means, I've been entertaining the thought of becoming a med school actor. The reasons are simple:

1. It's a good way to make money.

2. It's a good way to make life interesting

3. It's a good way to meet female med students.

So far I've been all talk and bluster. I've made no steps towards applying for this job. Perhaps it's mostly fear, although a large amount of laziness as well. I don't want to expend a lot of energy only to be turned down for the position, or worse, accepted.

Rereading the reasons I've given for the job, I suppose that the first would be more accurate if rendered, "It's a way to make good money." And the the third would be more truthful as "it's a way to meet female med students." Really though, it's the second argument that I find the most compelling. I've had some bad jobs in the past, but I think I could do worse...

You Gotta Start Somewhere

2009-02-18T12:08:00.000-08:00

My current job is in some ways the best job that I ever had. I work at an organic produce store, stocking produce in between time spent chatting with colleagues and sampling the food. It's fairly different from my first job

My first real job, one that required a SIN number and paying taxes, was with a roofing company in Kelowna. I was seventeen years old and it was the summer going into grade twelve. The roofing company was a commercial roofing company specializing in tar and gravel roofing. Construction workers in general are known as being a little bit rough around the edges, this I knew. However, what I didn't know is that in the hierarchy amongst construction workers, roofers, being the coarsest, form the bottom level. All I knew is that the job paid $10 an hour which was at least two dollars an hour higher than any of the other jobs I saw available.

Through persistence I managed to land the job and so I began work on a condo up on the ski hill. The roof was getting replaced which meant there was a lot of work for a young grunt labourer. Firstly, the old roof had to come off. This meant removing the gravel from atop the roof. We would shovel the gravel into a large wheelbarrow and once that was full it was wheeled up a ramp to clear the parapet and dumped over the edge of the roof.

Before beginning this job I was a chubby teenager with silky smooth soft hands and virgin ears. Well, shoveling gravel is rather heavy work and it was well before coffee time that I was absolutely exhausted. My shovel loads grew smaller and I dreaded having to push the wheelbarrow. I didn't know that I could balance it properly let alone run it up the ramp and then dump it. Somehow I made it through.

Underneath the gravel was a layer of styrofoam insulation which was to be removed. We, the bottom of the rung labourers, gathered pieces of insulation into a large tarp which we then bundled up like a hobo's pack, tied the four corners together and then hurled the package off the roof with the intention of landing it in the dump truck below.

The dump truck waited below, eleven stories down, which meant there was a good amount of time to watch the bundle fly off target and hit the ground only to break open and send styrofoam everywhere. Another guy was on the ground and his responsibility was dumping the insulation into the truck and then tying the empty tarps to a rope.

This man, Ron, I will never forget for he might be the most disagreeable man that I've ever come across. In hindsight I don't know if he fed me a lot of lies, but the stories he told were not pleasant stories. They involved unwanted kittens and shotguns, or named bullets to be worn around the neck until the proper opportunity presented itself. Whenever the tarp would miss the truck it meant more work cleaning up styrofoam so Ron would yell and curse at me. He was intimidating because he was also the most muscular man that I've ever met.

I wasn't strong, but I was getting there. For Ron would tie the empty tarps to a rope that dangled from the top of the building and I would haul it up hand over hand. An empty tarp doesn't weigh too much... at first. Sometimes tools would be needed from the truck and then I would have to haul up a bucket of tools, hand over hand. The roof was getting finished with torch on, a material that comes in three foot wide rolls that weighed about ninety pounds if I remember correctly. These rolls had to be carried to where the journeymen roofers needed them and I was the ideal mule. Sometimes they had to be carried up ladders, one hand holding the roll on my shoulder and the other gripping the ladder.

Another joy was filling the tar kettle; basically a trailer which heated tar to several hundred degrees. The tar came in 100lb blocks and I had to lift the block and slowly lower it into the hot, liquid tar. I couldn't drop it because if the tar splashed and landed on me, it would burn (because it was hot) and stick (because it was sticky.) If you touch hot tar the thing you have to do is wait until it's cool enough to remove. The smell of the tar wasn't pleasant either.

So while my friends were working at McDonald's or sitting on the beach I was spending time working harder than I ever had before, and working with guys who couldn't string together a sentence without the use of an expletive and who used the rest of their vocabulary discussing the primary subjects of beer, sex, and occasionally work. Usually just a combination of the first two subjects though.

The sweetest time of the day came as we packed up to go home. The ski hill is about 45 minutes from Kelowna so I had a long drive to enjoy and usually sleep. Three of the roofers would often split a six pack, I assumed that the driver was sufficiently accustomed to alcohol that he would be able to safely pilot us down the winding road. The empty cans would be thrown out the window and would occasionally make contact with the targeted road signs. And I would sit back in my seat and look forward to school starting again.

The Price of Love

2009-01-03T20:26:00.000-08:00

The last two visits I made to Kelowna were made because of my grandmother. The first visit in November was because she was taken to the hospital and if I wanted to see her again, I knew that I should quickly make the trip. I went again over Christmas holidays, this time to attend her memorial service. Both times I saw love personified in the actions of my grandparents. From here on in I will refer to them by the Frisian terms for grandpa and grandma, Pake and Beppe, because that is how I've always known them.

I remember on the first visit, dropping in at the hospital to find my grandparents holding hands while my Pake (grandpa) read a book to my Beppe. You don't hear it much in weddings anymore, but the vows of "in sickness and in health" came to mind. While my Beppe was in the hospital, my Pake would visit her several times a day and on occasion wake up and visit her during the night when she was scared or lonely.

That's the thing about love, it's about giving. Love isn't some feeling or emotion, or at least not true love. Love is sacrifice. I recently asked my Mom what family life was like growing up. She told me that although everything said about Beppe being a wonderful, loving, and caring wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother was true, there were times when she was quite difficult to live with. That of course is true of everybody. What then, kept my grandparents together for nearly 58 years?

If you are going to build a tower, don't you first estimate the cost to see if you have enough money? Likewise, if you enter into a relationship you should estimate the cost; love isn't cheap. I don't think love is splitting everything fifty fifty. Love is always a gamble. Love is giving everything in the hope that you will win love in return. Love means dying to yourself.

My grandparents loved each other. No doubt about it. They gambled and won. Nearly six decades they spent loving each other, even in times when it was hard. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health until death did them part. Now perhaps, my Pake is paying the hardest price of all because love can't halt aging and death. After a lifetime, he is now alone with thoughts and memories.

If one were callous they might ask him whether it was all worth it. A life spent giving and giving of himself only to lose in the end. A life without a wife and subsequent children would probably have been far easier and definitely cheaper. Instead, he choose the expensive cost of loving another with everything that he had. The price of love is high, but love is what we were made to do.

Tragically Hip Misogyny

2008-11-29T21:17:00.000-08:00

I was eating lunch today at work and listening to the music that was playing. Since it was in the back employees can choose any sort of music they want. Playing today was some sort of electronic dance music. It incorporated some sort of repetitive electronic music and repetitive lyrics sans melody. If you haven't gathered by the repetitive use of the word repetitive, I'm not a huge fan. However, it wasn't the music that got me so angry today.

I can't exactly remember the lyric exactly though I should, since it was repeated for an extended period of time. The lyric went something like, "I'm a pimp and you my ho." If that isn't the lyric it certainly is close to being the theme. It was a sort of boastful claim. Now I know that music needs to push the limits in order be considered new and edgy. I also know that the limits have been pushed to a great extent so not much is taboo anymore. However, I found myself being incredibly offended by the song.

I know that the term pimp is roughly synonymous with "cool" but I find it to be nothing more than shockingly ignorant and callous; because of course, the word is also a word to describe a man who controls prostitutes. I am of course, woefully ignorant of the world of prostitution and pimps. I wouldn't hesitate to say, despite this ignorance, that the relationship between pimps and hoes would best be described as master and slave.

If some artist wrote a song bragging about having black slaves picking cotton for him he would be severely castigated, and rightly so. Why then is there absolutely no censure for bragging about what I can only see as fleshmongering? Maybe I am missing so new definition of the terms pimps and hoes, but I don't think so.

What is so cool about the pimp and ho lifestyle? Why is that when dance clubs have their pimp and ho nights, they are widely attended and enjoyed? Do the guys not see how offensive it is to dress as pimps? Do the girls not see how degrading be the mindless, trashy dressed, property of the guys? Do they not care?

I don't think that I will let the term pimp slide by in conversation anymore. So unless you're desiring a diatribe on the evil of pimping, I would avoid using the word in my company in anything other than the original, contemptuous context. I'm not the most ardent of feminists, but I think this is one place that I draw the line.

Time's Up.

2008-11-13T22:48:00.000-08:00

It's a little too reminiscent of Patch Adams so I decided against it, sort of. What I thought was to start this blog with a list of euphemisms such as: bought the farm, kicked the can, pushing up daisies, shuffled off this mortal coil, passed away, went to a better place, met their maker, et cetera ad infinitum. Point is, there seems to be a necessity of avoiding words like death and die.

This point was driven home on Tuesday. On Monday night my grandma, or Beppe as we call her, went to the hospital with complications arising from cancer. She has had cancer for years now but it has been kept under control through a specialized treatment that is only available, I think, in Amsterdam and Edmonton. Because of this treatment she has lived a fairly regular life for the past several years despite having cancer.

The happy ever after fairy tale seemed to be ending on Monday though. She became quite sick and suffered from vomiting and other symptoms of malaise. The doctors told us to "prepare for the worst" as I'm sure they euphemistically put it, when some fluid entered her lungs. Her children put everything on hold and rushed to be by her side while I sat helpless in Calgary re-appreciating how important this woman is to my life.

Tuesday I spoke with her for what was presumably to be the last time. This is what spurred me to later think about death and its euphemisms. My mom had told me that Beppe was at peace with death and obviously understood the severity of her condition. I was aware and wanted to make sure that she understood how much I love her and how much I appreciate the important role that she's played in my life. The problem is that there is the unspoken rule that prohibits people from speaking about death.

Death and taxes right? Everybody knows that it's inevitable. But consider the following hypothetical situation. While driving you come across an accident. You rush to help and discover the driver alive but sufficiently injured that there is obviously no hope whatsoever of survival. Now in times like these people have a powerful desire to have some last words, to tell friends and family how important they are and that sort of thing. There are thoughts that need to be vocalized prior to death. The stereotypical, "tell _____ that I love her" sort of thing. However, when you come to this doomed person do you ask, "Do you have anything that you want me to tell your loved ones?" or do you lie and say, "Hold on, you're going to be OK."

You might ask the first question but I'm sure that the instinctive reaction is the second comment. There is almost an imperative that you can't admit death as if it is somehow shameful to die. Speaking with my Beppe I tried to tell her how much I love her and what she means to me but likely I stated it awkwardly because the whole time I was trying desperately to avoid any words that implied she was about to die. Thus the past tense became entirely taboo. I love you is easy but when I tried to tell her how important she's been in my life it sounded too final, like she was important but those times are ending.

She told me that she knew where she was going. What do I say to that?

Well at the time it was assumed she hadn't long to live but she survived the night and doctors were more optimistic in the morning. But no matter how optimistic they become she's still mortal. Hopefully I'll get to speak with her again but it's certain that one day I won't be able to tell her anything more. I fly tomorrow to go visit. I will try harder to say what I feel.

The question of this blog is, "why are we so ashamed of death?" I think that this is a direct quote from Patch Adams, maybe I just can't escape that movie. That's the question of the blog but I'm instead going to answer a different question, or at least hazard a guess, on the question of how to live life with the knowledge of death.

I read a great quote by G. K. Chesterton the other day. It wasn't entirely about this question but it is such a cool quote that I'm going to force it in here anyway. He said to, "desire life like water and yet drink death like wine." Writing this quote I see that it fits even less than I had hoped. He was speaking of courage and how a soldier must act if he is surrounded by enemies and needs to escape.

In the case of living though we must love life and live to the fullest. We must desire life like water. However, the knowledge of death must always temper our actions. Death has the fantastic ability of focusing on the important things in life and removing the minor details. Nobody on their deathbed stresses about what colour flowers they had at their wedding though many stress about it at the time. Proximity to death makes things like friends and family of the utmost importance. My Beppe was at peace because her family was with her on what was believed to be her deathbed. Her family was there and there was love so she was happy.

So as we live our lives we must be cognizant of death without fearing death. Look at a clock with a second hand. Each second that ticks is a second less of life. The amount of time left is unknown but it is certain that each second that ticks by brings us one second closer to our last. What are you going to do with your time left? What am I going to do with my time left?

I don't entirely know the answer to the question but I do have a partial answer. I wish to live so that if I'm denied the opportunity of having last words it won't matter because my friends and family will already know that I love them. (Because I lived out my love, and to drive the point home, I regularly told them.)

Life Is More Exciting For Cyclists

2008-10-15T17:16:00.000-07:00

Cyclists and drivers are a bit like boys and girls in a grade two classroom. They are thrust into the same space and told to get along, yet the gulf between the two mentalities is so great that neither side really likes or trusts the other. I have rejoined the world of cyclists and have once more embraced a car hating attitude.

The main problem with cars is that they are bigger, stronger, faster and you know that the driver isn't paying as much attention to the road as to his cell phone, radio and hair. The problem with bikes is that they are slower, harder to see and you know that they are being powered by someone who is slightly insane.

As a cyclist I need to proactively guard against careless drivers because I don't really care who's at fault when I'm run over. Staying alive is a very real priority while biking. One of the dangers when riding is when people pass when there really isn't room to pass. Calgary doesn't have a lot of shoulder room on a lot of its roads so at times I feel most comfortable riding in the lane so cars have to change lanes to pass me. There's a chance that I will delay the driver by half a minute but if that half minute of their time means that I don't die, I think that it's a good deal.

Today I was biking from the university to the Currie Barracks which conveniently lets me bike down 29th Ave by Foothills Hospital. This is a great road because there's a fun hill that allows me to get up to high speeds. I powered past a hapless cyclist while cruising beside the hospital and then started down the hill in a devil may care, hell bent, balls to the wall 60+km/h manner, tucked down so that not one extra molecule of atmospheric friction would delay my trip of insanity.

I think that drivers often feel the urge to pass a cyclist as soon as possible, even when the cyclist is going above and beyond the speed limit. On this hill I get going fast enough that often vehicles slow me down so I didn't feel bad at all about leaving the shoulder and riding behind a van in front of me. I was flying down the hill when the van inexplicably began to slow down.

It is easy to become accustomed to high velocities, it's a familiarity breeds contempt sort of thing. Well it's also very easy to quickly become re-aware of the danger of high velocity, just try and stop in a hurry.

I always figured that a bike should be able to stop twice as fast as a car, but going down that hill the van was definitely slowing down faster than I was. I was braking as hard as possible without skidding and the van was suddenly very big and very close. If the driver happened to look in her rear view mirror at that time it probably would have been quite rewarding. A human face far closer than expected upon looking in the mirror, and a face wearing an expression of panic.

However, I doubt that she looked back until too late. I imagine that she looked back just after upon hearing a thump as she was rear ended by a cyclist. Luckily I had managed to slow my bike down enough; my front tire hits bumper and stops immediately, my inertia compels the back wheel to depart terra firma and I'm airborne, briefly. Soon, gravity being what it is, I'm reacquainted with my earthbound tendencies. A quick, ungraceful roll and I stop. I immediately try and get up, though I think it took a couple of attempts.

The people in the car behind me ask me if I'm alright, I indicate to the positive. The car I hit drives on, either unaware of what occurred, or uncaring. I think that I might have scuffed their bumper so maybe it's good that they didn't stop.

I regain my senses and try to put my chain back on. However the back wheel isn't spinning. A quick inspection reveals the wheel to be bent, more than a little. Looks like it's the bus for me.

So end of the incident tally.

My body-small scrape on arm and leg but otherwise fully intact

My bike- presumably fine except for the damage to the wheel

My pride- wounded, though strong enough to handle greater damage than that. Dare I say it? Pride suffers after the fall.

Blogging Takes Friggin' Practice

2008-09-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

I don't want to do the same old thing that so many of my latest, though by no means recent, blogs have done; speculate the reasons for the declining number of posts that I have been doing. I went to writing multiple times a month to have multiple months pass by without any new posts.

My failure to post regularly has ironically been partly due to that, I wanted to post a new blog but I couldn't really think of anything to write about other than why I'm not writing much at all.

Well with the idea that beggars can't be choosers, my readers, should there be any of you left, will have to be satisfied with what I put down here.

I actually found my way to my blog today through a hyperlink on my church's website. I don't know how I feel about being linked from my church's website. I mean, my blog isn't really a Christian blog though I do at times write about Christian themes. But it's similar to my reason to not want a Christian fish or bumper sticker on my car, I don't want people judging Christianity by what or how I drive. I also don't want people judging my church from my blog. In both cases I don't really think that I project a bad impression, but it's not the honest impression. Rather than read my blog, people who want to know about my church should come out and attend.

The other day in philosophy class we were discussing the end of man by which we mean the end meaning for the existence of humankind. For example, some would say that pleasure is the ultimate aim, others power, others wealth. We were discussing Aristotle's view that this ultimate goal should have no further reasons for being a goal. For this reason he choose happiness as the ultimate end. Because while you could say the goal of attaining wealth would be to buy things, the desire to buy things would be because owning things makes one happy. But why does one want to be happy? Well the answer is to be happy. There are no further reasons.

Aristotle figured that the ultimate aim needs to be able to stand alone. He didn't like the idea of an infinite chain of reasons for every action. One student speculated that perhaps there could be a chain of reasons should the end of man be the satisfaction that comes with achieving each goal. The prof listened and then said, "So in this case the chief aim of man is to get shit done."

So really these last two paragraphs were a long winded explanation for this one simple point. I want to write my blog without worrying that I may cause offense because I'm linked to a church's website. Should I feel the need to include a curse, I want to do it. Well I'm not going to worry. Judging by the quality of this post I should worry about whether people are going to read my blog at all.

Where Did I Lose the Touch?

2008-08-12T16:17:00.000-07:00

It is interesting, to me, to consider the songs of the Beatles. One thing that they all have in common is that they are AWESOME! However, it's interesting to note that when the Beatles split up all four members went on to solo careers and none of the music that they did afterwards was as good as what they did together. Granted they put out some good songs but nothing compared to their Beatles material. It was almost as if their was some magic that they had when working together.

I didn't start this blog to teach about the Beatles though. It is just that they are never a bad place to start and I want you to remember the theory that Paul McCartney is only a great songwriter when working with John Lennon and vice versa and that only with George Harrison and Ringo Starr did they manage to create such timeless, universally appreciated music.

I started blogging October 24, 2004 back when Myspace was trendy. My very first blog went as follows:

"This may work.

I will just try to get something actually posted. My last two blogs seem to be lost somewhere in cyberspace. Weird. So don't criticize me if I don't say anything intellegent here. If you are reading this it means I have already accomplished a lot. That is relatively speaking of course."

I posted perhaps every month or so for the next year, my blogs generally being about the same length and quality as that. In late 2005 I moved to Calgary from Kelowna, in early 2006 I moved in with Calvin and Lisa. My blogs grew longer and I feel the quality improved. Later Kevin moved in and, in my opinion, my blogs grew better still. The Chateau Rockingham stage began and my blogs reached a zenith.

Early this year I went traveling and I started posting fewer blogs but I figured that it was due to lack of access to a computer. Later I was tree planting and I wrote fewer and the quality showed a remarkable drop. I thought things would improve upon finishing my season and yet her I am, with a rather poor excuse for a blog. Today, like many days in the recent past, I was thinking of ways I could rectify this yet I have been unable and somewhat unispired to write the simplest of blogs. I wondered what could possibly have changed when I remembered the Beatles. So now I offer to you the conclusion that I am not responsible for any of the great blogs I wrote, it is more the result of the wonderfully creative environment that I was so priviledged to share.

So, that is why my blog now stinks.

I should quit blogging but I was doubly inspired recently. The other day I used a friend's computer and noticed that my blog was bookmarked. This was good for my ego. As well, the other day I got a comment on an old blog that was very flattering indeed. I hope that I will one day write another Great Blog.

2008-07-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

I logged on to Myspace today because I was looking for a poem that for some reason came to mind the other day. I am not sure of the copyright laws but I am going to risk the lawsuit (this will come back to haunt me after I've made my millions) and post it here without the consent of the talented author.

Ode to a Sheep I Never Actually Sawr by Calvin French

O Sheep!

Hoary-caped perplexed beast!

Your ears jab out:
The gross, pink thumbs of a half-deformed circus performer.
Your legs thrust earthward:
The jealous, stilletto longing of a spindly hollywood anorexic.
Your triangle face stares stupidly:
The free falling emptiness of a heroin addict's last hit.

I want to jump on you, like MARIO!

Butcher and eat you, like MAD, MAD CONSUMERISM!

Spread your colostrum thick on my morning toast, like A FARM BOY!

O Sheep!

Fattened pusher-out of lambs!

Your young bleat nature's yearning:
The mute rage of a thousand emo boys.

What a great poem. Since I had the desire to write a blog but without any clear subject in mind I decided to reread some of my old posts. Every once in a while I really impressed myself. Not saying that what I did was really impressive, just that I'm easily impressed and biased. For example, on writing a blog about Harry Potter and the addictive qualities of the books I titled my blog "Harry Crack or Crack Potter." What a great double pun! I never did gain good inspiration for this blog so instead I will repost an old poem I wrote about living with Calvin, Kevin and Lisa. I hope you like it, because it's among the best writing that I've ever done.

Last Among Equals by Ed Smith

Last among equals, equals me
When we began our household was 4.
But I snuck in my friend Pride.

Pride is an old friend of mine
But he felt unwelcome here.
For although nearsighted, he recognized Greatness.
And Pride doesn't like his company

In vanity I searched for something that I could do better than my house companions.
In vain I gave up
For the headaches of the schoolboy:
Reading, writing, 'rithmetic.
At best, third best in all.

Oh the shame of Art Nights
Burton Cumming's countenance peers laughingly, tauntingly. In Art I have no equal, for all my roomates surpass me.

Music perhaps? There too I am living in a shadow.
My talent and abilities fail to impress.

If red is anger and blue is sorrow, then I am green.
"It's not easy being green."

Lisa quotes Shakespeare, Keats, and Frost.
Kevin quotes Richard Guy, John Conway, Martin Gardnerr and Kevin Shields.
Calvin quotes Sheldon Brown
Ed quotes a muppet.

Ignorance is bliss they say.
Ed is the happiest member of the house they say.
Oh to be ignorant of my ignorance.
Then I could be merry once again.

"Your knowledge of the Beatles far surpasses ours" Lisa says consolingly.
It's true" I reply, failing to see the laughter in her eyes.

"I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries"
But I cannot reach the same conclusion as The Bard, for I am alone.

"But girls seem to like you" Kevin says.
"Although it's inexplicable" Calvin adds, head up his Asperger's.

The humblest of the house (Though not in the virtuous meaning of the word)
Perhaps here my happiness lies.
As a pilgrim travels miles to be with the guru
As the student desires to be at his teacher's side
So I too can learn and grow. Though offering least, I gain most.
And here can I find my gratitude.

I miss that household quite regularly.

Random Thoughts and Experiences From Planting

2008-06-05T07:41:00.001-07:00

One thing I like about being up north during the summer is the long days. I am not really sure what time the sun rises but it is still somewhat light at ten in the evening. Another thing is that everybody drives big trucks up here. That's not what I like, it's just that as a result the parking stalls here are all huge which makes for super easy parking.

My first season planting I hated the work. I went back for season two and despised the job. During season three I abhorred it. Season four I loathed it. I kept coming back though. I am in the midst of season five, and I don't mind it so much. People accused me of being a "lifer" back when I abhorred it. Is there any escape for me now?

Typically after the loggers cut down and remove all the trees the mill will gather up the bigger branches and unusable logs into big piles of slash. These are placed at regular intervals along the road. The cut block is planted and in the winter the piles of slash are burned. The next season planters go in and plant the burns where the slash was previously piled. Because it is only the burns being planted, boxes of trees need to be left along the road periodically for when the planter runs out of trees.

Planting burn piles was my task last week but the interesting thing was that it was a helicopter block so I was given a radio to radio in when I needed trees. The helicopter would then fly down and drop some off. The other thing is that I only carried about a litre of water so when I ran out of water I would radio in and the helicopter would fly down so I could refill my bottle. I won't lie, you get a feeling of power ordering water by helicopter, especially with the knowledge that it costs $150 every six minutes of flying time. I think that flying in a helicopter might be the best perk about tree planting.

I read Timeline by Michael Crighton the other day. While planting the worst land of the season I was thinking about time travel. I came up with a hypothetical situation. Imagine that Frank and Joe build a time machine. They want to test it but nothing too drastic so Joe is sent back in time only five minutes. Upon arrival the time machine breaks. Joe is stuck five minutes in the past. Because Joe is always five minutes behind, Frank will never again communicate with him. However, Joe can freely interact with Frank's previous self. So although Frank never actually is in the present with Joe, he will always get new memories of Joe. However, what if Frank and Joe planned on this eventuality. Let's say that Joe takes the time machine at 6:00pm. He goes back in time to 5:55pm. He agrees to meet Frank at Starbucks at 7:00pm. Therefore Frank waits an hour after sending Joe back and goes to Starbucks. Joe arrives in the past and waits an hour and five minutes and then goes to Starbucks. Suddenly they are in the same place at the same time. I'm not sure where my reasoning goes astray. It is just so difficult to conceptualize the aspect of time.

My boss was looking for more planters because we are running a little behind. I have planted with a lot of people but I couldn't think of a single person that hasn't retired from planting. Most have real jobs now. I feel old again. There is one other planter in the camp who has planted more seasons than me, one other who has planted the same. However, because I took two years off my first season was two years before his. My first trees are seven years old this year. The trees that I planted yesterday were big enough that they looked seven years old. Time is ripping by. My beard is the best in camp. This means that despite how I feel, I am a grown up. I hope that one day my life will look a little more grown up. Life is going too quickly.

The Sun is the Same (in a Relative Way)

2008-05-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

Of all the trees that I know of, the best one to hug is the Ponderosa Pine, native to my hometown of Kelowna. The reason being is that the bark smells like vanilla. Of all the insects on Earth, I hate Dendroctonus ponderosa, the Mountain Pine Beetle, the most. Driving from Vancouver to Kelowna this spring I was astonished at how much the pine beetle has ravaged the forest. It eats away at the trees and the trees die, turning an unsightly orange colour. Growing up we would often make the drive between Kelowna and Vancouver and I now sort of consider all the land visible from the highway to be mine. Granted I'm willing to share it, but it really was painful to see the extent of the damage on my trees.

Pulling into Westbank I was astonished by how much construction has gone on since my last visit. It is equally astonishing how popular it is to build hideous buildings. Huge stores that blight the landscape with bigger parking lots; the residential areas are no better. Builders especially like to find attractice hill side plots of land, rip down every tree and dig up a gouge across the hill. It is then ready for huge, characterless houses where people can ensconce themselves in front of their big screen tvs comfortable in the knowledge that their SUV's and toys are safe in the attactched three car garage. They don't mind so much that the natural beauty of the city I love is being raped and destroyed, Furthermore, the painful truth is that her memory has really slipped. The same question needs to be answered several times, often in the same hour.

I visited my other grandparents. Also lovely, lovely people. It was nice to see them, as always but they too show the signs of aging. Their walk is a little slower and little bit more stooped. Aging is a hard truth.

I arrived in Calgary and went to the Chateau Rockingham, my home only a few months ago. Since I left one roommate has moved out and another in and another has become engaged. Last night we had a bunch of people over, just like old times. It was a reminder of how sweet life my life was while living here. I don't know how I always luck out and have great roommates but I do. However, the thing with roommates is that they are temporary. Last night we drank a scotch in honour of old times while listening to Chopin's Nocturnes on the record player. It was a scene that we had played out many times before but it might be the very last time it will happen here. Life just keeps rolling on.

Evolutionists teach that rapid changes are detrimental to organisms. They cannot respond and evolve and eventually they die out. I currently feel like I can't evolve to all of the changes that are happening around me. Life is whipping by so quickly. My birthday looming around the corner doesn't make me feel any better. As Lisa so kindly pointed out to me, it's a two pack birthday this year; as in I'll need two packs of candles for my cake because they only come in packs of twenty four but I will be twenty five.

This week I will be time traveling though. Treeplanting was a huge part of my life for several years and after a two year hiatus I return to the woods. Hopefully there, I can briefly find some solace from the changes that are rocking my world.

A Bunch of Reading, a Little Writing, but no 'rithmatic

2008-04-24T09:24:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it is the fact that this keyboard does not let me use apostrophes. For this reason I cannot use contractions without looking like an ignoramus. Writing without apostraphes is harder than I would expect. Or because I have been busy. No, that is definitely not the case. The real reason I have not written a blog in a while is that I just have not gotten around to it.
Another reason is that I do not have anything good to write about. With a little work and more talent than I possess perhaps I could make the last few weeks of my life interesting but it would be hard. What I have been doing is reading. I would like to say that I have been reading mind expanding intelectual stuff but that would be a bit of a stretch. I will let you judge for yourself.

Debt of Honor
-Tom Clancy

The Guardian
Dear John
Three Weeks With My Brother
-Nicholas Sparks

Shakespeare: the World as a Stage
-Bill Bryson

The Last Juror
The King of Torts
A Painted House
-John Grisham

A Wrinkle in Time
-Madeleine L'Engle(I copy/pasted the apostraphe)

The Blue Castle
-Lucy Maud Montgomery

There may be others that I have forgotten. If you add that to the books I read while traveling then I am on par for an average of a book a week for this year, probably my best average since high school.

The Source
-James A. Michener

The Man Who Was Thursday
-G.K Chesterton

Emma
Persuasion
-Jane Austen

Without Remorse
-Tom Clancy

A Walk in the Woods
-Bill Bryson

The Partner
-John Grisham

Love in the Time of Cholera
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Here is the good news though. Some of my best stories, in my opinion, are from my tree planting days. Well those days are not over! Like a fool I am going back for another season so starting sometime in May I should have a better blog post than this. Misery always makes for good blogs.

My Vacation in Pictures (It wasn't easy being me)

2008-04-11T12:46:00.000-07:00

Q. What’s The Difference Between Dentistry and Torture?

2008-04-02T11:41:00.000-07:00

A 1. With dentistry, the victim foots the bill.

A 2. Torture is prohibited under the Geneva Convention.

A 3. There’s a difference?

About grade six is the best time for dental problems to crop up. That’s when lots of kids, including some of the cool ones, have braces so it’s not so noticeable. Furthermore, during these awkward years you already have to deal with the host of socially uncomfortable situations that accompany puberty, what more damage do a set of railway tracks across the teeth do? And of course I have yet to touch upon the greatest reason for juvenile dental problems; at that age parents foot the bill.

I break here for a brief interlude. In my adolescent years I would sometimes see my friends do certain things and then in my head try and imagine what sort of lecture they would receive once their parents learned of the actions. Well I have a cousin who, as a teenager, one day decided that he had grown tired of his braces. With perhaps little more thought than that, he pulled them off with a pair of pliers. Braces, I’m told, are non-refundable. Of all the lectures I’ve known to occur without actually being present, the tongue-lashing that my cousin received I imagine, must have been the most awesome and the most fearsome.

Well I never needed braces, or any sort of dental work besides a cleaning the entire time that my mom was footing the bill. However, the first time that I went to the dentist after moving out I had four cavities. Six hundred bucks for that, if I remember correctly. My luck hasn’t exactly improved since then.

A few years ago I went to the dentist and was told that I had a major problem. Not major because of the trouble it caused me, rather because every option for correcting the problem required a major bill. One of my lower teeth was a little bit loose, apparently because it was still a baby tooth; however, there was no adult tooth underneath to replace it. Prognosis: it would become looser and looser until it would eventually fall out creating dire problems. There were a variety of options to consider, including braces, but really they weren’t options for every one would cost considerably more than I had to spend on my teeth. I did the natural and ignored the problem.

Well here in Mexico dental care is considerably cheaper and what’s more, Louis’ brother’s father in law is a dentist. So, armed with this close connection I headed to get my teeth looked at. He told me the same thing. The tooth was doomed and could be fixed with a bridge, here the dentist all but shuddered revealing his distaste for that option, or ideally it could be replaced with an implant. The dentist in Canada had also expressed that an implant as being the best solution and, unsurprisingly, the most expensive.

I hadn’t for a second considered an implant in Canada, the quote was so high, but here things cost less. So much less in fact that with the difference in price I could have paid for my entire trip from Canada to Brazil, to Argentina and to Mexico and home again with enough change left over to treat Luis to beer every step of the way. So with that knowledge I found myself the other day sitting in a dentist chair, a lousy place really, to spend a holiday, awaiting the surgery to begin.

The dentist numbed my mouth so the drool could flow out unimpeded and told me, “Si, hay dolor, levanta la mano.” I thought to myself, “Oh if there’s pain I will let you know though it might involve more than just raising my hand.” But of course all I slurred was, “Esla bleian” which is Spanish for, “Just do what you have to do. I’ll pay whatever you ask but please don’t hurt me.”

Once my mouth was sufficiently numb the dentist extracted the tooth. Then the fun began. The implant needs to be attached to something; the obvious choice is the jaw bone. So, the dentist began drilling into my jaw so he could insert a screw that would provide the anchor for the implant. Apparently I have nice, solid, dense bone which meant that for some time the dentist stuck a noisy instrument into my vulnerable mouth, and mined away. The drilled caused unpleasant vibrations but it didn’t really hurt. The assistant used that little suction tool to vacuum up most of the blood.

I can’t say for sure how long this went on except that it was too long. Finally it was time to insert the screw. The screw is just that, a screw. It was a new experience to be sure, a man ratcheting a little screw into my jaw. Once that was completed it was time to be stitched up. I felt the blood leave my head when I watched the little needle enter my mouth, but I managed not to faint. He finished and I didn’t even faint when it came time to pay, though I did have to sit down for a minute.

I was given a prescription for some strong drugs which prevent me from drinking alcohol. Lisa and Luis take sadistic pleasure in drinking beer these days. I drink cavity causing soft drinks. Saturday I return to the dentist to have my stitches out. Monday I fly home to Canada. (Vancouver, not Calgary though.) Over the next four months my bone will heal, and tighten around the screw. Some time after that, I return here to have the implant inserted. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go and take my drugs.

Mexican Memories

2008-03-28T16:37:00.000-07:00

I´m a bit shameless about promoting my blog and today is no different. What I mean to say is that two weeks ago I posted three blogs in two days and so I´m not sure if they were all noticed. One reason that I wonder this is because I thought I would get a few more responses to the "How Romantic Are You?" quiz. So if you count yourself among those who´ve been disappointed by the long time in between this and my last blog, make sure that you are up to date.

So I am no longer in Argentina. I arrived here in Mexico on March 10th. I would have liked more time in Argentina but we flew here for a very good reason. My Mom had her spring break holidays these past two weeks and sister Lisa also was available so we all met together here in Mexico for our first family vacation in many years. Luis was invited to join us as guide and boyfriend. (Lisa´s, not mine.)

Well my mom has already come and left but in that short window of time we saw and did a lot. I don´t have the time or inclination to write everything so I will put down a few highlights. They are in chronological order:

A visit to the symphony. We went to hear the Guadalajara symphony play in a beautiful, historic theatre. The venue was gorgeous and the music better. They played a Bach violin concerto and Vivaldi´s Four Seasons. It was great. The Bach concerto was really enjoyable and to you my readers, I will impart the secret of being able to always recognize music written by Bach. Ready? Each note is absolutely perfect. And as an added delight, the Four Seasons is a great piece of music and they came out for a double encore. All in all an amazing (alliteration) experience and all for the reasonable price of $20. (Front row of first balcony.)

A trip to the town of Tequila. Beautiful little town famous for, well I can´t remember at the moment. Luis has a friend who works for the Jose Cuervo tequila factory. The only day he was available to take us out happened to Friday the 14th so we spent Good Friday trying Tequila and enjoying cheap margaritas. Most people have a healthy fear of Tequila but I´ll let you in to another secret that the Mexicans have been keeping from the rest of the world. They´re exporting the lousy stuff. When Tequila is 100% from the Agave plant it is quite nice, and from what I´m told, doesn´t cause the infamous Tequila hangover. Jimmy Buffet´s "Margaritaville" flowed through my head a good portion of the day.

The Town of Mascota. A friend of ours is from this charming little town. It is located in the dusty hills of Jalisco. We stayed at his farm and drove around. I wore a sombrero. A nice little plaza built for flirting. At night the girls circle the plaza going one way and the guys the other so everybody could check everybody else out. Not that this was a highlight, I just thought it was interesting enough to warrant attention. An added bonus, now I can make fun of my friend for being from such a hick town.

The beach by Puerto Vallarta. I won´t say that I loved Puerto Vallarta. It was just too touristy although there are some beautiful areas of the city that overlook the ocean. Nice beaches too. We went to one a ways out of town to avoid the crowds and aggressive vendors. I went for a swim as soon as I got there but I foolishly choose the empty part of the beach. The sand gave way to rocks as soon as I entered the water. The strong current did a good job of dragging my carcass across the barnacle encrusted rocks. I wouldn´t have gone in the water so far if it weren´t for the fact that I had to pee so badly. Later we discovered the reason the two sides of the beach were so much busier. (Soft, beautiful sand all the way out.) I had a great time and managed to not get too burnt.

So that´s my story. There´s more to hear but at a later date. Signing out, Ed

The Best of Argentina

2008-03-13T12:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it´s the serendipitous experiences that occur while traveling that are the sweetest. On our last full day in Buenos Aires Luis and I went to the outskirts of the city to explore a market that we had heard about. Our English friends Kate and Jane came along as well. We had heard that this market was less touristy than the one in the center and furthermore it was more of a weekly fair, with horses, live music and other interesting things. When we arrived at the market I was a little disappointed. It was smaller than I expected and there were no horses to be seen anywhere.

It turned out that we had been given some misinformation. The fair was at this time of year on Saturdays not Sundays and so there wasn’t too much to see. I did buy a couple souvenirs though, a couple of matte cups. They were available all over the city but marginally cheaper at this fair. Later Luis heard about a restaurant where there was live music so eventually we headed over to take a look.

The restaurant was a simple affair. The building was considerably longer than wide and so from the street there wasn’t much to see. We walked a fair ways towards the back of the restaurant where there was a small stage and the smell of smoky barbeque filled the air. Now it would have been funny to take Kate and Jane there if they were vegetarians, but they aren’t. They’re vegans.

I was leading the way to through the restaurant feeling quite guilty the whole way. In the back of the restaurant was a small courtyard with a big barbeque where a wide array of meats lay sizzling. This was obviously the sort of restaurant where it was more than the language barrier that kept them from understanding the word vegan. However this restaurant was, as I pointed out, the restaurant that I’ve been looking for my entire life.

We sat down and took a look at the menu. Mixed salad and french fries. They were the only two items on the menu that weren’t meat. Not the only two items that didn’t contain meat, the only two items that weren’t meat. Luis and I ordered the special mixed parrilla; it was, after all, our last day. Kate and Jane each ordered a salad and french fries; they didn’t have any french fries. Our waiter brought us out the regular parrilla by mistake. We clarified that we wanted the special parrilla, with the better cuts, and as our waiter went back to change the order Kate, wondering about the huge quantity of meat, asked Luis, “You told him that that it was just for two people right?”

“Oh yeah,” replied Luis. “That is just for two people.”

Now the beer and barbeque alone would have been enough to make it a memorable experience, but then the band came in and began to play. There were two guitarists, and a drummer. The music was loud and catchy, traditional folk songs. They were all talented musicians, but the drummer was more than that, he was also a talented showman. He had one big drum that he wore with a strap slung over his shoulder. With that one drum though he did more than keep time, hitting the edge of drum for varied sounds and adding flairs, using tables and beer bottles for added interest musically and aesthetically.

The restaurant was soon packed with people although we were the only tourists to be seen. The other patrons were all gauchos, Argentinian cowboys, and their families. Argentina is perhaps the manliest country that I’ve ever seen. There’s the amount of meat that’s consumed, and most of the men sport tough looking facial hair, Buffalo Bill moustaches and the like. They manage to button up at least the bottom two buttons on their shirts, any more might hide the hairiness of their chests. Of course the men kiss each other when they greet which is a little bit brokeback, but they get away with it. I would have died before admitting to them that the week before in Brazil I had a manicure.

It was perhaps the best live music that I’ve ever heard. Everyone was having a good time. One of the older guys caught the eye of a woman and they began to dance some of the traditional dances. The songs and dance steps long familiar and their smiles genuine, they weren’t dancing for the enjoyment of tourists. Both lacked the beauty of youth but there dance was the most authentic and I enjoyed watching them dance more than the other professionals we had already seen.

The music was so good that it couldn’t be ignored. The couple began to dance, everyone would cheer at the end of the songs. One man stood on his chair singing along and gesturing wildly.

I was pretty sure that we were the only tourists there, I was positive when later the drummer came to our table and asked us our names and where we were from. He later announced our presence over the microphone, welcoming us. Everyone smiled and waved. It felt good to be treated as guests, rather than money carrying tourists.

When we left the restaurant after several hours we were brought back up in front of everyone for a picture with the band. Everyone in the restaurant smiled and clapped for us and waved goodbye as we left. The rest of the day I replayed the music in my head and hours later I still felt as full as if I had just finished Thanksgiving dinner. It was truly one of the most memorable traveling experiences of my life.

When Good Vegetarians Die They Go To Heaven,

2008-03-12T16:56:00.000-07:00

When bad vegetarians die they go to Argentina. While there we decided to flip the Canada Food Guide pyramid upside down, expand the meat and protein portion and then eliminate all the other food groups, except beer and wine.

I thought that I would be better prepared for Argentina. Often while still in Canada I would visit my friend Jason for a Brazilian style barbeque. Each time he would warn me, “Don’t take too much rice or beans, save room for the meat.” I learned that everything that isn’t meat is just decoration. I thought that I was well prepared for Argentina then, for I knew that Argentina is a country that loves eating meat, often and in large quantities.

Despite this I was surprised to learn that unlike the Brazilians, the Argentinians don’t even pretend to balance the meat with vegetables or fruit. For our first, and highly anticipated, meal in Argentina we ordered the mixed parrilla for two. It was a selection of different types of barbequed meat. The meal was brought to our table on a little barbeque with coals to keep the meal warm while we ate; as for vegetables or potatoes, nowhere to be found. It was delicious.

Argentina is truly a great country. We spent several days in Buenos Aires which proved to be one of my favourite cities that I have visited. The comparison isn’t valid for obvious reasons, but what it most reminded me of is Europe fifty years ago. I mentioned this to some other travelers though and they agreed with me. The buildings are all fairly old but charming. Truth be told the streets are quite dirty and a little smelly; watch where you step because the Porteños love their dogs but not cleaning up after them. Perhaps because it is so far from the United States, there are very few international franchises in the center of Buenos Aires. I saw perhaps one or two MacDonald’s but I don’t remember seeing any Starbucks.

Or maybe another part of the reason for the lack of Starbucks is due to the fact that there are countless little cafés already, each so inviting that I desired to stop at all of them. I think that these cafés are what invoked the comparison with ´50’s Europe. Each café was different and had its own unique charm which is tough to say about Starbucks. The one thing these cafés did have in common is that they were all really cheap, which is also hard to say about Starbucks.

Actually everything in Argentina is cheap which is a plus for someone is traveling for an extended period of time. We took cab a couple of times and sometimes I was wondering if the meter was broken it would rise so slowly. From Puerto Igacu on the Brazilian border we bought bus tickets for Buenos Aires. It’s about a fifteen hour trip so splurged a little and bought tickets for the luxury bus: three commodious, fully reclining seats to a row, and includes meals all for about seventy dollars. How was it you may ask? I don’t know. We had a bit of bad luck with a time change and we missed the bus by a few minutes. We bought tickets for the next bus, losing our money and getting inferior seats. Such is life.

On our first full day in Buenos Aires we met up with some English girls that Luis had met while he was in Africa. By coincidence they happened to be in Buenos Aires at the same time as us. Our first stop was an artisan market. I was tempted by an instrument, similar to a ukulele and to a painting of a tango scene but I left with my wallet as full as before.

We then headed to the cemetery where rests Argentina’s most famous citizen, Eva Peron. The cemetery was unlike any that I had seen before. Certainly only for the rich and influencial, the tombs were like small houses. A large percentage had glass doors so people can look inside. None were identical but the majority had shelves where the coffins lay in plain site. Often there were pictures of the departed and many had steps to the basement where presumably other less important family members were kept. The doors to the tombs were locked although it was unclear whether this was an attempt to keep the living out or the dead in. Some were huge, in one I counted eighteen coffins but with shelf space for a few more. Another had a huge dome that towered at least three stories high.

After seeing these I was somewhat surprised when we came across the tomb of Evita. Much smaller and in a place of little prominence it was however, the most photographed it was the only one that I saw with fresh flowers placed reverently by the doors. We hastened our exit though since it began to rain.

We made our way to the Museo de Bellas Artes, a promising name to be sure. It didn’t disappoint. Entrance to the museum was free, as I feel all museums ought to be. Sometimes when I see works by “great” artists I wonder what makes them great. Here the opposite was often true, I would see works by some unknown artist and wonder why he hadn’t achieved greater fame although to be fair perhaps in my ignorance I was admiring works by an artist who was famous.

I myself have a fairly simple method for judging if a painting is great or not. It is great if I would like to have it in my living room and by this standard there were a lot of great paintings. There were several by the most famous of painters, Rembrandt, Degas, Renoir, Van Gough and one especially lovely painting by Monet, but then I’ve never seen a Monet that wasn’t especially lovely. The gallery was big enough that it deserved multiple visits but due to the brevity of our time in Buenos Aires we never again returned.

After leaving the gallery we stumbled across a couple of street performers. They were performing different tangos and they were great. We watched them for some time. Buenos Aires is the home of the tango and so that evening we went to a tango show. I don’t know if it was poorly advertised but there were only the four of us and then another four people watching the show. Two guys played guitar, one sang and there were a couple performing dances. Despite the small audience they all put lots of heart into the show and it was very enjoyable.

The show went late into the night. At around two in the morning we walked the girls back towards their hostel. We were speaking English and a woman overheard. She asked us where we were from and then proceeded to give us a ten minute history lesson on Argentina. I’m not sure if she was a little bit crazy or if she was just passionate about the origins of Argentina but she definitely added a little colour to the evening.

On the way back to our hostel we decided that the best way to finish the day would be to eat a steak. The nights in Buenos Aires start and end late so it was no problem to find a little restaurant that served up giant slabs of meat at two thirty in the morning. We returned to the hostel tired, full and happy. There were times after that when I didn’t feel tired, but the rest of the time in Argentina I almost always felt full and happy. I would love to return.

So long Brazil.

2008-03-07T12:14:00.000-08:00

It would be really hard to say what goes faster while traveling, your time or money. Well the time in Brazil went quickly, I am now in Argentina though I`ve already been considering when I can return to Brazil.

Our last week there was spent with some great friends. We didn`t do a lot of touristy things but visiting with friends proved to be as enjoyable as anything else that I`ve done here. After leaving Sao Paulo we made our way to Foz de Igaçu, famed for the famous waterfalls just a few kilometers away.

The Cataratas do Iguaçu are incredible. I have never been to Niagra falls but I don`t know if I`ll ever make the effort. Iguaçu is a group of over 270 waterfalls, many large and powerful. The falls are on the border between Brazil and Argentina and we spent a good portion of a day on either side. I for one am certainly glad for the invention of the digital camera. Around every corner it seemed that there was a new and better view that I just had to capture. At the end of the first day I had taken over forty pictures, the next day I took another forty or so. Some of them are bound to be good.

A good portion of our last week was spent in buses traversing the immense distances in between the major South American cities. From Sao Paulo to Foz de Igaçu was a twelve hour bus ride. Normally I can sleep almost anywhere but that`s assuming a normal temperature for human life forms which on this bus was assuming too much. It was freezing. I suffered through a couple of hours and until a brief reprive at a bus stop. I don`t know what time it was, probably close to midnight. I really wanted to sleep. We started driving again and I enviously noticed the lady in front of my had brought a blanket. I began to wish that I had a blanket. A short while later I remebered the almost unused sleeping bag that I`ve been packing everywhere. It was stowed under the bus.
The next stop, several cold hours later, I retrieved my sleeping bag and then made my way to a rickety old washroom. There were several people in the washroom but somebody pointed out a stall to me and said something in Portuguese that apparently meant that I could use the stall. I opened the door to find a man sitting on the toilet. Apologizing profusely I shut the door. I was pretty embarassed but people do look pretty ridiculous sitting on the can.
We arrived short of sleep and then almost imediately headed out to the falls. Later that day we bought tickets to Buenos Aires for the following day, Thursday. The company had a sale on so we got a good price for great seats. Instead of four seats to a row, this bus was equipped with three seats to a row. The seats recline almost entirely back allowing for a good night sleep.

Thursday we went to the falls on Argentina´s side and returned to discover that there is an hour time difference between Argentina and Brazil and that we had missed our us by moments. We bought new tickets, for inferior seats and then consoled ourselves with beer. Not a huge deal though, good seats aren`t that important on short journeys such as the fifteen hours or so that we traveled.

Well Buenos Aires is great but you´ll have to hear about it another night because it´s really late and I am tired. This blog needs editting but I need sleep more so that`s that.

So Many Lives to Lead...

2008-03-03T19:48:00.000-08:00

It´s happened again. I´ve had another panic about what to do with my life. Before this trip I was sure of what I wanted to do. Take a trip, work for the summer, and then study in the fall. However, after traveling a while I remembered how many other things in life there are that I love. I love traveling. I love meeting new people. I don´t love, but it´s a nice change, getting sunburnt in March. Who would have thought it possible. I like learning new languages, sort of. Jokes are funnier in other languages.

The confusion over what to do with my life isn´t the only thing that is bothering me. Traveling in Brazil has got me thinking about how good I have it in Canada. I always was very thankful for what I had. More than once I have been reminded of how easy my life really is. I was reminded of something that Luis once told me. He commented that in Canada there is nothing stopping a person from achieving any dream. So all I need to do is find a dream. My problem is that there are too many things that I think I would like to do. So I need to find a worthwhile dream and then put all my heart and soul into achieving that dream. I want it to be something bigger than snakes, treking and topless women.

My guts are twisting inside myself and it isn´t food poisoning. I feel stressed out even though I´m on vacations. The question of what to do with my life. Que pena. I´d like to write a good blog tonight but I´m too tired, no lazy. Plus there are other things on my mind as well. Traveling expands the horizons, sometimes broader than one is prepared to see.

The pictures in this blog are irrelevant to the subject but I wanted to post a few things that I´ve seen. The first picture is me and Luis at the top of Cachoeira da Fumaça. The second is Rio de Janeiro. The third is the port of Salvador and the last is another of the waterfalls that we saw on the trek.

Treking In Brazil

2008-02-24T05:55:00.001-08:00

The last several days have been perhaps the most memorable of the trip thus far. The excursion began late on Wednesday night when we headed out to the town of Lencois which is several hours west of Salvador by bus. Our bus left the city at 11:30pm and arrived in Lençóis at 5:30am. At the sacrifice of a good sleep we saved ourselves the cost of accomodation for a night. Without a plan or reservation we set out to see what the town had to offer us. Lençóis attracts tourists because it´s the starting point for treking in the national park of Chapada Diamantina which was our destination.
Finding a guide was easier than one might have thought. As we were leaving the bus terminal a man came up to us and asked if we had a guide. After a little bit of discussion, we agreed to hire him. We explored the town a little bit while our guide went to buy supplies for the trip. We agreed on a three day trek that would take us ultimately to both the top and bottom of Cachoeira da Fumaça, the smoking waterfall. It´s of of Brazil´s highest waterfalls but since there is not a huge flow of water the water becomes mist before reaching the bottom thus earning its name.
Finally we set out on the trek. We hiked for a little while, long enough to get hot and sweaty when we came across a stream flowing down a steep but smooth rocky incline. At the bottom was a small pool. Following our guide´s example, we ditched our packs at the top and used the rocks as a natural waterslide before landing in the cool pool below. It was good fun and a refreshing break before we headed up a hill. The next part of the hike was a long, steep climb but at the end we were rewarded with spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. Not like the Brazil of my imagination, the area was somewhat reminiscent of Greece or Italy with the dry rocky terrain and short trees and scrub. The valleys were more verdant and after a rest at the top of the mountain we descended into the valley.
I guess I can´t complain too much about being tired though. Most, actually all except Luis and myself, of the other tourist came to Lençois with big treking backpacks filled with lots of supplies. Luis and I had ditched our big packs at a friend´s house in São Paulo taking only one small pack each. In Lençóis we had downsized further consoladating our stuff into one pack and leaving the other. In this way we took turns carrying the one small backpack, the guide´s big pack with the food and having a break from carrying anything at all. I think at first our guide was nervous when he saw how we planned to trek, one small pack and me only in sandals but once we hit the trail and offered to take turns with his pack it went well. As to my sandals, he was wearing flip flops and couldn´t really make too many complaints.
At the end of the day we arrived at the first camp, close to a small pool that was attractively filled by a waterfall. We swam, ate lunch and I watched and photographed a small green snake that I had almost stepped on. Later with nothing but time on my hands I lay down beside the pool and the snake for a nap. When I went to sleep there were only the three of us there by the pool, myself, Luis and the guide. So you can imagine my surprise to wake up to several other people swimming, two of them young women who were swimming and sunbathing topless. A while later everyone clustered together to look at another snake that the guide had noticed. That could have been the realization of my greatest fantasy as a 13 year old, snakes, a jungle trek and topless women, in that order.
That night we had a delicious dinner while being seranaded by the croaking of frogs. I always loved animals growing up and really I haven´t grown up yet. I have a beard so I can fake it, but really I´m still just a big kid. I grabbed the flashlight and searched the rocks to catch a glimpse of some more Brazilian wildlife. Eventually I found the frog which I guess was somewhat rewarding. A little while later in the evening I heard another frog and couldn´t resist trying to find it as well. Part of me was reluctant though.
So often when I engage in childish whimsy something happens to make me regret giving in to the inner child. I had a sudden vision of me tripping and falling and breaking the flashlight. It wasn´t hard to imagine the guides laughing at the foolish gringo breaking his flashlight on the first night because he was looking for frogs. I ignored these pessimistic thoughts and shined the light down to where I heard the frog croaking. I didn´t fall and break the flashlight, something worse happened.
As soon as I turned on the light I saw a flash of moment on the outskirts of the beam of light. I tried to use the light to track whatever creature was there but it was so fast that I could only catch glimpses of it as it scurried from the light into the darkness. The images I could see though weren´t pleasant. I was sure that I had seen one of these things before on the X Files. Eventually the insect gave up trying to run and instead became totally motionless so I was able to study it closely. I It was some sort of big insect with far too many legs to be benevolent. It was just the sort of animal that I instinctively knew loved warm dark places, specifically the inside of sleeping bags.
We didn´t bring a tent and so I realized my chances weren´t good. I decided to place my bed feet towards the cavern where the insect lived, and to zip tight the zipper. It was my hope that these minimal precautions would be enough to keep my bed from being infested. I later set up my bed in the flatest, softest place available. It was marginally flat but by no means soft. There weren´t a lot of rocks there, the whole area was one large rock. My matteress didn´t offer much protection. It was probably an eighth of an inch thick when it was first made in 1976 but now it offered no more comfort than a layer of two ply toilet paper. I then crawled into my sleeping bag and realize that the zipper was broken and I was entirely at the mercy of that thing.
Eventually I managed to think happy thoughts and drift off into the land of nod. Ten minutes later I woke up my back terribly sore. I roled over onto my side, and marginally more comfortable I fell back to sleep. A while later I woke up, now my side complaining and I had to roll back over onto my back to fall asleep again. I repeated this cycle several times. Every time I woke up I would be aching. I would open my eyes praying that it would be light but more often than not I would open my eyes, see the stars, curse the rock I was sleeping on, roll over and fall back to sleep. When morning came I was glad to get up, though it was likely before seven am. The trip is all about new experiences.
That day was an easy hike of about an hour where we left our back packs and continued on to the base of the waterfall, another two hours or so. It was incredibly beautiful there, and to add to my happiness another pool was there where we could cool down and swim. We spent a few hours there and then hiked back to where our bags were to set up camp.
That night I found a spot where there was a thing layer of sand over the rocks. It wasn´t much but I had learned to be grateful. Later that evening, after dinner, the guides excitedly shouted, "Aranha, aranha!" which I had the misfortune of understanding. "Spider, spider!" I couldn´t resist and headed over to see a huge tarantula. As if there weren´t already enough creepy things to crawl into my bed.
When I set up my bed I realized that in fact my zipper did work, there was a second zipper that opened the other way that I hadn´t seen in the dark. I crawled into my bed grateful for the added protection against insects, snakes, and now spiders. After ten seconds I was roasting and flinging my covers off I took my chances. That night was impossibly, a worse sleep than the night before. I don´t know why, but I woke up twice as many times. I didn´t suffer anything worse than a few mosquito bites though.
We left camp early that day to trek to the top of the waterfall. It was a long fairly steep climb but once again the view from the top made it worthwhile. Eventually we reached the top of the falls. It was crowded with people, many who do a shorter day hike from a different town to reach the falls. A man had set up a little store selling drinks. I somewhat eagerly, somewhat anxiously made my way to the edge of the cliff. Crawling on my stomache the last couple feet I peaked my head over the edge.
Miles below I could see small pond where only yesterday I had swam. The height was incredible. My stomache did tricks as I tried not to think about how far of a fall it was to the bottom. Later from a different vantage point I realized that I hadn´t been lying on a solid cliff, but actually a rock that jutted out from the edge of the cliff. This is likely where the Warner Brothers went when they wrote the Wile E. Coyote cartoons.
We left the top of the mountain and headed back to another town where we caught a car back to Lençóis. I learned that day that guitar legend Jimmy Page owns two houses in Lençóis and on the walk down I sang Led Zeppelin songs and hoped for a chance meeting. In never happened though. We spent a little time exploring, a little time visiting and then had dinner. After dinner we caught the 11:30 bus back to Salvador where I am now, very tired and very smelly but very content. In a few hours we fly to Rio where I can make more memories to share with you, my dedicated reader. (I love you Mom!) Until then, tchau!

Something New Around Every Corner

2008-02-19T17:44:00.000-08:00

I have fallen regrettably behind in my blogs. A lot has happened but if you want to hear all of my stories you´ll have to take me out for beer when I get back because I don´t have time to share everything right now.
We left Curitiba and returned to Sao Paulo. The friends we stayed with, Silvia and her daughters Carina, Patricia and Veronica, took us out all around the city. Art museums, parks, historical museums. It´s no surprise that a city the size of Sao Paulo has so much to see. There´s nothing that´s really grand on an international scale, such as the Tower of London or the Eiffel Tower, but definitely enough to pass some enjoyable days. Probably the most unforgettable thing though wasn´t one of the museums or parks. On a Friday night we headed out to the Praça da Sé with members of Patricia´s college and career group. There they handed out food to many of the homeless living in the area. They also talked and prayed with the people there. It was sad to see so many people living on the fringes. In Calgary, there´s places to go but here in Brazil there is very little to help people get out of the trap of poverty.
I started writing a blog the other day but it wasn´t going anywhere so I deleted it. I was trying to explain how hard it is to see the inequality of life here. I get a little bit angry when I see the corruption here, and of course I see very little of how much there actually is. I have a renewed appreciation for life in Canada.
After spending a while in Sao Paulo we headed north to the city of Salvador where we are currently. Salvador was formerly a major slave centre and this is reflected in the culture which shows very strong African influence. Salvador is city where music can be heard around every corner. Tonight while walking around the city we passed countless musicians and groups playing in the streets or on small stages. Probably my favourite group was the one that passed us while we were eating dinner. It consisted of four of some of the smallest, skinnest, frailest old men that I´ve seen in a while. One played the accordian, another a drum, the third the triangle and the final and frailest collected money. Their costumes consisted of leather hats and the man collecting the money had a toy pistol in his belt and a wooden rifle that doubled as a cane most of the time.
They played down the street from us and then started walking up the road to where we were eating. Being a "wealthy" tourist in a poor city I had been urged to part with my money all day, for the weakest of reasons. Finally I found some people who were actually doing something, weren´t up in my face demanding money, and furthermore I feel that people of that age ought not to have to work. I didn´t have any small change on me but Louis had two bills, 1 Real and another of 2 Reals. A Real is worth a little more than 50 cents Canadian. As they walked up the street they stopped playing. I didn´t want to give them money for nothing but they had been playing earlier. As I tried to think of what to give they passed by. I called back to the rifleman/money collecter and handed him 1 Real. He accepted it gratefully and then called back to the band to come back and play for us.
Reluctantly, we hadn´t given much, the band came back and started to play. I was thinking to give the other 2 Reals but then inexpicable the rifleman ran off, with surprising speed. We wondered where he had gone, I suggested he ran off with the money. A little while later he returned and the band had headed back down the street and since he never came back we never gave any more money. Down the street though we heard a blast from his rifle leaving us to speculate he used our money to buy a cap for his rifle. I hadn´t my camera with me but I hope that I will see them again and be able to get a picture.
The other great band was made up only of drums played by young guys with long dreads. They made a huge racket but the rhythm was so infectious that even I had the urge to dance. So many more stories to tell, and I´m not so happy with the way this blog has turned out but I´m tired now so I´m going to wrap things up. Soon I´ll be leaving the city to enjoy a hike in the Brazilian forest.

Who Knew Quitting Your Job and Traveling Could Be This Fun?

2008-02-13T08:52:00.000-08:00

-The author pictured by the beach. (Note the cut from falling glass on his forehead)

Well the time is just flying by here in beautiful Brazil. I´ve got enough material for several long, boring blogs but I think that I will try and compact everything into one long boring blog.

I guess I´ll begin with the wedding. I did have to fend off several questions about how my hand was doing. It´s fine people, let´s move on. I was taking a picture while we were driving to the wedding and then my low battery light came on which is an indication that I have approximately sixty seconds left before it dies completely. So I don´t have any good pictures from the wedding but that´s alright. The photographer took all the relevant pictures of the bride and groom and other than those shots there wasn´t a lot worth taking pictures of, only a room full of some of the most beautiful women that I´ve ever seen.

I met a girl, though not at the wedding. Beautiful. A girl so beautiful that it would seem small sacrifice to leave one´s home and country to be with her, which I promptly imagined myself doing. That night I considered and solved all the problems of where we would live, how I would support her etc. The next day I met her boyfriend. He seems nice.

It seemed quite plausible that in a couple of days, with a huge language barrier, I could get a girl to fall for me enough that the even bigger distance barrier would later be broached but I guess it´s a little much to assume that perhaps the most beautiful girl that I´ve ever seen would be single. Ah well. I´m not worried. There´s still a lot of country to visit. (Though meeting a girl is not why I came here, despite what Luis keeps telling everybody)

We later went to the coast and caught a boat for a small island, Ilha do Mel, or Island of Honey. I didn´t eat any honey while there but I did get a taste of the sweet life. The island is very small and most of it is protected park land. There are no cars allowed on the island so the town there is traversed by walking along small trails. We stayed there for one night. The day we arrived we went for a bit of a trek to the far side of the ocean. We explored the islands cave, it takes about 5 seconds to get from the mouth to the back of the cave, and climbed a hill that looks over the island. There was a nice beach there. I suppose most people would rave about the huge expanse of soft white sand and the warm clean water but I think that my favourite part was the crabs that lived on the beach.

They dig little holes where they run when there´s danger. It´s fun to catch them out of their holes and to chase them. I love watching them run sideways. Because I had my camera and money with me we couldn´t go swimming simultaneously so while Luis went for a dip I stayed to watch the crabs and get sunburned.

Later I went for a swim as well. It was my first time in the Atlantic ocean for many years. The last time I went was on a beach in Nova Scotia. What I learned about the Atlantic ocean there is that it´s cold and inhospitable. So I was surprised to enter the Atlantic ocean here and realize that it´s warm and inviting. Well I thought it was hospitable but my watch, did not. My faithful Timex ironman took a licking and quit. Maybe the catch phrase was never meant to apply to digitals.

The next day we left the island for the town of Paranaguá which we promptly left for the town of Marretes where we lingered for less than an hour. The reason for the haste is that we had a train to catch. We had heard about this train ride. It runs in between Curitiba and Marretes, to Paranaguá only on Sundays. Apparently this ride offered spectacular views. We had made plans to catch the train from Curitiba so early on Monday morning, 6:30, we got up to catch the train. We arrived about 5 minutes too late which is why we went to the island first. So now in Marretes we had a train to catch.

I wasn´t too keen to take the train because it cost considerably more than the bus but the money was very well spent. The views were spectacular. We did have a bit of rain and low cloud cover but for the most scenic part of the trip the view was unobstructed.

We returned to Curitiba and went out for Churrascaria at the Recanto Gaucho with our hosts, André, Fernanda and their son Timóteo. I ate half a cow and Luis finished the other half. Later we were allowed into the kitchen to see where the magic is made and take some photos. Then we went home and had ice cream. This morning I was craving bran flakes.

Today has been relaxing. We now have to decide where to go next. Brazil is big, and time is short. We can probably budget two more weeks here and then towards Argentina, where we can really start eating meat, so I realize that I´ll have to come back because this country is amazing.

I Don´t Make it Easy On Myself, To Impress the Brazilian Women.

2008-02-09T10:53:00.000-08:00

Instead of sightseeing yesterday, Luis and I spent most of the day visiting with Jason and some of his friends and family. I realized once again that I should have brushed up on my Portuguese, and by "brushed up" I mean "learned more than one word. " For most of the time I was listening, understanding one word out of ten, if I was lucky. Portuguese is very similar to Spanish but I don´t speak Spanish particularly well so I would recognize a word, translate it to spanish, then spanish to english by which point I´ve missed twenty other words. However, it wouldn´t matter because I wouldn´t have understood them anyhow.
Later in the afternoon Luis and I went out for beer with Jason´s cousin Daniel and his girlfriend Camilla. Let me just state that the weather was warm and sitting on the patio, the first sip of beer was so good. That´s not the point though. The point is that it was very enjoyable and since Daniel and Camilla spoke slower, or in English, I understood much more. Afterwards we headed back to Jason´s aunt´s house where we were to be met by some of Jason´s friends who had offered to host us. We got back to the house and met our new hosts, a very lovely couple indeed. Before we left for their house I decided to use the facilities.
After using the washroom I walked passed the back door. The thing that I like about houses outside of North America is that they are usually quite unique. It´s impossible to know what might be hidden behind a door or whether a yard will be a tiny concrete patio or a large garden oasis. So with this in mind I decided to poke my head out the window and see what the yard was like. However, the window wasn´t actually opened, jus particularly well cleaned rendering it invisible. I smacked my head against the glass. It was of the thin, quick to shatter variety. The incredibly loud crash quickly summoned a crowd of people to discover what the Canadian goon broke. They found me standing by the window, somewhat dazed, bleeding from my forehead and the back of my hand.
The cut on my forehead was superficial but a falling shard of glass cut open quite a deep wound on the back of my hand. Jason´s aunt thought I should go to the clinic for stitches but I didn´t agree. It´s bad enough to get a reputation as a "clumsy, walking disaster" without having to be known as a "clumsy, walking disaster who faints while getting stitches." I managed to convince everyone that I would be fine and I think that I am. The cut was taped up and it seems to be much better even after 24 hours. The other interesting thing about the incident is that after the shock of the crash I looked down and realized that I had instinctively caught two large shards of glass in my uninjured hand without getting the slightest cut. Catlike reflexes I suppose.
Well I have to go get ready for the wedding, hopefully I´ll manage to make it through the evening without making too big a fool of myself. Granted, I´m quite used to having a room full of people making jokes about me in a language that I don´t understand.

A Small Helping of Brazil and a Large Helping of Steak.

2008-02-07T17:18:00.000-08:00

It's been far too long since my last blog. I've been busy. This is a history making blog though, perhaps worth the wait, my first blog from Brazil.
The flight went well. It was long but not too tiresome. It wasn't until I saw Brazil from the plane as we descended that I realized what a huge mistake I had made. Speaking with people before I left I lied a little bit. When I said I was really looking forward to my trip it wasn't totally true. I knew that I loved traveling so I was excited to go but I wasn't really looking forward to my trip. But then we were coming in for a landing, I saw a green land stretching out before me and all of a sudden the travel bug hit me, I felt the need to start traveling with little desire to ever return to Canada. When we landed and and I breathed in the warm tropical air what little desire I had to live in Canada again disappeared completely.
At the airport we were met by a friend who had stayed at our house when she came visiting Canada. I knew her but not her two friends. I enjoy making people laugh, and it was long before I inadvertantly won some laughs by the Brazillians. I knew that Brazillians greet with a kiss so I gave Patricia a kiss but I wasn't sure about the other girl who I had never met. In Canada if I were to start kissing girls within a second of introduction I would expect a slap. So I somewhat nervously assessed the situation and decided that I should greet her with a kiss but it ended up being a little bit awkward. They didn't laugh then but it came out later that yes, they were laughing at me.
We spent some time exploring Sao Paulo, the biggest city I've ever seen, and enjoyed some good food and company. I realized that I should have learned a little bit more Portuguese. Traveling is infinitely better if you're able to communicate at least a little bit with the locals. I understand enough to know when they're laughing at me, so I understand what's going on fairly regularly.
We later headed to Curitiba where the wedding is to be. We eventually found a hotel hat was cheap enough to make us happy yet safe looking enough to make Jason happy. Actually, he wasn't really happy with our choice but so far so good. We locked the door at night which is considerably more than we do in Canada so I feel fairly safe.
The one danger I definitely do have to worry about is obesity. Jason and some of his friends and family took us to a restaurant called a churrascaria. What it means is all you can eat food, of the delicious and varied variety of steak. I tried various types of beef, lamb, boar and I don't know what else. All I know is that I can barely move. Apparently the one we went to was mediocre, I'll tell you for sure later on. We intend on trying more of these churrascarias before we leave. Well, I should head back to my hotel soon, scare off any kidnappers and that sort of thing.

2008 Will Be Great!

2008-01-11T18:17:00.000-08:00

Well it's starting off as a disappointing year, at least concerning my blog. This is my first blog of 2008 and I can already tell that it's going to be a lousy post. I'm not sure what makes me so sure but I'll give you the first ten reasons that fly into my muddled head.
1. I haven't yet decided on a subject for this blog.
2. The title doesn't have a witty pun.
3. To mix things up I decided to use the Trebuchet font and I actually think that it might be the highlight of this post.
4. No pictures.
5. The beer I'm currently drinking is mildly mediocre.
6. My blog is not endorsed by beautiful, buxom, nubile girls.
7. My mildly mediocre beer is now finished.
8. I still haven't got a subject for this post.
9. I can't even think of another reason and I've already recycled two reasons.
10. I'm depressed because even though this blog is totally crap, it's my best post of the year.

On the plus side, I don't have to worry about continuity because I never had a subject to begin with so if I were to discuss, for example, the merits of the Alexander Technique for actors and musicians it really wouldn't be out of place. It would be an efficient way of losing readers though.
This blog notwithstanding, I think that 2008 will be a good blog year because I hope to have a wealth of material for blogging come February. That is when my trip begins.
I think that it will be fun. Here is a picture of my travel partner Luis.

Here is a picture of me.

Here is a map of where we are going.

My blog should improve. (Knock on wood.)

I Don't Particularly Like Getting Shot(s)

2007-12-31T11:57:00.000-08:00

Thursday night I started a book, foolishly. My aunt gave me several books by the same author and praising his books. I began one and unfortunately I started getting quite into it. Forty Words for Sorrow by Giles Blunt. I had no idea what to expect when I began it, starting it solely due to the recommendation from my aunt and uncle. It turned out to be a murder mystery, a gruesome one at that. Once began though, I couldn't put it down. At midnight I thought about leaving the remainder for the following day but with only a hundred pages to go I was approaching the climax and so I continued on.
I finished the book a little after one but I was quite wound up so it was closer to two before I fell asleep again. I got up early the following day to go to work. I had a short nap after work and then I began another of his books. History apparently repeats itself for I didn't put the book down until after midnight. The next day I woke up fairly early, 8:20, and this is where my blog actually starts.
Skipping breakfast due to time restraints I headed out to Bowness Travel Clinic for nine to get some shots before my trip. The two important facts to remember are my sleep deficit and my lack of breakfast.
Eventually I found myself sitting in a chair waiting for with the nurse who was to administer my shots. She asked me if I've ever passed out after a having a shot.
I remember getting my Hepatitis B shots in grade six. It was a series of three shots and after each one I always had to stick around afterwards with my head between my knees while I waited for the faint feeling to end. The plus side was being in the room listening to the other kids get their shots.
Nurse. "Are you ready now?"
Deana "Um... Are you sure it won't hurt?"
Nurse "You'll barely feel a thing. Are you ready?"
Deana "OK." Brief pause. "NO WAIT! I'm not ready. OK, I'm ready. NO!"
Nurse "Just breathe deep, you'll be alright."
Deana, hyperventilating, "OK I'm ready."
Nurse "It's done."
Deana "Oh."

I thought back to a Saturday morning when I was thirteen. Another day started without breakfast or enough sleep. My mom and I brought my dog to the vet for a booster shot. I stood in the small, stuffy room while the vet prepped the needle. I watched as he waved the needle around carelessy and the room grew warmer and warmer. Shortly afterwards the vet asked if I was feeling OK. I looked up to see my mom and the vet looking down at me lying on the floor.
I remember watching the climatic scene of Requiem for a Dream. I remember trying to deny to the people I watched it with that I had actually fainted but why else was I suddenly resting my head on my cousin's shoulder and twitching?
I remember going to get stitches in my pinkie finger after an accident at work. Despite the freezing I could feel the needle prodding inside my finger. I remember feeling lightheaded and the room growing warm. I remember the nurse asking me what happened. I mumbled "I think I passed out."
Saturday morning I sat in the chair and replied to the nurse, "I have passed out after having a shot before."
I don't like needles but I'm not afraid of them. The nurse gave me the two shots and they were probably the gentlest that I've ever had. I thought that I was probably fine this time. I didn't feel bad at all, for at least five seconds. Then as the nurse was explaining some things to me I felt the room grow stuffy and my head get light. I suddenly had a rush of strange dreams and then the nurse was snapping and asking if I was back. I nodded yes and she put my feet up and gave me an ice pack to put behind my neck.
I felt a little bit better and thought about sitting up but then I think I might have fainted again. I felt better and put my feet down, then later put them up again. The nurse went to give some other people their shots. It was over an hour before I felt well enough to get up to go. Miraculously, I managed to not faint when I paid the $300. bill.

One Fine Morning

2007-12-15T23:25:00.000-08:00

The homeowners of the house we're building have started putting the push on for an occupation date. The builder made a surprising promise of June 1st so now the tradesmen (us) are really feeling the pressure to get things done. What's more, one of my coworkers quit/was fired, another will be taking time off in late January for a honeymoon, and my boss will be taking time off to get an operation. So I didn't choose the best time to give my notice.
If I had no other options, I could choose to make carpentry my career and I could enjoy it. There are definitely things that I like doing with my job, and there are plenty of challenges to make the days more interesting but I've always had a nagging doubt that it wasn't really for me. Compound that with the fact that the dusty environment aggravates my asthma and I really wonder how long I should carry on swinging a hammer. So when the option of a extended South American road trip came up, I really had no choice but to accept.
Here's the plan. I work through January 2008 and then drive to Vancouver leaving my car at my mom's. I fly with my friend Luis to Brazil, attend a friend's wedding and then make our way North by land, perhaps with a dip into Argentina first, visiting as many interesting sites along the way as possible. I will work this summer; I'm hoping to find some sort of job that involves physical activity, interaction with good people, and the possibility of making big money. In the fall I plan on, though I haven't yet applied, attending university. The problem now lies with what courses I should take. And this question, hard enough already, poses another question somewhat more difficult. If I'm quitting carpentry to go to university, it means that I believe there to be a more satisfying life road to travel even though I don't know what it is. The question then, "Is there a career for me where I won't have constant doubts as to whether or not I should be doing something else?" I am wondering if I'm suffering from youthful idealism. Perhaps no matter what I do I will have these nagging doubts. I just feel that I should be able to find a career that I can be passionate about. Is that naive?
So, off to South America I run. Perhaps I can find some sort of epiphany on the foreign roads. In any case, it should be fun.

I'm About to Lose My Worried Mind

2007-12-14T15:28:00.000-08:00

I never entered so I can't really complain about not winning, but I sure would have loved to won Q-107's prize of tickets to Led Zeppelin's reunion concert in London on Monday. I confess that at first I didn't appreciate Led Zeppelin all that much. I instantly liked Going to California but on their other songs I didn't like Plant's singing. However, I've since come to my senses and now Led Zeppelin is my second favourite band, in times of honestly perhaps my favourite band. I also consider Robert Plant to be the most talented rock singer that I've heard.
Some of their great songs include, Going to California, Good Times Bad Times, Babe I'm Going to Leave You, Dazed and Confused, Your Time is Going to Come, How Many More Times, Whole Lotta Love, What is and What Should Never Be, The Lemon Song, Thank You, Heartbreaker, Living Loving Maid (Alimony alimony paying your bills, when your conscience hits you knock it back with pills), Ramble On, Immigrant Song, Friends, Since I've Been Loving You, Gallows Pull, Bron-Y-Aur-Stomp, Black Dog, Rock and Roll, Battle of Evermore, Stairway to Heaven, Misty Mountain Hop, When the Levee Breaks, D'yer Maker, The Crunge, Dancing Days, No Quarter, The Ocean, Kashmir, In My Time of Dying, Trampled under Foot, and several other songs that I didn't get around to listing.
I don't know if the members of Led Zeppelin had terrible luck with unfaithful girlfriends or if there was merely one spectacular split that became the fodder for almost every other song that thy wrote because most of their material deals with how women mistreat them. I think that if I ever experience a tragic breakup, especially if I'm wronged, I will listen to Led Zeppelin for a year straight. I might just do it anyhow; they're that good that I don't want to wait until some girl breaks my heart.
Although I didn't get to go to the concert, I can take consolation in the fact that the radio station has been playing more than the usual amount of Led Zeppelin. I woke up this morning to In My Time of Dying and before noon I had also heard Dazed And Confused, Stairway To Heaven, The Song Remains The Same, Misty Mountain Hop, Kashmir, Whole Lotta Love, and Rock And Roll.
I imagine that those who don't like Led Zeppelin will not like this blog and are probably deaf or something. Really I don't understand how anyone couldn't enjoy Led Zeppelin.
People who care to leave comments could name their favourite Led Zeppelin song and if they don't like Led Zeppelin they could name what songs they do like.

Musician 1. "Can you play the Hallelujah Chorus?"

2007-12-08T12:35:00.000-08:00

Musician 2. "I think I can Handel it!"
That's an old, widely under appreciated joke from Peanuts that even I was too embarrassed to tell last night despite the many opportune times that arose to tell it. I went with some friends to see Handel's Messiah performed by the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra, Calgary Philharmonic Chorus and four soloist that you likely haven't heard of but are nonetheless extremely talented.
The performance took place at the Jack Singer Concert Hall, and it was my first time there. I certainly saw a different side to Calgary. The redneck side of Calgary is of course blatantly obvious, especially during Stampede as is the greedy oil industry side. Never before had I seen its cultural side so clearly. It was quite refreshing.
We were seated almost at the very back of the highest balcony yet the acoustics were such that it didn't matter too much. It would have been nice to be able to see the performers better yet I stilled enjoyed it immensely and I was close enough to observe several things that I enjoyed.
For one thing, I really enjoyed watching the Conductor. Ivars Taurins certainly gets involved in the music. I think I could have watched him the whole time and not be bored. Meghan said she actually saw him jump. I missed it but I don't doubt it for a second. I also enjoyed watching the counter tenor sing. It was strange to see a man singing yet in the high notes he sounded like a woman. I never knew that someone could have such a powerful falsetto with such an amazing range. But then again, I never listened to much of the Bee Gees. I liked how after each of the three parts the Conductor and Concertmaster, the first violinist, shook hands. I also liked how the Concertmaster's name is Cenek Vrba. I don't think there could be a more stereotypical name for a virtuoso violinist. There was another portly violinist that I enjoyed watching as well. With his long beard, and white hair he looked like I think professional classical musicians should look.
However, I think that my favourite person to watch was the oboist. He also had white hair and a moustache. He had a bit of a comb over but the tuft of hair that should be combed over was drifting off to the side in a rakish sort of Einstein-ish, eccentric genius look. He probably had at least as many bars of rest as actually playing time and while not playing it looked as though he was drifting off to sleep or would become otherwise engaged in activities that normally would be reserved for offstage. For example, I saw him checking his fingernails. I imagined in my head that all of the other members would be annoyed at him and always hoping that he would give some reason to be ejected from the symphony yet he happened to be such a musical genius, such an oboe virtuoso that he position was always guaranteed despite his offbeat mannerisms.
All in all it was definitely worthwhile. I would like to go to performances much more regularly and would encourage others to do so as well.

And that my friends, is a classic example on how one concludes a blog quickly due to dwindling interest in said blog.

Alright

2007-12-05T20:50:00.000-08:00

For whatever reason I haven't felt the urge to blog for awhile. I had a few ideas for blog subjects but they didn't catch my imagination the way I hoped and so I didn't even bother trying to write. Now I begin, without a clear objective in mind; this means there is a very real danger of writing a lousy blog. I feel forced however, due to the constant demands from my enormous fan base. Or something.
Tonight I went to the mall for the first time in a long time. And it sucked. If there's anything depressing, it's going to the mall before Christmas. I don't know if the mall planers purposely set out to showcase everything that is wrong with the North American consumerist attitude or whether it just happened but I have quite a few complaints.
First let me justify my reason for going to the mall. I went with a friend to look for a wedding gift. Unfortunately everything on the registry in our price range was taken except for a wok. Now I'm sure that a wok is an excellent thing to have but I really don't want to buy such a lame gift. So we looked for something else.
Back to my blog though. Does anyone else notice how much of the stuff for sale is absolute garbage? Example: I saw a hand held game of poker. Pretty common except for the fact that this particular version had about six attachments so that several people can play simultaneously. Granted there are a few situations where this would be preferable to actual cards but this situations are definitely limited. I imagine that people buy this gift without any thought to how useful the game is. So many of the products cater to this type of mindless consumerism. Merely package the product well and convince the consumer that it's a good idea.
Or the toy store. Don't even get me started here. Does every single toy really need to be battery operated? Not only are batteries a huge strain on the environment with the dangerous chemicals and energy inefficiency, they take all the imagination out of a toy. Previously the toy would encourage a child to his his imagination but now that's no longer necessary with toys making sound effects, moving, and lighting up. And once the battery is dead the toy sucks. I don't even think that these toys are more fun.
The other big problem I have with the toys of today is that so many are based on popular movies, tv shows and video games. Once again, imagination is put aside because kids can reenact their favourite movie without even thinking. Instead of the customer thinking, "will this toy be fun?" he can think, "Oh! it's a Sponge Bob doll that says six different things, Jane loves Sponge Bob, I'll buy it." forgetting the fact that a talking doll is fun for five minutes and then it is garbage. Toxic, non-biodegradable garbage.
The only thing that I saw that seemed somewhat worthwhile was that massage chair I tried out. INCREDIBLE. I want one so bad.

Sometimes I Just Don't Have Anything to Blog About.

2007-11-16T15:55:00.000-08:00

It seems as though I'm going through a bit of dry spell with blogging lately. Unusually, I don't have anything hysterically funny or amazingly profound to blog about. I decided instead to zip back through my old blog archives and find something that many of you probably haven't read. So here it is, although I'm not angry anymore. This was just one of those things that seems to happen to me will unfortunate regularity.

Seems Altogether Tame, Almost Noble

2007-11-07T20:01:00.000-08:00

Fairly late in the evening last night I overheard Kevin ask Calvin and Clement if they wanted to play a game.
"Are you guys playing Boggle?" I asked hopefully. Boggle has been the game of choice around Chateau Rockingham and I can always be suckered into a game, not matter what the time.
My hopes were dashed though, Kevin had a new game that none of us, him included, had played before; Gnostica. Gnostica is a strategy game similar to Risk in that the players compete to win territory. The main difference is that the territories are made up of playing cards. The thing that struck me is that instead of using regular playing cards Gnostica requires a deck of Tarot cards.
I wasn't too sure how I felt morally about playing with Tarot cards. I decided to join in the game though, and to later carefully consider the consequence of playing a potentially satanic game.
The rules were explained and the cards dealt out. I picked up my cards with misgivings about touching them. I know it's a knee-jerk reaction from growing up being taught to stay away from games of divination such as Ouija Board and Tarot cards but on the other hand maybe there was good reason for my caution. Calvin was talking about how the cards were invented for playing games, just like a regular deck of cards, rather then forecasting the future so it makes sense if there's no harm in them.
I felt slightly better as I rifled through my cards until I discovered that I held the devil card. I didn't like this revelation because it somewhat confirmed my fears and because the devil is ugly. I changed my mind slightly however, once we began playing and I realized that the devil is a strong card to have. I was even happier once devil pictured on the card started speaking words of advice. I later realized that the advice was only mediocre but even so the devil was good for my self esteem. Until he told me, I never realized how great a person I am and how I'm far too humble.
The game progressed but not quickly enough. I soon realized that the game was evil, robbing me of much needed sleep. We continued on until after 12:00am sometime when I finally declared a pause. Still feeling nervous about the whole Tarot deck I headed downstairs to brush my teeth. I decided to closely examine myself in the mirror for signs of possession. I didn't notice anything, likely because my face now failed to cast a reflection, it's probably unrelated.
On a serious note, I'm still not sure whether I'd want to play with the Tarot deck again, despite Gnostica being a a fun game. It would take less than a minute and I'd be interested in your opinion. I humbly request that you simply post "play" or "don't play" as a comment.

Online Prospecting

2007-11-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

I have been accused, justly perhaps, of having a large percentage of blogs being focused on my being single. After hearing this accusation I decided to abstain from writing any more blogs on this subject but today I am going to rescind that decision, but for a great reason.
Yesterday I was reading a blog that I enjoy when a banner ad caught my eye. It was for an online dating site, common enough to be sure but this one is caters to certain people. There are many examples of niche market dating sites. There are sites that are religion specific, or that are for those who share similar interests but the site I discovered yesterday focused on, in my opinion, the two most important characteristics: wealth and looks.
www.seekingmillionaire.com is "The premier dating site for rich, wealthy, and beautiful singles." Finally the site I've been waiting for. Now I will really not be writing any more blogs about being single because those days are numbered.
I immediately created an account. The problem lay with what my profile name should be. Something that should leap out, I tried "God'sgifttowomen" but it was taken so I went with shallowandarrogant. Actually I did none of these things.
There are four options for people setting up accounts. "I am seeking a: [sic] Wealthy Men, Attractive Men, Wealthy Females, Attractive Females." However, there was no category for "seeking a wealthy and attractive female," so why should I even waste my time?

The Measure of a Man

2007-10-31T20:47:00.000-07:00

I don't recall the exact circumstances, but it must have been over a month ago that I shaved my beard while neglecting the upper lip. I do know that it was supposed to be a joke. Moustaches are always funny when found on the faces of those under 30. I got a lot of laughs but of course a lot of people didn't know it was a joke and merely assumed that I have no style. Not that they're wrong, but I do know that my moustache is not exactly stylish.
At first I thought that a week would be the appropriate amount of time for this particular joke. However, I also thought that it might come in handy at Halloween should I need it for a costume. Well Halloween is almost over, I didn't actually go to any costume party and now I don't have an excuse for my moustache. So I should shave it. However, I don't want to. Maybe it's like some strange variation of the Stockholm Syndrome where I've a misplaced loyalty.
This blog sucks but my moustache is AWESOME!!!
I just don't feel like writing more.
I did serendipitously discover this sweet link which doesn't do much for my motivation for shaving.
Sweet Link

Baby You Can Drive My Car

2007-10-27T16:43:00.000-07:00

The problem with owning a new vehicle is that they let you know when something is wrong. I remember with my '79 van if I heard it making a noise that seemed unnatural I would "fix" it by turning up the radio. If it made an unnatural smell I would buy an air freshener, but my new car prohibits this brand of mechanics with a "maintenance required" light and other various warning lights. For a while now both the maintenance required and the airbag light were on so I decided to take my car in for repairs.
Since I'm working down South I decided to book an appointment at Calgary Honda since it's about five minutes from the house we're working on. I chose to take my car to a Honda dealership mainly because I like spending too much money. I told my boss of Thursday that I might be a little late on Friday since I would have to take the shuttle to work after dropping off my car. He said that if it looked like the shuttle would be quite late I should just phone him for a ride instead.
Yesterday I went to drop off my car. I arrived only fifteen minutes after it opened to discover that it was already quite busy. I stood in line and was asked my destination by one of the shuttle drivers. I told her, unsure of the exact address, that it was really close, just off Canyon Meadows Drive. She told me that I would be going with her.
After waiting in line for quite some time I finally headed out to the shuttle. I was the last of six to enter. The shuttle driver told me that I would be the last to get dropped off. I was disappointed since I was so close. We started driving and I was dismayed to see that we were heading North although my destination lay South.
We drove further and further North. I noticed that there would no longer be chance of my arriving on time. Later I watched 7:30, my start time, roll past. Still we headed North. Finally, just a short distance from downtown, we dropped off the first two of the passengers.
We then headed further North and my thoughts began to grow a little dark. "Why should I have to come this whole way when I was so close to start with?" I began speculating. Since I was the last to enter the shuttle I might have been automatically destined to be the last to get dropped off. I then realized that the answer was probably more sinister. I decided that I was looked down on for having such an ambitious moustache. Now I was used to people looking down on me due to my facial hair but it was another thing entirely to suffer outright prejudice because of it. I made a resolution that I would complain, though not mentioning my suspected prejudice, and try to get a discount on my bill. It could be the metaphorical silver lining.
We continued Northbound on Deerfoot. I noticed that we were now further North than where I started in the morning. Discouraged, I tried not to think about how late I now was. We finally dropped off the last person and headed back to Deerfoot Trail. Stunned I noticed that she turned northbound! I asked her where we were headed and that's when I realized what had happened. Although I meant to say Canyon Meadows Drive, I had actually said Country Hills Boulevard, a minor slip of the tongue that is geographically a major error. I arrived at work just before 9:00, over an hour and a half since I got in the shuttle.
I left the car dealership that afternoon, $1000.00 lighter. They had run the diagnostic on the airbag system but no problems came up so they merely reset the light. Total cost to tell me that nothing was wrong, $105. I remember when I was sixteen listening to adults talk about how teenagers never know how expensive cars are until they buy one. I resolved from that point on to anticipate losing large amounts of money when I finally did buy a car. I bought my first vehicle over four years ago but I'm still constantly surprised how much they cost. Now though I have a nice car, in great running condition, and a clean interior so all I need is a hot girl to drive around with me. I mean that's pretty much the purpose of owning a car, isn't it?

Keeping an eye on the world going by my window.

2007-10-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

The last day of my first season tree planting was a helicopter block. To be more accurate there were a few cut blocks being planted that day and I was selected, along with two other guys, to plant three small, connected blocks. My foreman informed us that we had to "pound" that day because it was essential that we were finished by the time the helicopter returned to pick us up.
Well we pounded that day. I remember being glad coming back to the tree cache for my last bag up with plenty of time to spare before the helicopter was due to arrive. However, when I got back to the cache I discovered Lee and Byron, the guys planting with me, lounging around with all the trees gone. They had finished off the last of the trees while I was gone.
There is no surer recipe for good memories than being stuck out on the block with nothing to do. Lee and I napped a bit while making jokes about Byron who for no apparent reason began digging a hole. We asked him what he was doing and he replied, "making a trap." We made jokes about how the trap would cause the checker to break an ankle and spitefully fail the block. Seeing the mickey mouse quality of the trap we made jokes about the futility of the enterprise. We laughed as he carefully covered the hole, about 18" deep I suppose, with branches, leaves and dirt.
Tired from his exertions Byron also napped while waiting for the helicopter. We had a long wait though. Eventually we woke up and started milling about. Lee fell in Byron's trap. Byron and I laughed at him, though Byron laughed longer after all the ribbing he endured.
We then, betraying our boredom, began to replant our trees. Lee let us rookies into a glorious secret.
"It doesn't matter if you swear in the woods!"
"Who the @$%# planted this #!@^ tree at the @#%* bottom of the @$% mound!???"
"This @#%^ tree is #$^#$!"
"You're an @!##%"
"Your trees are !@##@ and your @#%#@ face is @#%# ass @#$@# and ##%#$@ you @$#$ big #@$#%$#.
It was good fun and I learned that swearing well either requires practice or is a talent that I lack. We headed back to the cache and I fell into Byron's trap. Byron laughed best.
Finally, after several hours we heard the chopper and got ready to hook up the sling of garbage boxes to the helicopter. We then walked to the other block, fording a creek via beaver dam and stopping to plant my last tree of the season, (upside down) where we would be flown out, along with the rest of the camp, back to the trucks. (Only to discover that, of course, the season wasn't done and we had several hundred more trees to plant.)
While napping back on the block I remember waking, thinking that I heard the helicopter coming. I mentioned it to Lee but realized it was just my imagination. Lee later remarked enviously that I was asleep and snoring again in less than a minute. He was a light sleeper and always had trouble falling asleep.
It is nice to be able to sleep anywhere and anytime. Several times I've fallen asleep on a airplane while still taxiing, waking up a while later to people enjoying snacks and drinks that have already been brought around. Hard beds, springy beds, no beds, it doesn't matter so much to me.
It's also a curse though. I fall asleep when I don't want to. I remember desperately trying to stay awake at a funeral, but failing. Or my cousin Arend telling of the time in church the pastor finished praying and everyone's head lifted, except mine. They spirit was willing but they flesh is weak.
I always feel bad for Peter, James and John when Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, comes back to them and disappointedly asks them if they couldn't keep watch for one hour. I know that I would have done no better.

(I know there's a really awkward segue in this blog but that's the way it's gotta be and I don't feel like explaining the reasons behind it.)

My Fashion Is Just Too Far Ahead of It's Time

2007-10-21T22:35:00.000-07:00

As I stepped out of the house today a question came to mind. I was wearing my army pants, ratty brown shoes with masking taped laces, a hoody, a rough looking leather jacket and of course my handlebar moustache. I then wondered what fashion category I fell into. If you were to group me, with what individuals would I fit best? That's when it hit me, I looked homeless.
However, driving home today I was at a red light and I glanced over to the car next to me. I made eye contact with the passenger of the car and he gave a friendly nod. I nodded back and then he smiled and mouthed, "Nice moustache!" I laughed, twirled the tips, gave him the thumbs up and then drove off. Maybe I'll never shave that sucker.

Across the Universe

2007-10-19T22:17:00.000-07:00

Two hands. After tonight that's what I need to count the movies that I've seen this year. James Bond: Casino Royale, (x2) The Bourne Ultimatum, The Ringer, Live Free or Die Hard and last night, Across the Universe. There may be one or two more, but I don't think so. In any case, I would definitely put Across the Universe in my top five of the year.
I did enjoy the movie. Now those who know me probably could have expected one of two knee jerk reactions, either I'll love the movie because of all the Beatles songs and references, or I'll hate it because of all the Beatles covers that don't measure up to the glorious originals. Actually I fell somewhere in between. I definitely liked the movie, and the songs were quite well done. I didn't like all the versions, Helter Skelter stuck out as one I really didn't enjoy, but for the most part the considerable vocal talents of the cast made for excellent cover versions. I felt that the story lacked and was carried by the music, but of course I would rate Beatles music as the highlight of the movie. Despite my considerable bias, I think that the story was weak, undoubtedly written to fit the music instead of the other way around.
A cool thing happened because of the movie; I rediscovered how amazing the Beatles catalogue actually is. The cliché states that familiarity breeds contempt and I am very familiar with Beatles songs. For this reason I don't generally put on a lot of Beatles cds, I've heard them too many times before. However, last night and this morning I've been playing all my albums and really enjoying a rediscovered love of the GREATEST BAND EVER period.
I had a hard time watching the movie and trying not to sing along, although I was generally successful. I also had a hard time trying not to fall for whichever girl was singing, I was generally unsuccessful. During the credits they played Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds and I was tempted to start singing along in an attempt to get the audience to all sing it. I wimped out though, I don't know if everyone could be counted on to love the music as much as I do. Perhaps on opening night it would have worked. I might put the soundtrack on my Christmas wish list although generally I don't have to because when it comes to me and Beatles stuff, people already know.

Some Lessons Are Best Not Learned the Hard Way

2007-10-15T18:50:00.000-07:00

Ten good reasons to be careful when using a table saw.
1. Left thumb
2. Left index finger
3. Left middle finger
4. Left ring finger
5. Left pinkie
6. Right thumb
7. Right index finger
8. Right middle finger
9. Right ring finger
10. Picking your nose. (Who uses their right pinkie anyhow?)
Today I was using the table saw to make a jig. I wanted to cut a hole in the middle of a piece of plywood so I lowered the blade all the way, put the plywood in place, and began to raise the blade. I have a strong love of my hands and therefore a healthy fear of saws. What I didn't know was that this saw was the one that my boss lost his pinkie on. This saw has a taste for blood.
The wood must have bound because the saw spit the wood out crashing into the door behind me. Heart racing and fingers throbbing from the bruising that they received I tried to collect my thoughts. I then looked down and noticed blood liberally dripping from my fingers. It only took a cursory inspection to realize that I had been mistaken and that my fingers, not bruised, had made contact with the blade. Luckily for me the blade was only about 1/16" higher than the wood so the cuts weren't deep. On my index finger I got a small cut by the nail, a deeper gouge on the tip and then a little bit shaved off the bottom. My middle finger had a section of nail sliced off, taking a little skin for company. My ring finger was slightly bruised. They're sore now, but I'm not complaining. It could have been devastatingly worse. I should be fully healed in a week or so with no lasting side effects save for a healthier respect for the tools I use. It was amazing to feel the adrenaline though, I think I could have done a four minute mile an hour and a half after the incident.
I wanted to take a picture to post on my blog but unfortunately I couldn't find my camera and then when I did find it it didn't work. It could have something to do with the fact that I found it the pocket of my freshly washed pants.

And So It Ends

2007-10-01T16:47:00.000-07:00

Since I began blogging there have been a variety of subjects that I have broached on multiple occasions. There were the indecisiveness blogs (I'm ready to write another of those), the pacifism blogs, and of course the blogs about my internet friendship with Karen Gomyo, professional violinist.
I must admit, the first blog I wrote about her, the tragic romance story is one of my all time favourite blogs. However, I did try reading it to my mom and failed, I was too embarrassed and Lisa had to read the last part. I couldn't quite vocalize the whole "angels flying down" or whatever part. It was a little too over the top, to employ generous understatement.
I really liked some of the other blogs of the same subject. For one thing, I always found them very easy to write and satisfying afterwards. A conclusion of mine, based on no actual evidence, is that they were among my readers' favourites as well. Well this shall be the last blog on the subject because it's all over.
I think things first started going downhill after she left myspace. I think that my first blog was actually quite prescient because the story played out very similarly to real life except for a few minor details. In real life there was no meeting for coffee, blossoming romance, new found passion in her playing, no late night phone calls, nor a trip to Paris, no wondering on how things can continue and the cellist with perfect pitch finally ending things was actually just me, writing too many emails that were too akin to creepy, stalker emails.
In the end, each party involved, her, myself, the police and the judge, decided that it would be for the best if I stopped contacting her, maintain a 750m perimeter from her at all times and attend counseling. So I guess that's that.
I read once that people generally date and marry those of a similar level of attractiveness. I guess that most people automatically pursue those of a similar standing as themselves. Maybe I need to learn to do this because I obviously was way out of my league. But that's OK, I learned from my mistake. No more professional musicians for this guy. What's more, in a serendipitous stroke of luck I stumbled across Jessica Simpson's email address and I think that armed with my new knowledge and awesome moustache I should have a pretty good chance.
On a totally unrelated subject, does anyone want to buy a half carat, VVS1-VVS2 diamond solitaire ring?

Lake of Fire? No, Hell is Cold and Wet.

2007-09-20T19:53:00.000-07:00

Today I fulfilled an obligation that I had agreed to a while ago. Gaylene had asked if I would be a linesman at one of her soccer games. (In return for dinner and beer, I'm not so altruistic.) The game started at six but I was to show up early and I didn't really fancy the drive to another quadrant of the city in rush hour traffic. I decided to take my bike and I was glad that I did for I was able to speed past traffic stuck at a standstill.
I arrived at the game in good time. Before the game even started I put on my sweater for there was a cool breeze blowing. After maybe twenty minutes or so, the first few drops of rain began to fall. The wind picked up a little bit and then it was even colder. A while later it began to rain in earnest and that's when I began to hope that the ref would call the game. I saw two lightning strikes, fairly close by, but our ref was a trooper and the game kept on.
Thankfully the rain let up and it was only chilly because I never got completely soaked. As the game drew to a close though the clouds burst forth with a drenching downpour. I got on my bike and started for home, about a thirty minute ride. Less than a block into the ride I was freezing, my hands feeling as if they were submerged in ice water. It was pretty miserable to be sure, but I wasn't too bothered for I was mentally armed, I have memories of enduring for far longer in far more miserable conditions. I used to tree plant.
For many Americans, July 4th 2002 was a glorious holiday, with fireworks, parties and friends. For employees of Hi-Rise Contracting, July 4th 2002 will forever be remembered as Hell Day.
We woke up early that day. There was a long drive and since we were taking a helicopter the last few kilometers we couldn't be late. Part way through the drive though the trailer with the tree boxes got a flat. It was a typical tree planting flat, the whole tire disintegrated. In typical tree planting fashion, the spare was also flat, perhaps in worse condition than the tire that had just given up. We got out and started doubling up the boxes, twice as many trees in each. Loading the boxes precariously onto the roof rack of the van we continued our merry way. We went to meet the chopper but when we arrived at the staging area it wasn't there. I can't remember exactly how it went from there, I know that we had to go to the other crew's block for a bit and then to another block where we left Clint and Justus to plant. We returned to the staging area, now a couple hours later than the time we were supposed to fly out at. Our radio consistently was calling, "Heli-Bob, do you copy?" with only silence for reply. It wasn't just do to the fact that the pilot's name was Lin, not Bob. He was nowhere to be found. Finally our foreman spoke those sweet words that I'd been secretly hoping to hear for a couple hours, "Alright, let's go home." I swear, it was less than a minute later and our radio blared, "Hi-Rise planting, do you copy?" Heli-Lin had arrived.
We did copy, and it was off to work we went. The helicopter ungraciously deposited us on the side of a a mountain, not too far below the tree line. The cut block was heavily overgrown and the leaves of the undergrowth were quite wet. Although it wasn't raining, it only took about five minutes of walking through the brush before I was completely soaked. I didn't have rain gear, actually I did but it was back at camp. I naively assumed that if I got wet and cold I would just plant faster to warm up. How foolish I was. So there was I, wearing nothing more than a light shirt, the cold, wet fabric plastered to my skin. I had essentially no protection from the elements.
I have planted trees in May, June, July and August and I have planted in snow in each of those months. The mountains have a scornful disregard for what summer weather should be. On this day there was no snow, but there was rain and later wind. A brisk breeze in two degree weather while soaking wet on the side of a mountain while planting trees is about as unappealing picture as I can imagine and that was my life for at least eight hours. I had never ever been so cold before, and have never been so cold since. I've waited for buses in minus forty weather and it wasn't even close to how miserable I felt that day. I had a sweater but I put it under the cache tarp because I wanted something dry to wear for the two hour ride home. Since we started later, the helicopter was due to come later. I kept on planting, with fingers so cold that they would just buckle the instant I tried to put a tree into the ground. The day dragged on and on, each minute more miserable than the rest. I turned on to autopilot, plant tree, walk, plant tree, don't commit suicide, plant tree.
I remember how happy I was checking my watch and realizing that I should finish up my trees because the helicopter would arrive soon. FINALLY!!! I arrived to find the cache all cleaned up and ready to be slung out by the helicopter. My "dry" sweater, previously sequestered under the cache tarp lay sitting in the mud, exposed to the rain. Luckily I arrived in time and it wasn't too wet. I think there was a bit of an argument about who had the unenviable task of hooking the sling to the helicopter. The wind from a helicopter hovering overhead is intense and wind against a wet body sucks heat away in a flash. This was one time I was happy to be a rookie, hooking up helicopters is a responsibility reserved for the veteran planters.
The helicopter arrived and I gratefully took the flight back to the road. There was no warm truck waiting there like I had been dreaming of for the last several hours. The truck finally arrived and we headed back to the other block to pick up Justus and Clint. We had too leave the warm truck because, predictably, the quad was hopelessly stuck. Getting vehicles unstuck is a trademark planting pastime and I understand that Justus and Clint had spent a good portion of the day doing just that.
We arrived back at camp at around nine, if my memory serves me correctly. It was, the most physically miserable day of my life. Nothing else even comes close. It was a bad day all around. Clint and Justus had been digging out stuck truck, we had frozen our asses on the side of a mountain as had the other crew planting another block, though not a helicopter fly-in. Adeit, always a bit of a sissy in the cold, had actually collapsed from hypothermia at the side of his piece. He was raced back to the trucks on the back of a quad while being held in place by John, aka Spaceman. (He was far-out, smoked a lot of pot even by planter standards.) Adeit received some good natured ribbing about having the lovely Sara as a "nurse" on the ride to the hospital. If he had collapsed on his piece though, he likely wouldn't have survived. If I had collapsed, and I think I must have been close, I would have died. The only radio we had was good for ten kilometers. The nearest road was ten kilometers away and there certainly wasn't anybody sitting there waiting for out distress cry.
I've had other miserable days planting, not quite so bad, but far worse than anything I've experienced anywhere else. For those miserable days I came up with a mantra that I would repeat in my head over and over. "This too shall pass." I knew that at the end of every bad day was a meal and a warm bed. I just had to make it through the day.
Today, although my hands were as cold as they have ever been, I didn't even need the mantra. I save it for really bad days, the type that occur with startling regularity while planting.

Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds...

2007-09-16T16:06:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I had the pleasure of attending Brian and Rochelle's wedding. (I know that there are a lot of girls out there who had their eyes on Brian but it's too late now and if you're willing to settle then I'm willing to play second fiddle.) There's a bit of an unwritten rule that masculine guys shouldn't like weddings so sometimes I pretend that I don't really like them but really I do, in a "thank God it's not me" sort of way.
Colour me a hopeless romantic but I love the idea of two lives becoming one, the symbolism of marriage, the reception with friends and family and if they're good, the speeches. (A bad speech though, is, I agree, horrible.) One of my favourite parts of the wedding is when the bride enters, everyone stands, the groom stands at the front with a foolish look of love, awe, joy, maybe a bit of fear, and the dad walks his daughter down the isle trying to hold back the tears. Beautiful.
I was thinking about weddings a lot on Sunday and in my head I started composing this blog. I didn't have time to write it though so I started this evening but the only thin I really remember is the joke about playing second fiddle so unfortunately this blog kinda sucks. I will do better next time I promise.
(Lately while analyzing the quality of my most recent blogs I've been wondering if my blog's entered what historians will eventually dub, "Ed's Declining Phase.")

Car Whoas!

2007-09-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

It was just over a month ago that I bought my new car. As you may remember, I didn't want to buy a new car but some vandals forced the decision upon me. I ended up with the choice of a cheap and probably fairly reliable Plymouth Acclaim or an expensive but very nice and probably fairly reliable Honda Accord. I bought the Accord, who can argue with heated leather seats? (Many people complimented me on my new car, thus the "Whoas" in the title of the blog.)
The cliché money can't buy happiness is likely due to the fact that with every new purchase the novelty eventually wears off. How long does it for the novelty of a new car to wear off? Just over a month. Now I really like my new car but as nice as it is I've come to the conclusion that I can't afford it. Although it's true that any bank would merrily give me multiple times as much money as I still owe I feel that I can't afford it.
When I owned the Tercel I really didn't have much stress when it came to my car. I knew that if something on it broke, I could have it fixed and not really miss the money that it cost. Now however, I have this debt hanging over my head. I wanted to pay off my car before the year end but I don't think that it's possible unless my roommates decide to cover my part of the rent for the remainder of the year. (If you did guys, I would do all the dishes.) I also realize that I should get some winter tires so there's another several hundred dollars.
It's not only that, I also worry about the car. The airbag light is on (and I would like to think I learned my lesson about ignoring warning lights) so I should probably get that looked at. Now I worry about what the repairs would cost. There's also a little rip on the driver's seat. I rub it every time I get in and out making it worse all the time. I would like to get it fixed before it gets worse but that's no doubt an expensive repair. If I don't fix it though, I worry about the resale value. Actually I fairly regularly worry about the resale value which is stupid with cars because the hard fact is that they depreciate rapidly.
Christmas is also coming and the last couple of years I've spent a fair bit of money on gifts through the World Vision Christmas catalogue. I would like to do the same this year but I don't want to be stressed out about it either. I'd feel bad if I spent less this year just because I'm driving an expensive car especially since I'm earning more.
The other thing is that I realize that the only thing I really like about this car is the cd player. I love listening to music. Don't get me wrong, I like the sunroof, the leather, the keyless entry, and the myriad of other options, but I wouldn't miss them all that much but I worry that the longer I wait the harder it will become to live without them. The question is though, are they worth the extra stress? I think no. As my friend mentioned, you should own your car, and not let it own you. I also think that I am perhaps overly sensitive to being in debt, a trait that bothers me not at all.

Uh oh.

2007-09-08T13:31:00.000-07:00

Just last night the painful topic came to the surface again. Cameron had spent a while in New York and learned that his friend is friends with a young, Japanese professional violinist. He wondered whether she was the same violinist, as he put it, whose career I was "following." This of course was a euphemism for "stalking." For those of you who haven't been following my blogs for long enough you might want to catch up with the following post: She's Playing me Like a Violin.
At the conclusion of the blog I wrote how I would be in an everlasting state of turmoil knowing that the moment I gave up hope my next email would arrive. This knowledge would prevent me from ever entirely losing hope because of her history of always surprising me after all hope was lost. Therefore I was stuck in a Catch-22 unable to give up hope that our friendship (a generous use of the word I'll admit) would continue, but needing to give up hope to receive the contact.
Well let me tell you, I was wrong. The last time I heard from her was months ago. I thought that I would go see her perform in Vancouver but I don't know if her concert was canceled or if I imagined it, I can find no news on a concert in Vancouver anytime soon. Her myspace page is gone, I've lost all contact and subsequently all hope. Despite this I've received no word from Ms. Gomyo.
Today for whatever reason, maybe I lied to myself when I said that I've given up hope, I did a search for her on facebook. I did this shortly after she deleted her myspace page but she wasn't there. Today however, I find her. So now I've the dilemma, do I contact her or not? (this question doesn't have to be rhetorical.)

Gardens and Grandmothers

2007-09-05T22:23:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I should feel guilty about not writing a blog for a while but I do. I had loads of time this past weekend having taking Friday through Tuesday off. However I didn't get around to writing a blog. I had a great weekend in Kelowna. I went to my Grandparent's house which is always a treat. I arrived to find, unsurprisingly, my Grandpa sitting in a chair reading and even less surprising my Grandma out in the garden.
My Grandparents have a lovely house, situated a block from the beach and overlooking the lake. It also has a huge garden. My Grandma loves gardening and I'm sure it at least partly explains how she is still so lively at her age, somewhere in her early eighties.
I went out to give my grandma a hand clearing out raspberry bushes. She has tons of them and they spread like weeds so she wanted to take some out to help keep her garden looking neat. With a stronger grip, I was better at cutting through the thick stalks but other than that I felt like more of a hindrance than a help. At least by now I know that "just a few more minutes" means about an hour and a half before we go inside. My grandma has a consistent habit of going out to do one little thing, say turn the sprinkler on, and then get distracted by something else and then something else and come in three hours later to her forgotten cup of tea, stone cold.
Although I am not a fan of work generally speaking, there is something nice about working in the garden. The earth is real, alive. There are worms breaking up the soil. There are plants, each one different and interesting. The raspberry bushes with delicious berries just asking to be eaten. Bees fly from flower to flower. It's a partnership with God. A little bit of planting, weeding, watering and then a garden springs up. Life, on countless levels. Plants and soil and insects and birds and humans sharing the same space. Symbiosis of beauty and life, and nourishment. Of course I prefer reading a book to weeding.

My Drug of Choice.

2007-08-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

My first introduction came through youtube. The video begins with a shot of a sound stage, some other cameras and cameramen, and on stage an old man in a cardigan casually playing a few bars of Frére Jacques. He stops playing and offstage you hear someone say, "Alright, stand by. Bach's Chaconne, take one." The old man is motionless for a second, bow poised above the violin and then he starts.
Suddenly the room is filled with music, and I am trapped, bound by simple notes but more than that. Somehow Johann Sebastian Bach managed to put to music the deepest emotions of my soul. D, F, A. Those are the first notes heard but the protective armour of my soul is already breached before the arrival of the next note. It isn't overt virtuosity, but a journey where every note is like the curve of a road that reveals another stunning vista, each more beautiful than the next. The journey continues and then reaches a glorious climax where all the notes climb and build in a whirlwind of sound and emotion rising to heaven, like a prayer of a saint. This moment is sublime, sacrosanct. Any other composer would end there, fully satisfied and justifiably so but Bach isn't half finished.
The music slows, allowing the listener to reflect but before long before thoughts are allowed to wander the music once again takes hold, takes control and reaches deeper still into the soul until there is an unstoppable rush of emotion at the surface with nowhere to go but up in a prayer of thanksgiving. I cannot be an atheist when I listen to this piece.
Why was I up at three am last night. To get my fix. I couldn't go to bed without listening just once more, and then once more again. Multiple listens have not dimmed my enthusiasm. I own three recordings each of which I've listened to dozens of times. At thirteen minutes long I imagine that cumulatively the amount of time I've spent listening to the Chaconne would now be measured in days.
I'm not alone in my opinion of the piece. Johannes Brahms wrote to Clara Shumann with his thoughts,
"On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind."
Even as I now listen to Rachel Podger's version, I am caught fast by the music. How is it that there is so much beauty in this world of ours? How on earth did Bach managed to write this?

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down. (Says the Carpenter)

2007-08-13T01:19:00.000-07:00

I woke up coughing, and wishing that I had taken more initiative to see a doctor this weekend. I think that the dust in the air at my work has started to really affect me, I've been having what I assume to be asthma attacks which I've never had before. I just wanted to sleep a little longer. Mornings come all too fast and I'd had a little trouble getting to sleep as well.
Last night, the neighbour's cat kept me up for some time, meowing outside the window. The members in my household, Chateau Rockingham, named him Dexter although we later learned that his real name is Nipper and that he's a she. Dexter was aptly named, her real name Nipper, for last night when I was talking on the phone to my Mom she finally bit me. We had started letting her into our house every once in a while for visits although the habit had fallen to the wayside after she started biting people. First she bit Kevin, then later Calvin, then Lisa and then Kevin again. The second time that she bit Kevin he was suitably punctured that he felt it warranted taking advantage of our Canadian Health Care and then a trip to the clinic.
Of course while Dexter went around biting people I went around making highbrow comments about how to correctly handle cats, I hadn't been bitten, had I? It seemed unbelievable that Dexter could bite so many people, he's such an affectionate cat; really, really affectionate. The thing is that right when he is most affectionate is when he bites, so Kevin told me. Calvin and Lisa corroborated.
Dexter suffered a larger fall from grace when Calvin started complaining how he was kept awake by Dexter meowing at his window at night. He finally convinced Dexter of the fact he wasn't welcome around the Chateau anymore.
With Calvin and Kevin on holidays, I felt fine letting the little rotter in. I stilled enjoyed his company. But then he bit me and I changed my mind a tad. And finally last night I understood, the stupid cat sat meowing outside my window for quite some time.
When I woke up coughing I wasn't really thinking of Dexter. I was thinking of how I wasn't ready to get up yet, and how the mornings are sure staying darker later. I worried through an obligation that today brings, I considered my cough and whether I should just call in sick and go into the walk in I coughed some more wondering if, even though I knew I had a bit more time to rest, if I should get up to get a drink to try and soothe my throat. I rolled over and looked at the clock. 1:57 am. I had only been asleep a few hours.
I got up to get a drink, and thought I should take advantage of the hour by calling my sister, nine time zones away. I had tried calling her yesterday but for whatever reason I couldn't get through. I really miss that girl. To employ tremendous understatement, I'm rather lucky to have her as a sister.
I headed up the stairs and then behind me I heard a meow, Dexter was still in the house, having been locked in the basement. I guess he had been meowing outside my door, not my window. I swear if I find any cat sh!t in the house... I opened the door to let him out but he looked hopefully up the stairs. I bodily threw him into the thankless night. Honestly, the gall of that cat.
I phoned my sister, interrupting her in a staff meeting, thereby realizing that there was no silver lining to my waking up four hours prematurely. And now here I am, blogging my woes to you. It's going to be a rough day. I should get some sleep. Sometimes I absolutely loath Mondays.

Rereading Books is Good for the Soul Part II

2007-08-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

My last blog was supposed to be merely an introduction for this, the main theme that I wanted to write, but I felt that it would be too long so I separated them into two. I didn't really like the last blog all that much, but I think I will like this one even less, though for a different reason.
I remember the day after I wrote my blog about parallel parking I was somewhat concerned with something that I wrote. I wrote that I only brag about two things, my blog and my parallel parking. To be absolutely truthful, I brag about a lot of things. However, I always justified it by telling myself that I was doing it as a joke, I'd make a joke about how much faster I bike than Lance Armstrong and the next second I'd make a self deprecating joke and assume that it canceled everything out. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't.
I remember several months ago Brian wrote a comment on my myspace profile. He wrote, "You put the 'Ed' in 'needy.'" I'm not sure if he was just making a joke, or if he was actually making a really perceptive observation, I do desperately need affirmative statements from my friends and family. Mark Twain once said, "I can live two months on a good compliment." I can't. A good compliment serves me for about a day or two and then I start needing another. It's not that I've got a low self esteem, the blog is about my problem with pride; I think I'm great. (There's a perfect example of the sort of bragging jokes that I like to make.)
I remember the first time I heard someone talk about the "five love languages": words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch. It took me about half a second to realize that I'm speak the language of words of affirmation.
Once I heard this I assumed that my "neediness" was merely symptomatic of my "love language." After rereading Searching for God Knows What I'm not so sure. Don Miller speculates that humans have a void that should be filled by God but is now empty. A rough analogy would be like Woody from the original Toy Story. At the beginning he is confident of his place in the world. He has Andy's love and so none of his imperfections matter. His pistol is missing, his voice box is a little outdated but it doesn't matter because he's Andy's precious toy. After Buzz comes along he feels the separation of Andy's affection and all of a sudden his world is turned upside down. Now he is self conscious of his inferiority. He has to compare himself to the other toys. He doubt his value.
Like Woody, I know all too well my shortcomings. Unfortunately I can't feel the love of God well enough to get my value from Him. I need to compare myself to others. Perhaps if I'm faster, smarter, funnier, richer, then I can feel as though I have worth. But really it's empty comparisons. I'm not the fastest, smartest, funniest, richest person so I'll never feel fulfilled. What Don's book made me realize is that perhaps I'm dealing with a spiritual problem.
Last weekend I made some comments that I regret. I may have made a few more egotistical "jokes" than normal, fished for compliments a little harder, in other words desperately sought affirmation, not out of low self esteem, but out of pride. For that I am sorry.
I don't mean that I think people who desire words of affirmation are all spiritually bankrupt, just that in my case I became a little bit extreme in my need to hear affirmation and I don't know that it's a coincidence that it happened during a time of summer slacking. My Bible's been gathering dust and my prayers are all too rare, usually a request for forgiveness.
I don't feel that I've expressed myself too well, Don does a better job of explaining the theory. But I won't try and waste anymore words. This isn't the best way to end a blog, so I'll close with a totally unrelated thought. Chopin's nocturnes are sure amazing. I'm listening to a recording right now and I can't think of any better music to play before bed.

Rereading Books is Good for the Soul

2007-08-07T22:20:00.000-07:00

I'm currently rereading two books, Philip Yancey's Prayer: Does it Make Any Difference, and Don Miller's Searching for God Knows What. I don't know how many people bother to reread books but I do it fairly regularly; I'm really glad that I did because there's more than a few things that I had forgotten since the first read, and some things that I never even picked up on the first time round.
In Yancey's book on prayer he relates the following story about a tourist observing a Jew praying at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
The Jew rocks back and forth with closed eyes, beating his breast, sometimes raising his hands. When he finishes, the tourist asks, "What do you pray for?"
The Jew responds, "I pray for righteousness. I pray for the health of my family. I pray for peace in the world, especially in Jerusalem.
"Are the prayers effective?" the tourist asks.
"It's like praying to a wall.

I think that one of the best qualities of Yancey's writing is his honesty in spiritual matters. Anyone who's prayed somewhat regularly to God must understand Jew, and the oftentimes futile feelings that accompany prayer.
In Don Millers book I had forgotten a really cool part where he describes a meeting he had with a man named Ron Post.
"Ron was about to retire from a ministry he had started twenty years before called Northwest Medical Teams. Northwest Medical Teams is an aid organization that sends doctors to volatile regions of the world to help the sick and dying. We met at a coffee shop across town, and I asked Ron... what was the key to his success. To answer the... question, Ron pulled from his pocket a tattered envelope filled with pictures.
For the rest of the meeting the man laid down pictures of people he had met, the first of which was a young Cambodian woman who, at the age of thirteen, was being used a a sex slave to the Khmer Rouge. He told me they had rescued her from captivity and given her a new life filled with the knowledge and love of Christ. As he showed me picture after picture of blind people who, because of a simple surgery, could now see, crippled people who could walk, the starving who had been fe, he told me their names. He knew their names, every one of them. I had asked the man what the key to his successful ministry was, and he told me through his stories the key to his multimillion-dollar ministry was a love of people. Ad I believe nowand will always believe that if we are willing to love people, God will pour out His resources to bless our lives and our efforts.
I think of this meeting with Ron when I consider Christ, who, like Ron, must have a proverbial envelope in His pocket, laying down picture after picture, knowing our names, knowing the number of hairs that grow on our heads, knowing tour stories nd fears and desires. He looks at each of us and feels in His heart the kind of love that would make Him want to come to earth and die so we could be healed, so we could feel the love that is going to make us whole..."
I like that picture of Jesus a lot.

Proverbs 16:18

2007-07-27T23:10:00.000-07:00

For the most part I try and maintain a humble attitude. I once worked with a guy who was really egotistical, not only was it annoying, but everybody made jokes behind his back. This is reason enough to guard against pride. I have two exceptions to the rule though. I openly and unashamedly brag about my blog and my parallel parking. (If you think my blog is good, well I parallel park even better.)
This evening I headed over to Brian's house for Brifest and when I pulled up I noticed a parking spot in front of the house, some would say too small, I knew better.
Actually this story could begin several months ago when I headed over to Brian's house for another gathering. That time I also noticed a tight spot in front of his house, added bonus the one car was a classic car. Let me tell you, I parked perfectly. I come by my pride honestly because I really do have a knack for parallel parking. I went inside, ready to bask in the heady glory that such a park deserved. I made a mental note not to mention my park, it would be sweeter if somebody else pointed out my mastery and I could act nonchalant. Unfortunately the evening wore on and the subject never came up. I finally realized I would have to do the regrettable but necessary step of drawing attention to my genius.
I mentioned my park to Rochelle, she had heard rumours (re. me bragging) but had never seen proof of my skills. She went out to take a look, but the one car was gone leaving a huge space behind my car, which now was parked stupidly close to the car in front. I groaned and Brian came over to see what was wrong. I told him and he said, "Oh yeah, I saw your parking job. It was nothing special; look at how small your car is, it's easy to parallel park that thing."
I pulled up today in the rental car, a large sedan. Not only was this spot tighter than even I would normally dare I could prove once and for all that it wasn't the car, it was me that was the source of the great parking jobs. A thought momentarily crossed my mind, "the space isn't physically big enough for this car." I immediately shrugged such foolishness off as I considered the last laugh that I would have over Brian.
I made my approach backing in until I knew there was absolutely no space left behind. Switching to drive I pulled in ahead managing to get about half of the hood of my car behind the car in front, the other half was still in the street. I put it in to reverse, now realizing that I had the attention of my friends who were milling about on the front lawn. I turned the radio off, wanting no distractions, and looked back, it was far tighter than I had expected. Beads of sweat gathered as I considered how much space I had, it was tight, very tight. Brian came over, he wasn't smiling or laughing. He just told me, "You'd better stop and let Janine move her car, you're literally touching both the car in front and behind." I saw that he wasn't joking, I also saw some angry looking faces looking at me. It wasn't hard to guess whose cars I was touching. If looks could kill I wouldn't be writing this blog right now, that's for sure. Janine moved her car, I humbly pulled over to the curb, grateful that at the very least, I had brought the great pacifiers, beer and ice cream.
Normally I'm not very good at reading people's emotions but it wasn't hard this evening to realize that the one girl in particular was not very happy with me. She thought very highly of her Tiburon and not so highly of my parking. I tried to smooth the situation over by making self deprecating jokes. My extraordinary wit (OK, three exceptions) never failed to win anyone over yet... Well, that would have been a true statement yesterday.
I guess I can take solace in the fact that I still write kick-ass blogs.

Pride goes before destruction,
a haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs 16:18

The Silver Lining

2007-07-25T21:49:00.000-07:00

Somehow I just can't seem to shake this nasty cold that I've got. It sucks because it seems a little better and then all of a sudden it's worse again. Last night I was coughing non stop until the wee hours. It sucked but I can see two benefits to my sickness. The first is that my coughing this morning inspired my roommate to write a great story.
Secondly, I was finally able to get a hold of my insurance company. It's been a real hassle that wasn't helped by the fact that I work during the day. They're giving me more than I expected for my car, it's going to be towed away tomorrow. I got a rental so everything is OK.
Or so I thought. This evening I was taking the plates off my poor little car and I actually felt myself getting a little bit emotional. I like that car more than I thought. It's too nice a car to be sent away to the wreckers. Now I have the problem of finding a new car in the next few days. (My insurance is willing to give me a rental car for five days) It just feels like high stakes gambling. Am I buying a lemon? Who's to know. I just want a cheap car that's fairly reliable; like the one that's being towed away tomorrow.
This blog is mediocre at best. Ironically my absolute favourite blog is the one I wrote about selling my last vehicle. Here it is, to make up for this lousy blog.

On Writing and Fishing (for compliments)

2007-07-16T12:34:00.000-07:00

This morning I was thinking that this blog would be about my joyous experience with Alberta Health. A lot of people complain about the state of health care these days. Now as a young and healthy individual perhaps I am not in a good position to comment, but I think that Canada's system is relatively amazing. There aren't too many places in the world that can offer such high quality care for such a trifling amount.
I definitely don't think that the monthly sums are too much to pay, although I would like it if they actually sent me a bill so I could pay instead of having my balance add up without my knowledge.
Aware that they wouldn't forgive or forget my debt, I finally called up Alberta Health to let them know that I was willing to pay if they were willing to send me my bill. After waiting on hold for nearly half an hour listening to the worst sort of elevator music, I finally managed to speak with someone. We had a little difficulty figuring out what address I was under, I've had three since moving here although none received any sort of bill. In any case after a fair amount of work on my part, the $500 bill is on it's way. The question I have is how long would my bill have added up for before they finally tracked me down?
However, I actually changed my mind about the subject of the blog I want to write. I was reading another Bill Bryson book, Neither Here Nor There, and I was reminded of something else that I would like to do with my life. It occurred to me when Bryson was describing how he went into a bookstore and rearranged the books to his advantage. I then thought that it must be such a cool thing to be able to go into a store and and see a book that you wrote for sale.
The problem of my becoming an author is twofold. One, is I don't know for sure whether I have the talent. I am always swinging between two extremes, extremely proud or extremely doubtful of my abilities. Right now I think that I'm mediocre at best, likely because I feel this blog is long and boring. Other times I know that I'm probably good for five or six bestsellers before I succumb to the alcoholism that accompanies genius. A few years later I'll write one more book describing my courageous return to sobriety making it into Oprah's Book Club and earning myself a brief but lucrative career as a guest on daytime TV talk shows. I will then fade into obscurity, hopefully in time for my thirtieth birthday. If I really go far I have the hot celebrity wife and subsequent tawdry divorce.
The second problem is the one of self motivation. Heck I can't even be bothered to finish this blo

No Official Title, Just an Extraordinary Blog.

2007-07-14T11:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon all three of my roommates took off for a weekend bicycle trip in Revelstoke. A part of me wanted to go, but the other part was content knowing that I wouldn't be spending 5 hours in a car with Calvin's incessant monologue about bikes. The other bonus was that I would have the house to myself for the entire weekend. I like roommates but the knowledge that I would have the house to myself was quite heady and I had to lie down for a bit.
Later I woke up to a house empty of people but full of possibility. I could, if I were so inclined, shower until all the hot water was gone, play obnoxious music loudly, even on repeat if I were feeling particularly devilish, make a huge mess in the kitchen, melt records in the oven, have people come over... Actually as you can maybe tell by my list, there isn't much difference in levels of freedom between my house with or without roommates, the important thing for this blog is that I sure felt like a teenager who just received his driver's license, a new world of possibilities just opened up. But perhaps a better analogy would be a dog that finally escaped the yard but know has so much freedom that he ends up too scared to do anything but stay in the front yard.
I checked my email, nothing there, so after messing around some more on the computer I headed out onto the deck to read a book, a little disappointed that nobody took my up on my admittedly casual beer drinking invitation. I have a few books that I would like to read but somehow I found myself picking up Notes From a Small Island, a Bill Bryson book that I've already read.
Bill Bryson has to be one of my favourite authors, with his dry humour, his sarcasm, his obscure but fascinating tidbits of information and his effective, and sometimes liberal use of cursing. I like to recommend his books to people but I get nervous in case people realize that my writing style is pretty much just a ripoff of his.
I read the following excerpt last night on my front porch, and found myself laughing out loud. Bill is traveling round England and spends a miserable rainy evening in a quiet town. Heading back to his hotel a car comes by splashing him. He return to his hotel in ill temper to find that he is locked out and soaking wet.

There were two doorbells, and I tried them both but without response. I tried my room key in the door and of course it didn't work. I tried the bells again, leaning on them both for many minutes and growing increasingly angry. When this elicited no satisfaction, I banged on the glass door with the flat of my hand, then with a fist and finally with a stout boot and a touch of frenzy. I believe I may also have filled the quiet streets with shouting.
Eventually the proprietor appeared at the top of some basement stairs, looking surprised. 'I'm so sorry, sir.' he said mildly as he unlocked the door and let me in. 'Have you been out there long?'
Well, I blush to think at how I ranted at the poor man. I used immoderate language. I sounded like Graham Taylor before they led him off and took away his warm-up suit. I accused him and his fellow townspeople of appalling shortages of intelligence and charm. I told him that I had just passed the dreariest evening of my life in this God-forsaken hell-hole of a resort, that I had been soaked to the skin by a carful of young men who between them were ten IQ points short of a moron, that I had walked a mile in wet clothes, and had now spent nearly half an hour shivering in the cold because I had been locked out of my own hotel at nine o'clock in the fucking evening.
'May I remind you,' I went on in a shrill voice 'that two hours ago you said goodbye to me, watched me go out the door and disappear down the street. Did you think I wasn't coming back? That I would sleep in a park and return for my things in the morning? Or is it merely that you are a total imbecile? Please tell me because I would very much like to know.'
The proprietor flinchingly soaked up my abuse, and responded with fluttering hands and a flood of apologies. He offered me a tray of tea and sandwiches, to dry and press my wet clothes, to escort me to my room and turn on my radiator personally. He did everything but fall to my feet and beg me to run him through with a sabre. He positively implored me to let him bring me something warming on a tray.
'I don't want anything but to go to my room and count the minutes until I get out of this fucking dump!' I shouted, perhaps a trifle theatrically but to good effect, and stalked up the stairs to the first floor where I plodded about heatedly in the corridor for some minutes and realized that I didn't have the faintest idea which was my room. There was no number on the key.
I returned to the reception area, now once more in semi-darkness and put my head by the basement door. 'Excuse me, " I said in a small voice, "could you please tell me what room I'm in?'
'Number 27, sir.' came a voice from the darkness.
I stood quite some time without moving. 'Thank you' I said.
'It's quite all right, sir,' came the voice. 'Have a good night.'

I continued reading while thinking about writing this blog. I had intended on writing it last night but my neighbours invited my over to watch Waiting for Guffman so I postponed the blog. I think the blog suffered for it, but ultimately I had a better time and certainly laughed more.

Harry Crack or Crack Potter

2007-06-30T12:14:00.000-07:00

I am ashamed to see how long it's been since I last blogged. Let me just say that I've been busy. It might even be true.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I am really looking forward to July 21st when the final Harry Potter book comes out. When I first started reading the stories book three had already been released but since then I've been consistantly reading the lastest books soon after they've been released. None however, have I waited for more anxiously than the one I wait for now, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. The reason is that the last book didn't really resolve and furthermore I am extremely curious about the actions of two of the characters, Snape and Dumbledore.
I made thing worse because I decided that in order to prepare for the new release I would reread all of the books. It wasn't a bad idea, but forgetting how fast, easy and addicting they are, I started far too early. I read through all six books in less than two weeks so I already finished them all.

Warning, Book Six spoiler to follow.

The question on everyone's lips is, "Why did Dumbledore have such faith that Snape was good?" It is obvious that Snape was a double agent, the question is where did his loyalties really lie? If both Dumbledore and Voldemort where convinced that Snape was on their side then obviously Snape managed to fool one of the greatest wizards of all time, but who?
I've a theory though. Maybe neither was fooled. I think that Snape was a true Death Eater working for Voldemort and Dumbledore knew this all along. There have been several times when Dumbledore mentions that love is the strongest magic of all and Voldemort doesn't understand this at all. I think that Dumbledore was trying to use love, in this sense forgiveness, to bring Snape back to the good side. I think that he pretended to trust Snape in order that he could persuade Snape to win Snape over, not through fear but through acceptance.
Dumbledore knew that this would take a while yet he felt that as long as he were around he knew that he could keep Snape in line. That is why when he was lying helpless at the end of book six and Snape showed up he was pleading and fearful. He knew that his experiment had failed and that Snape was still evil.
I think that near the end of this book Harry will be battling Voldemort and Voldemort will manage to disarm him. He will be about to kill Harry and Snape will be convicted all of a sudden due to Dumbledore's previous actions and he will help Harry, changing alliances at the eleventh hour. In this way Dumbledore will be proven correct that love is the most powerful magic. That's just a thought, I'll have to wait until another three long weeks before I can learn for sure what happens. I don't know that I'll make it.

Life

2007-06-17T11:09:00.000-07:00

A wise man that I met a few weeks ago said of life, "It makes you laugh, it makes you weep." The more I learn the more I realize it's true. It's possible to go through life somewhat disengaged. I however, prefer to get swept up in the current of life. There is no time that I realize the power of life more than when I consider the five senses we have to experience life. Each sense can experience profound levels of joy.
Sight, smell , taste, touch, and hearing. Each unlocks new beauty. There is always beauty around, often ignored. Right now I can turn to see the rain fall, the wind blowing softly through the trees. A Chopin record is playing in the background, the taste of my coffee, there are divine gifts surrounding me, waiting only to be noticed.
What better place is there for a Michael Chrichton quote, from The Lost World? Malcolm the mathematician is discussing all sorts of philosophical theories with two young kids and Thorne, an engineer, dismisses them with a wave telling the kids,
..you feel the way the boat moves? That's the sea. That's real.
You smell the salt in the air? You feel the sunlight on your skin?
That's all real. You see all of us together? That's real. Life is
wonderful. It's a gift to be alive, to see the sun and breathe the air.

Life is also a pendulum though, swinging from joy to tragedy with unpredictable swiftness. Each sense, a double edged sword revealing beauty and also cutting to the core of the heart.
Yesterday I learned that a friend died in a car wreck. I never knew her really well, but she came to our house countless times, I can picture her laugh clear as if she were here beside me. Life, it makes you laugh, it makes you weep.

Ecclesiastes 3

A Time for Everything

1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

She's Playing Me L:ike a Violin.

2007-06-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about blogging about my weekend, it certainly was interesting enough to warrant a blog. I could write about how my alternator gave up outside of Wetaskiwin and how I left it there for the night to attend a wedding. I could write about how we bought parts and went to fix it and my car wasn't there. I could then tell about how we discovered that my car got towed and was impounded. I could tell about how we got to the impound and discovered that two windows on my car had been smashed and there were muddy footprints on the roof, likely explaining the big dent beside the sunroof. I could moan about my stolen cds, cd player, and new wrenches that were supposed to be returned. But I actually have a more tragic story to tell.
For those of you who followed my previous myspace blog you'll be aware of the blog I wrote about Karen Gomyo. (I'll post the relevant excerpt at the end of this blog.) As you may know, I was surprised to receive a reply from Karen who also had a myspace profile.
Now when I wrote the first blog about Karen it was totally tongue in cheek. I had no intention of contacting her, nor did I expect ever think of her again. When I learned that she had a myspace profile I sent her a link to my blog but didn't expect her to read it. Well she did read it and then she wrote me a reply setting into motion an unfortunate chain of events.
The first problem was that I wasn't lying when I wrote that Karen Gomyo is beautiful. Nor was I lying when I said that I find musical women attractive, and Karen is a professional musician. The next problem is that I suffer from the same disease that most guys suffer from, basically if a girl pays attention to me I optimistically think that she's interested. The final problem is that Karen perfectly fits into the category of girl that I always fall for, unattainable.
We kept up a correspondence for a little while and likely she was just kindly sending out a few emails to a fan. I however, feel that she had a more devious plan in place.
The first email that she sent was short, a polite reply to the blog I sent. She ignored my reply and I thought that I had heard the last of her. Then a couple of weeks later, out of the blue, came another email much longer and more personal. I was very surprised. I wrote back but she did not reply; not for a couple more weeks anyhow. I replied but this time I was kept waiting, and waiting. There were no more replies.
A few weeks later I went to write her another email and to my surprise she had deleted her profile. I was quite shocked, this time I knew it was over. I was quite disappointed and not just because I wanted her opinion on some violin recordings that I discussed in one of my blogs.
A week later I received a myspace email from someone named Karen. Her profile was completely blank except for her name, age and location. It was her, or perhaps someone playing a cruel prank on my, giving her opinion on the recordings. She had read my blog, and then created a profile solely to write me. This time I didn't know what to think .
The thing that she managed to do was write me an email just when I had lost all hope that I would hear from her again. I would always got through the same cycle of surprise at an email, hope for another reply, followed by disappointed resignation. Each email that she sent though, would further the reason for hope and those emotions would grow stronger with each cycle.
The problem is that now I see the pattern of receiving an email only after I've given up hope. Now I've lost hope that I'll hear from her again yet I know that it is in this time that she sends an email so I am unable to give up hope. She's got me stuck in an awful limbo. Obviously she is just toying with me for fun. Miss Havisham would be so proud.
The other thing is that I've got so many questions to ask her. "Is there time to sightsee when playing in foreign cities? Do you enjoy traveling so much? Have you visited the John Lennon Memorial in Central Park? Do you have the Stradivarius at your house when not touring or is it locked up? Will you marry me? What does Ex Foulis mean?
Man if she knew what she's done to me.

In the Darkest Depths of Mordor, I Met a Girl So Fair.

2007-05-31T21:29:00.000-07:00

Except for times when I get a little overwhelmed, such as when I read the list I referred to in my last blog, I don't have too much of a problem reconciling a loving God with the all the pain in this world. If I ever do lose my faith I doubt that it will be due to encountering a lot of suffering.
The question. "How can a loving God allow so much pain?" has more than one valid response. For one thing it is a little bit arbitrary to say that God allows too much suffering. We're then setting the standard. Who's to say that God doesn't already prevent worse suffering?
A more convincing argument, I feel, is that we're mistaken when we say God is doing nothing. We want supernatural intervention but God seems to prefer using people to accomplish his will. The Christian theology is that God sent his son to die in order to right all the wrongs on Earth. So we can say that God doesn't prevent suffering the way that we would like, but we can't say that he doesn't do anything about it. He already has started the road to redemption in a most unexpected and amazing manner.
One other thing about pain and suffering is that it can also be seen as an opportunity. If for the sake of this argument you'll let me assume that Christianity is true, then it makes a lot of sense that God will allow some pain to occur. Jesus said that Christians should be recognized by their love for each other, as in helping those in need. Charitable acts are considered one of the best ways to "encounter" God and it also helps those in need so really it's a win win situation. Without any pain there's no way that people could understand their need for God. Helping a suffering person is truly a rewarding experience for all parties involve. I think this is a principle reason that God allows suffering, it enables humans to experience his love and also to demonstrate it. Suffering is a window to grace and love.

This started as an email response to Lowenfels' comment on my previous blog but I thought that I would post it instead because it's a subject that I've thought about blogging about for quite some time.

Cellphones "Forged in the Fires of Mordor"

2007-05-29T19:14:00.000-07:00

Last week I read through the that World Vision sends me and I actually felt somewhat optimistic about the future. There was an article about a boy who through child sponsorship managed to go to school and eventually obtain a university degree. Prior to being sponsored he wasn't even able to attend school. Today however I received a link to http://www.projectcensored.org/ Although I haven't checked the authenticity it seems to be a relatively credible source. The point is moot though, the reason I write is due to the pessimism that I'm currently feeling about our future. I became pessimistic after reading project censor's top stories of 2007 but certainly I don't need these stories to feel pessimistic about the condition of our world.
Our global problems are so big. Environmental problems, economic problems, ethical problems, it seems that everything about North American society has a negative impact on the environment and to peoples of the third world. The only comfort that I can find is in putting my trust in a God who seems all to silent.
The way God works really bugs me sometimes. I've got some sincere questions that I'd like answered yet God, if He answers them, does it so quietly or subtly that I don't even understand the answer. He knows this, He's omniscient, so why wouldn't He answer audibly or at least let me know what I need to do to hear Him? When I get into moods like this I start to question my faith and then I start wondering if I'm undergoing a test of faith. I'm stuck in a catch-22 where I can't believe because of God's silence yet I can't give up my faith because I wonder if this silence is a test of my faith.
When it comes to these big problems I know that God desires justice and equality but I can't solve these problems. I can work to a solution but I'm stuck in the position of knowing that I always need to be doing more. S where do I stop? How can I enjoy life while knowing that there is injustice occurring every second of every day? When can I stop and enjoy the gifts God's given me. I read a quote that stated "God gives but He doesn't share" meaning that every good thing comes from God but it's our responsibility to distribute the gifts fairly. If I give everything I have to those with nothing it will be a drop in the ocean of righting injustice.

Personal problem that I'm experiencing: Am I selfish to pray for my sore wrist when today tens of thousands will perish from want? Or more generally speaking, can I prayer for more when my life is so much richer than the majority of the population of Earth?
SERIOUSLY GOD, WE'RE IN NEED OF SOME GUIDANCE HERE. I could write this whole blog in capitals because I am actually really frustrated about this. I'm a little bit tired of the way God communicates PERIOD

For those who are wondering, the title of the blog comes from one of the article that I read today. Apparently a necessary component of cell phones is almost exclusively mined in the Congo and is worth a fortune. For this reason thousands are fighting and dying for access to the mines in DRC and of course needless suffering is happening.