Awaken: It's Spring.

Sunshine. Like bears from a den, people around these parts are beginning to blink and rub their eyes in anticipation of impending spring. Verdant buds have even begun to tentatively poke their soft noses up through the soil, sniffing for the call that comes to them on the breeze. The crunchy frozen ground has been replaced with the squishiness of mud between exposed toes. And everywhere else. Of course, a couple days from now and we could again be shivering and cursing at the cruel taunt that is the warmth we're experiencing this week.

The nice weather has afforded SCS and me the opportunity to get out for a couple of beautiful hikes, including one two weekends ago in Komoka when the ground was still frozen enough to not be muddy, yet still warm enough to enjoy the stroll. And it's early enough in the season the paths are still relatively quiet.

Last weekend, too, SCS was kind enough to surprise me with a fieldtrip to Springwater to celebrate my upcoming birthday. Mmm, a maple syrup festival: fresh taffy and a horse ride into the bush, followed by a 5km hike in the foggy woods. All quiet except for my ankle, chattering like a squirrel at every step. And pileated woodpeckers, blitzkrieging their way through enormous trees. Spring has sprung and put a pep in my step.

Ugg (ly).

Granted, the Ugg/Uggly joke has been made far too many times already, but really, just take a look at them. Wandering around campus, it appears sometimes as though the ubiquitous boots themselves have sprouted legs, marching their oversized Jackie-O glasses/Lululemon yoga pant-wearing owners to the latest hotspot. Heel, lemmings. Plenty of sole, but no soul.

Then, when I didn't think one could have worse taste in footwear, along came a rash (with no apparent ointment) of fur trim and fuzzy tassles. Obviously trying to get a foot up on the competition and reclaim their position atop the pile, Ugg have now come out with a crocheted version of the boot. I must be out of the loop here -- when did crocheting become cool?

And even with the warmer weather, they don't go away. Ug(g)h.

The Machine is Us/ing Us.

Despite resisting this long, I was finally sucked into the vortex that is Facebook, so this video, kindly forwarded to me by Joyce, is particularly apropos today. Reminiscent of the Googlezon piece that made its rounds a couple of years ago, this is a really well done short about the progress (?) of Internet technology and the digital compilation of information. Using wires instead of yarn, it's the quilting of the 21st century. Ironically, a lesson taught on YouTube?

Enjoy. Then be afraid. Very afraid. Okay, not really.

Whoops.

We had a chuckle around the office this morning at this correction, published in the venerable Globe & Mail newspaper. It tends to suck when you turn up unexpectedly in the obit pages. For those of you outside the country, Ben Mulroney is the son of former Canadian Prime Minister, Brian, and is a television personality here. Personality, that's it. We're thinking the obituary could, however, be appropriate for Mr. Mulroney's career, or does anybody actually still watch Canadian Idol or E-talk Daily?

Fighting the Power.

A panel discussion pertaining to university research ethics – specifically related to military funding – rekindled the academic spirit within me today. For someone generally quite averse to conflict, I definitely had my moments of wanting to throw down the gauntlet and join the fray of debate. Or else have my head explode.

Organized by a group calling itself Counter-Stryker, the event featured academics from Huron University College,The University of Western Ontario, York University and the University of Toronto. Regardless of where your personal politics lay, such discussions and debates are central to the whole nature of academia.

The main source of protest is focused on an engineering professor’s work toward developing lighter and stronger metals in partnership with General Dynamics Land Systems-Canada. Metals that may eventually be used on military vehicles, notably the Stryker Light Armoured Vehicle. Three of the panelists were staunchly against the research on the principle that it advances the war effort in Iraq; the fourth, Western’s Vice-President (Research & International Relations), obviously strongly supported the work on grounds of academic freedom. GDLS-C declined to participate which, given the attacks that would follow, was likely a wise decision.

I was already firmly entrenched (sure, let’s continue to use military-type words) in my personal stance on the issue, but I found I was nonetheless disappointed the ‘con’ speakers – despite the obviously imbalanced panel – couldn’t muster compelling-enough arguments to make me even think about individual aspects differently. I wanted to have my beliefs challenged. Instead, one speaker was abundantly arrogant, rude, offensive and generally disappointing for such a noted scholar. Academic snobbery. And intolerance. Sitting there with his hands over his ears while others spoke and calling the Vice-President “a liar”. Repeatedly. While fine, the other two came across as milquetoasts with insubstantially convincing arguments. I expected more.

Too often, the discussion was reduced to “the war in Iraq is bad and these machines are used in the war; therefore, the research should not be conducted.” A bit simple an argument for my tastes. Of course, much of the same was uttered on campuses during the Vietnam War. Yes, I get it – war is ugly and should be avoided. After thousands of years, however, we still haven’t managed to figure that out. In the meantime, let’s keep our soldiers safe.

One of the speakers said “modern war wouldn’t be possible without university campuses,” which is no doubt true. Should we instead still be digging trenches that scar the landscape the way mustard gas singed soldiers’ lungs? Or impaling opponents’ heads on pikes? History is written by the victors. Some research at the university may have military implications and, frankly, I would rather our soldiers have the best opportunity for coming out ahead. Or of coming home. Then we can put these metals to more quotidian use.

Another key beef related to an apparent lack of transparency, both before the agreement was signed, and after. The research has been widely publicized – in fact, Counter-Stryker organizers had, without my permission, been so ‘kind’ as to use one of my photographs from the original announcement in their literature. Er, propaganda. Someone questioned why we hadn’t been able to have a similar type discussion prior to signing the contract with GDLS-C, which sounds logical enough until you consider this university alone has more than 4,000 active research projects. Already, its researchers are loathe to accept further delays to ethics approval. Never mind the practicality of deciding who sits on the panels and makes decisions for each project deemed controversial. Who becomes the gatekeeper to decide which projects undergo extra scrutiny? We all have our buttons. And this would grind the whole research enterprise to a standstill. People were calling to see what is in the contracts as though Intellectual Property (let alone privacy) isn't important. It's naive to think we don't have to protect IP; to think someone with fewer scruples wouldn't take the next great idea if it were exposed to the world. It has happened, time and time again; there has to be some balance.

There is a slippery slope, though. It can present problems when researchers are in bed with corporations – checks and balances must be maintained to limit how much industry drives the research agenda. At the same time, where is research funding going to come from? Universities are increasingly being pushed into commercial partnerships by the ever-increasing costs of research infrastructure and by governments who demand industry collaboration. As is, at $9.4 million, contract research is still a relatively small piece of the $221 million research pie at Western. Four per cent.

But the need for money is still there and only industry has the cash – it may not be ideal, but it’s a reality. A notable example: a researcher at Western will likely know within three years if he has a successful vaccine for HIV/AIDS, but could not have undergone necessary clinical trials without financial backing from a company (in this case, a foreign one, no less). The university couldn’t foot the bill. Nor could the government. Is he supposed to drop 20 years of work toward eradicating the pandemic that has plagued our generation just because he has to partner with a company? Personally, I don’t think so.

Our lives are filled with discoveries that have been made as a result of the military complex. Microwaves, Teflon, the Internet. Sure, I’d rather we develop things outside of such arenas, though it’s more common discoveries are made when you’re looking for something else. To muddy the Counter-Stryker argument further, there’s also a GDLS-C-funded researcher who is developing artificial joints for knees and ankles. It’s still military-based funding, but is it wrong?

As one questioner put it at the panel, we are trying to treat the symptom (military equipment), not the illness (war). I’m not in agreement with the war in Iraq either, but the decision to participate in this war is one made by our elected officials (or a decision they were bullied into, but that’s a different story). Make a difference: vote, write to your members of parliament, join an NGO, express your displeasure. In the meantime, it befits us to support those who are putting their lives on the line for our country.

Should we be careful? Yes. Should we ensure there are checks and balances are in place, even while respecting academic freedom? Most certainly. And more importantly, we should continue to engage in discussion and to effectuate change to improve our world.

'Health Food' Gone Amok.

Perhaps taking a little alliteration a tad too far, Krispy Kreme has introduced a whole wheat donut? Krispy Kreme whole wheat. Holey blasphemy. What's wrong with this picture? Have they gone do-nuts? Hard to imagine this little nugget having flown under your radar when it was launched on Monday. Sorry story here. What, don't you have dreams of whole wheat donuts dancing in your head? I know I'm causing sparks by salivating all over my keyboard. Or not.

While I'm certainly not one to discriminate against a fine grain like wheat, if I happen to have a hankering (yes, I'm continuing with the alliterative theme) for some deep-fried, doughy goodness, I think I'm going to want to go all out. Health consciousness be darned like a sock. The sheaves of wheat look pretty and all, but for a savings of just a whopping 20 calories over the regular glazed donut? As they say in Germany, nein, danke.

You know, when you make a product that doesn't really go stale, I'm already thinking it's not going to be the healthiest choice. I've also long been skeptical of fast food's 'healthy' options, particularly after finding out salads have actually long been among the worst options, but if I'm ordering a donut, I tend to be doing so with the understanding I might just need to take the stairs an extra couple of times. Or else end up with a donut around my midsection.

Hello. My Name is Spam.

It seems taking a bit more than a week off from posting has led Blogger's cyber police (ooh, bugs crawling through the system and ghosts in the machine!) to arrive at the belief Celluloid in Cinders, Sold Slowly is nothing more than a spam blog. Well, I guess they just may have a point there -- by Blogger's definition, spam blogs "...can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text..."

Because of this false positive (making me feel like Floyd Landis, only innocent), I have been handcuffed from posting until a fully breathing (well, at least somewhat breathing) Blogger cop can verify that, for whatever it's worth, this is indeed a legit attempt at contributing to the swirl of online publishing. Up to two days in the lock-up. I'm just glad my non-blogging reverie didn't continue longer as they threatened to delete my toasty little niche after only two weeks. And after my most serious post yet, too. Conspiracy, I tell ya.

Granted, there is about as much substance here as in the Hormel product -- yessir, all filler, all the time -- but I particularly appreciated the validation that "since you're an actual person reading this, your blog is probably not a spam blog". And I had been wondering what to write tonight. Eureka! Thank you, Blogger. Inspiration. No really, thank you. Henceforth, this intrepid blogger'll strive to make his ramblings more relevant.

[edit: it ended up only taking the Blogger gods a little more than a day to sweep up the bugs and unlock the door to posting]

The Bus.

While I'm often reluctant to share with others much of the creative writing that flows from my fingers on a nearly daily basis, I have on occasion previously included some here. Writing can be an intensely personal process. And its fruit even more so. Yet it is such an integral part of my life, remaining so often shackled in this little box clad in keys.

Maybe sometimes it helps to establish some distance from words you have tried to twist your mind and heart around. In transferring files from my old computer, I rediscovered this short story, penned ten years ago. A lifetime ago.

I had been riding the bus a lot, watching people and wondering what was going through their minds as we traced maps we knew by rote. The smells, sights and sounds were unique, yet always familiar. Watching a microcosm of the world, bus imagery translated itself into a metaphor for life to me -- the adventure of getting on and off this mortal coil and realizing that sometimes you don't have the exact change. But we hold on for the ride.

the bus
Sitting in the bus, my bare legs glue themselves to the blue vinyl bench seat and my feet stick equally to a concoction of bubblegum and spilt soda pop. Office supply manufacturers should market a comparable product: it looks like I am stuck here. Held in place, at least I shouldn't need a seat belt if the bus is to crash.

Outside the window is dark; all I can see are the white, dust like specks that pass by with a rhythmic and hypnotizing regularity. These panes of two-inch glass distance me from the pain of the real world. Hectic. Corrupt. False. Removed. Artificial light within the bus colours everything the hue of parchment. The air is thick. Stagnant. Humid. A man breathes heavily, sweat causing his shirt to cling to his flesh with the force of the air which grasps onto my nostrils. No matter how much I attempt to expel it, there is a never ending supply eager to replace it. His shirt is yellowed, and not just from the light. He coughs. Stale stench is replaced by fresh odours, still growing in their infancy. Maybe they are not so fresh after all. He laughs heartily at the attention suddenly paid to him, exposing two rows of jagged, incomplete, ochre coloured teeth. They match his fingernails.

This laugh has been the only human noise of the entire voyage. The mechanical workings of the bus grind heavily upon my nerves as we jerk to a stop, leaving my pen to rip the page upon which I have been writing. People's tongues lie lifeless, unable to move. They were checked at the door. Silent. Distant. Removed. Their mouths, humid coffins, housing words, unformed. Aborted thoughts. Their eyes are transfixed upon the passing lights: funerary candles whose wicks are soon to expire into wispy grey plumes, easily carried away by the wind.

A woman, dressed as though her luxury car must be in the shop for the day, sits beside the man, unnerved. Upright at the edge of her hard plastic and mass produced seat, she sits – back still arched – looks skyward and rolls her eyes as the man readjusts his dusty jeans. A fly's paradise. His second skin. She straightens her dainty white gloves – creaseless – that fit tightly over her small inelegant pterodactyl hands. Bony. A cubic zirconia-encrusted wristwatch falls from its prestigious perch over the glove. She wears a lie. She lives a lie. A light foundation covers the bruise on her left cheek where her husband beat her. And has beaten her for the better part of forty years. And she still believes she is the winner. The skins people wear.

You sit there, knees perched upon the seat in front of you, a book nestled between them. The knowledge you have between your legs. The power. A man in a dark trench coat and a large hat that allows only a strand of his scraggly, greasy black hair and his beady, opaque eyes to jut out – like headlamps of darkness that pierce the light – peers over your shoulder inconspicuously. He hopes to steal your knowledge. I jot down a warning to you. The book slams shut as you cross your legs. Disappointed, he falls back down into his seat. Crushed. He will never know how the story ends. For him, the story never began.

The persistent drone of the bus's motor is hypnotic in its effect, and lulls some to sleep – the pocket watch of time stood still. It is the urban fairytale, the counting of sheep. Sheep herded off to the slaughter. Like someone who never shuts up, I tend to tune it out after a while. A retired man, his face glazed onto the window, looks like he is at the funhouse mirrors at a circus. Twisted. Contorted. He drools from the corner of his mouth, the result of which creeps down the smooth glass like a snail. A second emission threatens to race it. It races at the pace of his mind, slowed and stale, like the heavy smoke which stands guard over him, keeping people away. His hands are gnarled and yellowed from years of cigarette burns. His breath clouds the cool glass. Clouds from his lungs which are, for once, fresh. The white specks rushing past the window pass by even more quickly for him.

Toward the front, a teenaged couple believing themselves to be in love – her head on his shoulder – is so caught up in the moment of their being together that they are oblivious to all else that takes place around them. Nothing, yet everything. Apathy. His hair is cropped close to the skull, but is covered by a tattered and dusty baseball cap, worn backward. It has been carefully and intentionally dirtied, as is the fashion. Each of his earlobes is adorned – bejewelled by silver rings. A tuft of hair – brush bristles, sparsely scattered – sprouts from his chin. It is as patchy as his complexion. Unkempt, his clothes hang loosely, drooping over the edge of the seat. She slouches as far as does he, but her hair – unwashed – hangs longer and in multiple hues. The bus still makes the colours seem to be simply various shades of yellow. Her rings have lost their way: they cling to her nose – clasping their hands together in prayer, hoping for a reprieve from a sneeze. Their eyes are glazed over from the previous night's partying. They do not need sleep; life is young and the day is there to be seized. Nothing will ever catch up to them. They are immortal. This ride will never end; there is an endless supply of transfers to be had.

Seated in the middle are working parents who sit perched, ready to leap off this shuttle which carries them from one life to another. Lives that blend together but remain separate. Long hours that melt into days in what seems to be minutes. Seconds. The experience of the moment means nothing to them; there is dinner to make, a babysitter to relieve and, if there is time, sleep to be had. There is an eternity for that. His tie – conservative – lies askew, the top button of his shirt peeled open to expose the jugular. Between two lives he leaves himself vulnerable, yet his eyes dart around as though he is able to will the bus to travel faster. A modern Moses parting the sea of traffic in which we threaten to drown. Her eyes, blackened, though lacking make-up, hang droopily like wilted flowers. The flowers of her youth. Even her perfume – lilies of the valley – has faded like years of her life. Her figure. Her passion. There is little of her essence remaining. The woman's eyes are stern and seem to threaten all of the other passengers not to pull the cord that will ring the bell of freedom and stop the bus. It would delay the time of her arrival. What will snap first, the cord or her nerves?

At the very back, an elderly couple with many rides' experience sits, peering from beneath their layers of clothes. Dated, the fraying threads need mending like his heart, which is still warm, but pumps less of life's juices through his hunched frame. Now, his mind feeds life to his core. Will. Stubbornness. Love of life. The clothes are a life's long accumulations. It is as though they want all of their possessions with them when they take their last ride. Though their senses have slowed in direct correlation with their movements – movements cursed as being painful by the working parents, and cursed as being full of pain by the elders themselves – they are still the most aware of all passengers. They take in all of the surroundings: every action, every glance – realizing that they have precious few trips left to take. He jots down his observations in a small, tattered, and yellowed book. She reads, though it appears to be the eyes of those who surround her that are the novel of choice. The pages in her lap, wrinkled like her hands, serve as a guise, hiding her true motive. A decoy. A ruse. She whispers into his ear with a loving look that is more matured and more refined than the one she gave when she whispered and giggled to him during the years that they courted: years they sat at the front of the bus. Many years – many experiences – have taken place since. The rapidity of time's passing has left them slowed, but their minds are as sharp as the burning eyes which feed them. Food for thought. They fill their time observing anonymous people – people they may never see again – but who are not really all that distant to them. Through the years, they have met many like those found here. Everybody is someone else's twin. They have been the teens; they have been the parents crying for sleep. Their stop is coming soon. They will have their time for rest.

The bus slows, but nobody gets off. Another chapter is being written. The street light shines a white beam over two children jumping innocently in the puddles by the curb, careful not to drop the shiny fragments of metal that will guide them through, and gain them admittance to, life. Wet halfway up their legs, they have not paid heed to their mothers' pleas to stay away from the miniature oceans of their imaginations. Pools of life from the fountain of youth. Smiles still grace their faces. Innocence. Careful not to drop the coins clutched in their sticky little hands, they have awaited the bus's arrival with eager anticipation and with a look of glee in their eyes. Their voyage – an adventure – has just begun. The yellow glow no longer seems withered and dated as their childish exuberance, impish grins, and shy giggles fill the stagnant air of the bus. To be able to breathe life again in these aged lungs. A ray of sunshine – a more joyful yellow – enters my heart as the deafening silence is broken by youthful vigour and vitality.

They have a long trip to take, and many more to follow. I close my notepad and you place the wrinkled page marker into your book – the last page – and, taking your hand, I guide you slowly to the door. The bell has tolled for us, and, before reaching the final step, I pause, turn, and smile. The children giggle at the weathered and unironed faces heading through the bus's gates and the parents sigh, rolling their eyes at another frozen moment in their lives. He readjusts his tie. I give one final wave to those who have shared nothing, yet who have shared so much.