The Sound of Year End II.

It's not only time for fat men in red suits to make lists and check them twice - it is, after all, that time again for year-end posts. For the record, while my ears unwrapped a lot of extremely enjoyable music in 2007, very few complete albums really stood out for me, unlike last year. As such, I'm going to list my 15 favourite songs I came across in 2007 (whether they were issued then or not), in no particular order (album name in parentheses). You know, the ones that, at one point or another, were on constant repeat. Digital waxy goodness available here. Drum roll, please:

Beirut: A Sunday Smile (The Flying Club Cup). For me, 2007 was about all things Zach Condon, meaning Beirut and his previous bands, The Real People and 1971. From Gulag Orkestar to the Lon Gisland and Elephant Gun EPs, to The Flying Club Cup, who knew European gypsy music could be so infectious?

Beirut: Elephant Gun (Elephant Gun EP). Yes, more Beirut, this time from the aforementioned Elephant Gun EP. Bring on the brass section. Condon was rather prolific in 2007, issuing two EPs and a full-length album on the footsteps of Gulag Orkestar's acclaim. 'Strike while the iron's hot,' they say.

Basia Bulat: Snakes & Ladders (Oh, My Darling). Canadian content alert! Not only that, Bulat is a Master's student at The University of Western Ontario, working out of London and Toronto. It's a shame the album was released in the UK prior to Canada earlier this year, but it's one of the year's best.

Feist: My Moon My Man (The Reminder). Seemingly trying to re-introduce sequined jumpsuits to the collective consciousness, sometime Broken Social Scener Leslie Feist hit the mainstream with her catchy (and well-choreographed) videos. This one was used in an infectious commercial for the iPod Touch.

Fionn Regan: Put a Penny in the Slot (The End of History). Sure, this ultra-witty song has a really catchy chorus and a reference to Saul Bellow, but really, Regan had me at the lyric that mentioned a Rhodesian Ridgeback. Seriously, how many musicians would be ingenious enough to come up with that one?

Nicole Atkins: The Way it Is (Neptune City). One aural taste of Atkins' debut EP Bleeding Diamonds made the New Jersyan's first full-length a hotly anticipated release this year. Not to be confused with the diet, Atkins' voice is full and rich, haunting and enchanting.

Blair: Mona Lisa (Pluto). New Orleans-based Blair gave her EP the name Pluto as a metaphor for the impact hurricane Katrina had on the city, comparing it to the scientific community's decision to delist Pluto as a planet, saying: "Something is one way all your life, then all of a sudden, it totally changes."

Interpol: There's No I in Threesome (Our Love to Admire). Sure, the title reaches out and grabs you, but so does the hook. Popular opinion is that Interpol has been unable to recapture past glories of Turn Off the Bright Lights and Antics, but I'd say this album has more high points than not. Or, at least three.

Stars: Bitches of Tokyo (In Our Bedroom After the War). Given my love for Stars, I had looked forward to the release of this album with great anticipation, but haven't found that it has lived up to my expectations thus far. Except for this track, which has made me dance around once or twice this year.

Kate Nash: Foundations (Made of Bricks). "Dear God, I hope I'm not stuck with this one," Nash sings of a dysfunctional relationship she's holding on to by her fingernails. Comparisons to Lily Allen are obvious, but Nash brings a deeper sensibility to her songs and a dry wit that often counters the bouncing tunes.

Voxtrot: Real Life Version (Self-Titled). Another band that has achieved critical acclaim on the backs of several EPs and much love in the blogosphere, this is Voxtrot's first full-length album. While I'm not sure the LP hit all the high notes the EPs did, the band continues to craft beautiful pop songs.

Miracle Fortress: This Thing About You (Five Roses). Nominated for Canada's Polaris Prize last year, Miracle Fortress is essentially the work of Montreal-based Graham Van Pelt (who isn't coming out of Montreal these days?) Sunny and whirling, this is easily my favourite track on the album.

Lily Allen: Nan, You're a Window Shopper (Alright, Still - B-Sides). Sure, she's a bit of a brat and a self-admitted alcoholic, but the cheeky Allen can churn out some sunny pop tunes. Somewhat of a guilty pleasure, a number of Allen's songs wormed their way into my consciousness, but ended up being overplayed.

Maritime: Parade of Punk Rock T-Shirts (We, the Vehicles). Fine, this song (2006) is not from this year (Heresy & the Hotel Choir is), but it introduced me to the band that rose from the ashes of The Promise Ring and The Dismemberment Plan. Infectious and catchy, but hardly punk rock.

Eleni Mandell: Girls (Miracle of Five). "Do you still cry about girls you wanted?" Mandell softly croons to a soft-strumming guitar. No, no tears. While I can't say I'm much of a fan of her other work, this was a delightfully pleasant track that made its way into rotation for me this summer.

Upon hitting "Publish Post", I know some other song will likely vie for Top 15 honours in my head, but that's just the way it is. There were too many good songs to list, so I stuck with the ones that made me keep hitting repeat in 2007. Your faves? Hit the Comments section.

Endnote.

I feel almost too overwhelmed to really grasp all that has transpired over the past few weeks, and to be able to say it was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Almost. But, when I look back at the sum of the parts -- the sum of incredible experience after incredible experience -- I realize there cannot be any question. I'm just not sure my mind is ready yet to think collectively of all these experiences as one larger memory. It was all too much for that.

The opportunity to learn about other people, and to be able to make a difference -- however fleeting -- in their lives is something that cannot be underestimated and is something that will remain with me always. We are so lucky -- and we can still learn so much from other cultures. Even faced with staggering levels of poverty, disease and malnutrition, the majority of people I met in Africa were overwhelmingly happy. With an average life expectancy of 45, and much to overcome to prepare their children for a better life, one has to wonder if there's simply little time to dwell. It's a perspective many of us could learn to appreciate.

Lions and Elephants, Hurrah.

The goal of the modern safari seems to be to shoot as many as you can of the ‘Big 5’ – lion, leopard/cheetah, hippopotamus, water buffalo and elephant. Only now, you do it with a camera instead of a rifle.

While sitting beside my tent on the rim of the Ngorongoro crater the first night after a full day of travel, I realized our journey (“safari” in Swahili) had already provided me and my travel partner – Western Heads East intern Meaghan Horgan – with more than we could have hoped for. We were blessed with clear weather as we traversed various topographies – flat, dry savannah, tropical forests, lush mountains and short scrub – making animal sighting easier.

We were greeted almost immediately by giraffes and a herd of approximately 13 elephants, crossing in front of us. Three hours in, we had already seen thousands of antelope, gazelles and zebras. Water buffalo and baboons made their way through the grass at every turn. Hippos resembled clumps of grey rocks floating in the water; warthogs and ostriches scampered about. We had also crossed paths with our first big cats, including a pair of lions, a leopard climbing out of a tree and a cheetah enjoying its freshly-killed Thompson gazelle – while fending off a flock of vultures. All of this happened within a few feet of us, which was surreal, especially considering there are no fences. This is the wild.

We were reminded of this as we came across the female lion, lazily lying under a tree near a pond. We watched as a gazelle sauntered over, separated from its mates. It fell over, possibly sick, then continued to the water hole. The lioness tensed on her haunches and sprang into action, catching herself a meal. Seemingly unimpressed, a male appeared from the tall grasses and decided to challenge a water buffalo. Without the female’s support, he ended up backing down, tearing off a piece of the gazelle as a consolation prize instead.

During the trip to Ngorongoro, too, we passed a number of Maasai, their easily distinguishable red or purple garments contrasted against the dry grass. Their villages, surrounded by fences of stick and brush to keep predators out, dotted the mountainous climb. Acacia and Baobab rose randomly from the vast terrain, but passing hollow, bleached bones served as a reminder that this is one part of the world over which you have very little control.

The Ngorongoro crater – the largest unbroken caldera in the world, and considered by many to be the eighth wonder of the world – was breathtaking in its beauty, though clouds and fog washed in over it in the morning. It is also considered by some to be the birthplace of civilization. The crater’s walls rose high and were scarred by the switchbacks that took 20 minutes to traverse to the bottom. The backdrop was stunning, with cascading hills, vast plains and the large Lake Magadi. We had our drive interrupted briefly as a large herd of wildebeests crossed the road in a perfectly straight line and, toward the end of the day, we completed our ‘Big 5’, spotting one of the very few remaining black rhinoceros in the crater.

The second night, we camped in the Serengeti and went to sleep to distant calls from lions and hyenas. I was bitten on my achilles by a tsetse fly, but though it really stung, I don’t think it has made me sick. It was an amazing and surreal night to look up at a partially-lit sky, pinpricked to let the heavens shine through the silence. Lit light blue, it was as though darkness should never completely fall over the sky, depriving us of the Serengeti’s beauty. I couldn’t believe I was standing in the middle of it at night, surrounded by all I had seen during the day.

Today, Meaghan and I rose at 5:45 to watch the sun rise over the park and to begin our trek home to Mwanza. We awoke to zebras, antelope and gazelles visible from our tent door; we passed lions as we exited the camp. On the way out, we saw many more animals and actually had a chance to get out of the car to take a rope bridge across a river in which a crocodile swam below. I didn’t want to lose my sandal. Or my footing. The most amazing experience came toward the end of the day when two long lines of elephants came together in a V, heading to the river to cool off. In all, more than 150 elephants of all sizes passed within feet of us. It pretty much summed up the trip for us: we were very fortunate to see all that we did; many people spend far more time and see far less.

You Will Be Missed.

You know the type of person I mean. Really, it's inevitable that people like this have shaped who we have become - people who occupy special recesses in our minds. And our hearts. Not necessarily thought of on a daily basis, but people who have made a real, tangible difference in our lives and helped form our identities. They may, or may not be, related - it doesn't really matter - but they taught us something: how to hold our heads high, how to not sweat the small stuff. And chances are, they weren't told enough of the influence they had. Maybe we didn't even recognize it at the time. Not to reduce life to a series of Hallmark moments, but the guidance, support and impact were all there and can be precisely delineated.

I found out the other day that one of the very few people I would place in that category had passed away unexpectedly. We had lost touch over the last couple of years, but I still found myself thinking of her every once in a while and remembering her calm words in times of struggle. I remembered her patience as she endured trying times and attempted to apply it to my own. All the while, keeping a smile on my face. And now, I find myself wishing I hadn't completely lost touch with her. And I wish I had made more of an effort to let her know how her guidance had helped me. How her little chuckle had eased times of stress and her friendship had helped me endure an environment I no longer desired to be a part of. But isn't it usually the case that we think of it too late?

Life is precious, and it is short; and I take this as her final lesson. Complaining of stomach pains, she took some time off work and visited a doctor. A week later, she succumbed to liver cancer.

You will be missed - and I am thankful for having known you. Thank you, too, to the others who have made me who I am, and who continue to make me who I will become.

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.

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.

Empire State Building Shooting, 10 Years Later.

It has almost become a cliché to ponder the rapidity of the passage of time, like Polaroids through a shredder. Nothing reminds me of that more than watching children grow. And nothing makes me want more to be able to rewind the dials on my watch and lose myself, peering into a non-existent film of life – of times past, of memories remembered and forgotten. Today’s post is a reflection of the past and includes passages from my old-school blog – paper, y’all.

Today marks a decade since I unwittingly became involved in history. Ten years ago, I witnessed – in all-to-close proximity – a disgruntled Palestinian man by the name of Ali Hassan Abu Kamal open fire into a crowd of tourists atop the Empire State Building in New York City. Yes, his name is indelibly etched upon my mind. Looking to kill Americans, he happened to stop beside me before drawing a semi-automatic pistol from his trench coat, shooting seven and killing two, including himself. I’ve always questioned the logic of choosing a major tourist site if Americans were his target. Of seven people shot, I believe one ended up being from the United States. Nervous giggles aside, though, my joke became that it was a good thing he wasn’t left-handed or he might have just turned the other way when he began firing. And with how close I was, I likely wouldn’t be typing this.

"...I heard what I thought was a balloon pop to my right. I jumped. I heard two more pops and turned to my right and saw the back of a man shooting another. I remember the short black hair on the man's neck. He was two-three feet away. I could have grabbed him. He wore an olive green or brown suit or trench coat I think and carried a silver semi-automatic pistol."

I had only been up on the deck of the Empire State Building a few moments – enough time to briefly look out over the skyline and to have one picture taken. And I remember feeling oddly nauseous before hearing what sounded like a balloon popping. Then another. Annoyed at what I believed to be a child playing with balloons, I spun, confronted with the back of a man’s head and stared down his arm to a gun, firing into the corner of the deck. There stood a man, doubled over and bloodied. Chris Burmeister, a young Danish musician, would fall victim to Kamal’s bullet in that corner on that otherwise clear afternoon. I carry a phobia of balloons with me to this day.

"He fired and L grabbed me, pulling me away and to the ground. I was on top of somebody and got up, going down again. I looked back – I was the last person left this far back on this side – and I saw a man lying in a pool of blood, as well as two legs."

I stood in shock, unable to understand the magnitude of what was happening. I had never witnessed a shooting before. And each instant slowed right down, my feet mired in the sands of time. Situated next to an observation tower with mounted binoculars (scene, at right) I stood, stunned, before my then-partner pulled me to the ground. Only problem is, I landed on someone and didn’t want to hurt them, so I got back up. When I finally went down again, everyone had already taken off up the deck, leaving me alone near the fence and across from a man by the garbage can near the corner of the building who had thrown himself over his daughter. Between us was a pool of blood curling from a man’s head. At the time, I didn’t know it was the shooter. In the commotion, I hadn’t realized Kamal had put a bullet through his own brain and that it was he who lay by my feet. It was only at breakfast the next day – upon reading the paper and seeing pictures of the scene – that I realized he had stayed put and hadn’t moved around the deck. And once again, I began to feel incredibly nauseous.

"On the gunman was found: two keys, extra shells, a knife, some identification and a four-page letter telling of his hatred for the United States. He had been asking people if they were American. Two Swiss students said 'no' and weren't shot. Ironically, none of the victims ended up being American (sic). One died at the scene; the gunman died hours later and others are still in the hospital. He has been in the U.S.A. since Christmas day and has already acquired a firearm (from Florida). A month and a half. America: 'Home of the brave, land of the free'. 'And the right to bear arms'. "

Just this month, Kamal’s family reportedly admitted the shooting was politically motivated and not simply the result of his having felt he was swindled of land. But really, folks, Kamal (at right) had been in the US for a month and had already LEGALLY acquired a firearm. Never mind questions about a dearth of security or metal detectors at the Empire State Building, this was still prior to 9/11 and we’ve seen that desperate people will take desperate actions. To legally acquire a gun when you’ve been in the country for a month? In my eyes, there’s something wrong there.

Not since King Kong’s looming presence – or at least since a plane, lost in the fog, accidentally flew into the building in 1945 – has there been such madness atop the Empire State Building as people took the opportunity to loot the gift shop and trample others attempting to flee.

I remember a man with large hoop earrings coming back down the deck toward me, yelling, “Where is he? I’ll kill the bastard.” He was, apparently, a former cop who ended up kicking the gun away from Kamal and going through his coat. I didn’t stick around to watch. Almost immediately, the entire building was on lockdown and everyone was herded into a large room leading to the stairs from the 86th floor. Not yet knowing what had happened to the shooter – or if there was more than one – this was rather unsettling. We just sat by the windows as to not hyperventilate and were eventually ushered down the stairs as a fellow tourist videotaped everyone and others laughed at us. Again, unsettling. And creepy.

Time had slowed so much in my mind that I believed all of the events had transpired over thirty seconds, maybe. It wasn't until I saw video recorded by a tourist in the gift shop which captured the sound of the shots that I realized it was in fact all over in a matter of seconds. Such a fine timeline between life and death. Seeing how quickly it ended helped alleviate any guilt I had felt about not acting with the shooter so close. I couldn’t have. Though he was within reach, the timing in my brain was too far removed. To this day, I still wish I could watch the security video to rectify everything in my mind and see things in real time. Perverse, perhaps, but I also feel it would help me better understand.

As witnesses, we were brought to the front of the crowd to take an elevator out of the building, along with a police officer and another witness’s family. The lower level of the Empire State Building was empty and we were greeted only by a wall of televisions, all set to news coverage of us coming out of the building. Incredibly surreal. We were taken to the midtown south district precinct of the NYPD, where more than 100 witness interviews were conducted. Seven of us were held back (without food for eight hours after the shooting, I might add) for further questioning by the District Attorney. During the wait, officers came in carrying paper bags, dampened with blood, and dumped them unceremoniously on the desk. Kamal’s clothes.

We were, naturally, a little jumpy the next morning. When a mover dropped a trolley off the back of his truck, I ducked for cover a little more quickly than I had the day previous. My hunger that morning was for more than breakfast – I wanted news. The reality of what had transpired was driven home when I saw my name in print in newspaper accounts of the shooting. It was one of the most unreal moments of my life. It had been an eventful first day in New York City.

I have no regrets. I don’t think about the shooting much at this point, but I marveled this past week at the fact ten years have already passed. Ten years. Albeit a frightening one, it was just another life experience – and I generally crave experience. Now, just without guns and balloons.

No Leg to Stand On.

Not that anyone should really be subjected to these dogs, but I almost expect alien life forms to come spurting out of the giant grapefruit-like pod currently adhering itself to my ankle. Since last night, it has spread more evenly around my whole foot, making it look like my thigh has descended my leg.

Final basketball game of the regular season last night. A meaningless affair as we had already clinched first-place and the accompanying bye for the first round (let's hear it for recovery time). And what do I do? I go give myself one of the worst sprains I've had since my teens. Of course, it directly followed what had likely been my most athletic play of the year.

Landing, full-force, on someone's foot and I knew: it's over. Bundled up against the shock that would inevitably set in (which isn't helped at all by the fact that you have to put ice on the injury -- cold, so cold) and watched it grow. You know it's not good when the covers you need to keep yourself warm are too heavy and just cause you pain. And now, the only elevation is from my leg on my desk, rather than my elevating toward the hoop. Sigh.

Whassap?

Fine, Budweiser Frogs references are sooo, 1996. As an aside, did you know those commercials were directed by the same guy who directed the movie, Celtic Pride. Never heard of it? There you go.

But really, it's pretty cool when you find neat things that have been right under your nose all along, but which you didn't even know existed. Particularly at work. Wandering around campus looking for photo shoot locations last week, I came across the University's medical museum, a small tucked-away room filled mostly with things used to teach medical students. Body parts at random. And not in the good way. Much of it wouldn't exactly be housed in the type of museum to which I am accustomed (not being a veteran of the museum of the macabre circuit), but was interesting nonetheless. And just a titch unsettling for a stomach untrained in gross anatomy. Stress on gross.

Apart from plastic models which take the bloody mess out of dissection, there were also various pickled body parts. Real ones. Kosher dill, anyone? Most compelling was the hand -- skin peeled back to expose the intricate detail of the fine web-work of veins, musculature and tendons. I could somehow picture it reaching out from the soil, trying in vain (vein?) to clutch at my throat. Other things I saw in there, I'll spare you the details of. Suffice it to say that my colleague and I both decided we wouldn't be eating liver and onions in the foreseeable future (though -- not thinking -- I peeled back a can of smoked oysters that night and relived much of the experience anyway).

I'd give an arm and a leg to have muscles like this guy. Wait a second. But with skin still attached. Otherwise, it would be just creepy, not to mention messy. Some of this stuff in the museum seemed to be straight out of a horror movie set. But the most revealing thing of the whole experience was that I could really never be a doctor. Sigh.

on writing

My pen, like scalpel,
builds you from bones
to meat to muscle
and then trains those lean sinews
to rise and climb from the page.
Alive.
2005.02.09

Vertically-Challenged Stories.

I found this morsel of academic humour elsewhere in the blogosphere this morning and it made me chuckle, particularly considering how much brevity really can be the key to successful writing. In a twist of contradictions, while I generally consider myself to be a more than competent writer, I can also tend toward being a wordy bastard. As evidenced -- repeatedly -- throughout this blog. Sigh, windbag, crafting my own noose out of additional letters.

Of more import, however, it also reminded me of the 55 word fiction contest, produced out of California for nearly 20 years (I'm not sure if it's still running -- the web site hasn't been updated in a while). The first book they produced is one of my favourite reads of all time. Brief. Each story, 55 words or fewer, brief. Yet wildly entertaining and brimming with talent in appetizer-like proportions. The essence of a story distilled to its essential elements. Concentrated, like the writer, putting pen to paper.

The blogosphere being what it is, I see someone has picked up the torch and begun a blog to compile like minded, (really) short stories, here. The only rules: for it to be considered a story, you must have a setting, a character or characters, conflict and a resolution. Whittle your pencils because, in a breath, 55 words will have escaped into thin air.

A couple examples of mine:

to have nine lives (55 words)

"The jaguar pounced, seemingly taking feline flight as I hit the speed bump and the bottle. The engine purred its throaty growl as the fender gnashed at the tarmac. The cat spun on its haunches, its tires pawing and eyes glowering toward the supple cries emitting from what I had thought was a speed bump."
2003.08.05

an everlasting hunger (55 words)

"Maria circled her arm under his neck, running her fingers through his hair. She loved him, longed for him and awaited his tender kiss. She had never seen him this way and thought wistfully of the past and their love's growth throughout the years.

And she lowered the lid and her veil with a tear."
2002.08.25

Morbid, perhaps. But only briefly.

Bringing out the Nerd in Me.

I've been away from this whole blog thingamajig of late, but not away from the computer. No, keys tapping in fists of flurry, I've instead been busy reacquainting myself with my inner-geek --not to mention discovering how compulsive I can sometimes be. Maybe I knew all along, but just didn't want to face it. Something about colour-coding my shirts and alphabetizing my CD collection might have been the grand tip-off.

See, a little more than a week ago, I was finally able to break down and order a new laptop and I have since spent far too much time transferring all of my data from the old computer. As it turns out, I have many large music and photo files. Many. And it took quite a bit of time to welcome them to their new home. After a year spent plotting the purchase of a new laptop, I spent the 25 hours from order to delivery driving everyone around me nuts, constantly refreshing the online order tracking form for progress. Like I was an expectant father, fingers tapping with a parched caffeine drip hanging languidly from my vein. "Order received. Packed. Shipped. En route." Of course, everyone else needed to be updated throughout. "Dilated, 120km". Yeah, you could say I was giddy. Or something.

Most exhausting, however, was the sheer number of hours I spent meticulously re-tagging music files so that they would all follow the same format. Before changing my mind as to how they should look. Then -- inevitably -- finding an easier way to do it. And changing them again. All albums are now tucked into appropriate folders and have been conveniently clad in their respective album covers. Pretty, but at what cost? Have I gone mad? Am I alone in such neuroses? I sigh with relief under the assumption I am likely not (either mad, or alone). Really, much like cleaning a new house, it helps to start with an attempt at being organized because you know the clutter is going to come. In a deluge.

Photos, too, have been properly sorted by month and year; raw files playing across the school yard from edited versions. Cliques form within cliques as re-sized photos drift apart from those small enough for email, those deemed "Arty" and those bastard sons: the blog photos. Sweat on furrowed brow, I believe I finally have things at a manageable stage (though I there are still a few things I want to integrate). Breathing. A sigh of relief. The caffeine drip has worn off.

So, the details: the new arrival is a Sony Vaio VGN-N170G with a 120 GB hard drive, 1GB of RAM and an Intel Core Duo T2050 processor with a 1.60 GHZ processor speed. Not the biggest rocket in the computer world, but by far an upgrade over what I had been using previously. And most importantly, it fit into the budget. Particularly since work was picking up the tab. Mac users no doubt giggle and aficionados likely decry its presence on the computer landscape, but I'm nonetheless pretty geeked.

As a celebration of the new laptop, I decided to have a little fun with the idea of Transparent Screens (for more, and better iterations, visit this Flickr set). After all of the time I've spent on the computer lately, I didn't really want to devote much more to making the shot perfect, nor to using any tricks in Photoshop, so the first version above is from about ten minutes of playing. A couple of the shots lined up a little better than this one, but it was the action shot of Charlie, likely pouncing on a fruit fly (being the big hunter he is), which made it much funnier to me. I think, maybe, he was just as excited as I about the new Vaio. "Yeah UD, it means more pictures of me now. Um, where's my treat?" The second shot was actually my first attempt, but I whacked the box, throwing it all out of alignment. I guess I crackered under pressure.

Auctioneer (Another Engine).

I've long wanted to take in an auction, both for the experience and for the possibility of uncovering some great bargains. Greeted by the strong smells of stale tobacco and alcohol, bacon, eggs and church, SCS and I made our way to one of the local auction houses this morning, wandering in an hour into the four hour proceedings. Rookies on the floor, nervously flinching with our buyer card. The vets paid us no mind, perched as they were like birds of prey on plastic chairs -- copious notes and quick tallies, furiously scribbled into their catalogues. And still, we turned around to scratch our noses with eyes cast downward, lest we be pegged as buyers of crazy old Aunt Ruthie's favourite crocheted mauve slippers, always tucked lovingly onto arthritic feet. And under Morris, her sweaty cat's belly.

No, we have better taste than that. Still, it felt a little like Antiques Roadshow meets garage sale meets Vegas -- every item was a potential gamble, chock full of adrenaline coursing through your veins as players anted up. Are they bluffing, or do you fold? You might just end up with something nice. In the end you wind up with something: your purchase, or a broken heart -- lamenting the one that got away. Yeah, just like Vegas. Ensuring you don't get sucked into the fevered vortex of the moment can be a challenge, particularly for people as competitive as SCS and I both are. That said, with a little bit of research and a set price in mind, you can get some really good deals. So long as you are able to walk away from something you wanted when the auctioneer's chatter climbs a little too high. And the chatter can be quite something.

First and foremost, I was amazed by how pretty much everything goes. When an item doesn't receive much interest, the auctioneer combines it with something else in a package deal. A bonus nobody wanted. Plates, dishes and teacups rarely sold individually; rather, they ended up being combined. It was also incredible to see how cheaply some items sold: a great condition, antique wooden kitchen set, including a table with eight chairs and a hutch? 10 dollars. What? How can you go wrong there? While still a little out of my price range, a Haines Brothers square grand piano with intricately carved legs from the 1800s sold for $600. A quick look on the Internet and I found a similar one which just sold for $25,000. The auction's highlighted item, it would have likely cost about as much as the purchase price just to move it out of the warehouse.

Upon the sale of a cross filled with holy water, a fellow first-timer remarked: "Jesus, sold for 15 bucks? Sacrilege". SCS had fancied a couple pieces of furniture. She has a good eye: those items, of course, ended up being a couple of the day's highest draws and she came home empty-handed. There were obviously some professional buyers in there, grabbing things with good resale value, but there were still good deals to be had.

We participated in a couple of the auctions, but rarely ventured beyond the price raising a couple of times. We hadn't yet grasped auction strategy and were slow reacting on a couple of bids. But we didn't get sucked in, either. Not wanting to leave completely empty-handed, I did win a lot comprised of old glass bottles for five dollars. Much like old books, writing implements and printing plates, I've always had a fondness for old glass -- and particularly bottles. They were just so much more solid, made in interesting colours and shapes, and often had things embossed into them.

One is from Lavoris mouthwash; another big chunky bottle was for Enos Fruit Salts, which was reportedly used for easing stomach discomfort. The neatest, though, is a small rectangular bottle originally used for Davis Vegetable Painkiller. Patented in 1845, it is believed this product was the first nationally advertised remedy specifically for general pain and was distributed around the world by Christian missionaries. Lost out on some old pens and an antique child's chair with a drawer built into the base. Oh well. I think we'll be back another time; if nothing else, it was a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

"Do ah hear five...fi..fi..fi...fi an' a quartah...fi...fi...fi an' a quartah?"

Stick it to Them.

Around the world, it sometimes seems to be assumed that Canadians are born not with silver spoons in our mouths, but silver hockey sticks and blades of steel which carve paths through our childhoods in graceful figure eights. You know, long winters and all (though this season has certainly exposed the veracity of global warming).

In a general way, I long ago tore the ticket stub on my time as a hockey fan (of course, with scanners these days, they don't actually tear ticket stubs anymore). Sure, there was indeed a time when I could quote all the nuances in the rulebook and hastily recite stories which had become lore from the times when we first started peeling the tops off of lacrosse balls (now that's a bouncy puck, my friends) through 'One-eyed' Frank McGee to the goon era and finally, to the ascendancy of the Great One. And then, somehow, the ice melted. Which, in terms of a relationship, would normally be a good thing. Instead, I drifted away from the game.

There is, however, one notable exception: international play. Then again, competitive international croquet would likely get me going, too. There's still something about games representing the nation that leaves me wringing my hands, stamping my feet and throwing my arms into the air. Good full-body exercise, really. And this time of year, with the World Junior Championships, you have kids draped in flags, hurtling down the ice with a nation's hopes weighing down like Zambonis on their backs. I'm always impressed by their poise and their emotion. Not to mention skill. I don't remember kids being that big when I was that age.

And it rarely gets better than a game against a heated rival. Today's semifinal pitted Canada against the U.S., who appear to have become the Russians of this generation. Adversaries. And nobody wanted the 6-3 round robin win over our southern neighbours to be for naught. Must win the big ones, boys -- you'll never hear the end of it from your American teammates when you return to your junior teams. It goes without saying that rivalries don't usually burgeon if the opponent isn't worthy. No, you need competition for the emotion to be worthwhile. To make your blood boil in anticipation. To make you leap off the couch and scream violently at the television when a call goes against your team. Your team.

But a Canadian goal just over halfway through the third to tie the game at one made a feeling rise from a pit in my stomach that the goaltender's duel would come to a head in the form of the ultimate goaltender's duel: a shoot-out. As exciting as they are, I hate shoot-outs, particularly with so much on the line. It's not like soccer, when you really can seemingly play for days without ever tapping one over the goal line. Torture and ecstasy.

The streaming video on the computer was ridiculously choppy, buffering every five seconds or so. And running about 30 seconds behind. When it came time for the shootout, cheers and jeers rained down from the stands and the computer hung for what seemed like an eternity. "And we're tied" bookended a giant black pause with "It's time for them to play the Canadian anthem -- again". 5-4 in a shootout. Canada wins! And thanks to poor technology, the shoot-out was shut-out to me.

Both sides obviously played well, but Canada has now won 17 straight. And they now get the chance to turn that silver hockey stick into gold. Their third in a row.

The Way the Ball Bounces.

No, not some conspiracy, nor another scientific study about the way the new NBA ball bounces, sticks, skips or just plain doesn't go in the basket. Well, maybe just the latter. Except only with the traditional-style ball.

So frustrating. There are games you play well and it doesn't show up on the scoresheet. You know: hustle plays, deflections and floor burns. Your feet move well and you feel in rhythm (though as in White Men Can't Jump, you still can't "Feel Jimmy").

Then there are the games like tonight where nothing feels right except the energy you provide and you end up with career highs. 14 points and 20 rebounds for those of you tallying at home. Oh wait, that's just me. Yes, still a stat geek. And yet, the missed opportunities linger. Blown lay-ups. Turnovers. Ticky-tack fouls. So frustrating. No excuse for blown, point-blank put-backs. Not with this much experience at the game. Springs, rusted. And a mind that sometimes forgets that fact in its moments of creative flourish. No excuse.

Except that I was anticipating getting raked across the arms every time. Or the face. You know, the way these games generally go. But no, tonight's foil? An inexperienced team we blew out with ease which generally refrained from playing post defense. Fake. Spin. Drop step. Compensate for the foul and go strong for the hoop and harm. Except the fouls didn't come. Awkwardness. Hands, puzzled. Promising bruises left unfulfilled. The ball skidding off the rim like a marble down a slide. So frustrating. 7/13 from the field, which doesn't look bad. But still, the laughs from the bench over squandered opportunities bounce around in my head. And often, the stat sheet lies.

Technorati.

Alright, I'll admit it: sometimes the inner-geek in me screams to get out. But in a manly voice. When it comes to this blog, I can try to justify it by saying that one of my initial reasons for having started it in the first place was to teach myself a bit more about blogging and other tools available on the Internet. Ah, media literacy. Oh, and to have another creative outlet. Not to mention an odd feeling of exhibitionism, paradoxically clad in a suit of letters.

Having been made aware of Technorati a while back, I started checking it out and decided I wanted to break the top million. Ooh, such a lofty goal. Why? A triviality for most normal people, but I also have a minor obsession with statistics. Nice round numbers. I've kept flirting with it, but then found myself dropping ten to twenty thousand spots in a day before rebounding. Like a really, really long yo-yo.

In the next step of my blogging self-apprenticeship, I actually created a Technorati account last night to be able to integrate some of the widgets into my blog. I look forward to soon adding the feature which lists recent posts from my favourite blogs, but a number of their pages have been down since last night. Which takes me to this:



I logged in to Technorati this morning and found myself listed as one of the featured bloggers (my icon is the last one in the first row). Sure, it's no big deal -- it just means that I've recently claimed my blog, but I still got an odd kick out of it. Yes, trivialities again.

Sheaves of Paper, Falling Like Autumn Leaves.

I have a thing about old books, particularly old school texts and readers. Their musty pages telling stories of yore (yore, such a charming time, wasn't it?). I can spend hours thumbing through a used book store, unwrapping each page like a tissue paper-wrapped present. And sometimes I'll even find an added bonus, hastily stashed between the pages. A newspaper clipping. A photograph. A purloined letter. Not to mention random scribblings etched between the type-set. I wonder if Edna still loves Bartholomew? Was it love forever? I see she didn't like that teacher, Mrs. Hastings.

I'm not a purist -- I don't need the first editions, wrapped in Mylar. No, for me, the first-person history only adds to the experience. A social history of sorts. Which is oddly dichotomous of me, considering I have long been loathe to bend a corner on my books, let alone write in them. Sacrilege! No, they always get clad in plastic bags for travel. And I always properly open a new book as to not break its spine. A colleague once brought me back a Spelling Bee book from the 1800s from his trip to England. Really cool. One of the most thoughtful gifts I've received. Better than something about Knitting Bees, that's for sure.

Having studied automotive history as a part of my degree, I was excited to find the book pictured to the right today: a complete reference book for the Ford Model T and Fordson Farm Tractor from 1920. Considering Ford's first car -- the Model A -- debuted in 1903 and the first Model T rolled off the line in 1908, this was still pretty early into the company's history. Mechanics today would likely laugh at the simplicity of the schemata (like the fold-out, detailed above), however complete they are. I like the "Slow Speed Band" (Coldplay anyone?) and the "Clutch Fingers" (which I did last night, nearly slicing off the tip of my index finger). The author, noting that there "is only one make of motor vehicle in the world that is sold in large enough quantities to warrant the publication of a special treatise on its repair and maintenance and that is the Ford Model T," points to how there were already more than 3,000,000 Ford cars of all types in use. My, how the world has changed. Too bad Ford's cars drive like it's still the 20s.

M&Ms

Well, once a boy met a girl. Or perhaps they were only mice. Either way, I'm not really talking about Mickey and Minnie being the M&Ms. Nor, surprisingly, am I referring to the hard-coated confection, much as I love them (Mmm, peanutty).

No, tonight I'm pretty geeked and psyched (not to be confused with being a geek -- which I may on occasion be, notably Tuesdays -- nor with being a psycho -- which I am not). Instead, the M&Ms instead are about my next two travel destinations: Montréal and Malaysia.

This week will be about folding myself into a VIA train seat for eight hours in order to make tracks to Montréal. With all of the places I have been in North America, notably across this country, I'm astounded that I've never been to Montreal. Apart from being forced down into the city for a brief second by a crazy french driver while on a road trip to Halifax. French drivers -- hence the train this time. An incredible city right up my alley by all accounts, so I'm excited. But then again, I'd be excited to head to Thunder Bay. Or Petrolia.

Though everyone speaks English, I imagine I might try to slip in some French practice. I'm reminded of the time a number of years back when I was interviewing for a job working in French and it had been five years since I had even uttered a word in the language. Inexplicably, I started to explain, "j'ai un peu de rouille sur mon francais verbal". Let's just say that, given the opportunity to answer that question question again, I would better realize that expressions like "my spoken French is a little rusty" might not exactly translate well. Particularly verbatim. I think the hiring manager laughed hard enough at my attempt, she felt the need to give me the job. That and French was her third -- and far from strongest -- language, too.

Anyway, Malaysia: December. Details are thus far sketchy as this has just come together in a whirlwind. The best kind of wind. Folding myself into airplane seats for even longer than the trip to Montreal. Sweet. Another world and another culture. New experiences, new people, new smells. My senses anticipate this trip tremendously. I can imagine I will be so completely out of my element that I will glean tremendous experiences from this trip. More to follow as the time nears. La belle province first. Well, one thing was right: a boy once did meet a girl. And he's glad he did.

You Can't Break That Which Isn't Yours.

Time, like a bright bolt of lightning flashes;
violent, like volleys of thunderous crashes
flashing but once so brilliantly
and vanishing just as quickly,
leaving distant memories locked in caches.
1996.02.20

Wanna box?

Yes, it seems clichéd to say that time passes quickly, particularly as we age, but I cannot argue with its veracity. It was one year ago today that the then-picture of my life was disassembled into tiny puzzle pieces strewn about the shag carpeting. An image, incomplete. But a year later of working diligently from the corners and I, remarkably, have a clearer picture of what's ahead. And newfound strength. The winds that blow through one's life can sometimes be remarkably august.

I owe great thanks to many people for lending me their strength when I needed it. Words will never be enough, but thank you.

I realized just how oblivious I had been while re-reading the texts of my life: my writings. Written words guide me through much, are often what keep me going, and what inspire me. It doesn't always matter what kind of writing – in fact, diversity is often key – but words are one of the elixirs that soothe my soul. I can feel emotion flow through my fingertips and into the pen. Or the keys.

Which is why it was particularly difficult to read something I wrote more than a year before the end and realize just how oblivious I was.

Sheets lie uncreased
as we stand before them
in our civilian clothes,
each breath getting shallower
as the past is exhaled
through the screen.

We stand, not speaking
of the inevitable
we are too strong to
accept for future breaths,
hoping some memory of
what was
remains to
fog the glass.
2004.04.26

I am astounded that the possibility exists to have emotion seep from your fingertips and still not have it flow north to your consciousness. Left brain and right brain having their own civil war. Others: "Each time you lie to me, you glue another piece of shell to me. My smile hides teeth" (2004.04.27) and "As we look to write our denouement, I'm amazed to think that no-one will remember the brilliance of our beginning, or perhaps the pages in between – only the end...the ink runs on pages past, leaving but a blur of the last years, curiously dark..." (2005.08.29).

We change, we discover strength and we grow. Just not necessarily together. And in this case, anyway, it seems that was a good thing.

Some appropriately titled music for the occasion:

Wolf Parade, Grounds for Divorce (Apologies for the Queen Mary)
Regina Spektor, Ode to Divorce (Soviet Kitsch)
Liz Phair, Divorce Song (Girlysound Demos Version)
The Hidden Cameras, Ban Marriage (The Smell of Our Own)
Regina Spektor, Apres Moi (Begin to Hope)

And for Dom: the devouring of a male Praying Mantis. By a female Praying Mantis. Fitting.

Curious?

Intellectual curiosity is such an incredible thing. Really, where would we be if people didn't consistently question, then punish, the status quo? The cogs of today's world have become so dependent on our minds serving as the belt that pushes the agenda of discovery forward. Not to be technologically determinist of course, but the world has changed so much over the last five years, ten years, twenty years. I can hardly imagine living without many advancements borne upon the world during my lifetime, far less those my grandparents -- and even parents -- did without.

Which sort of leads me to ask what the greatest invention of modern history really is (discounting fire, the wheel and perhaps even the printing press). An automotive history class I took had put into gear the theory that the automobile altered urban geography, city planning and modern transportation, not to mention business on a grand scale. Welcome to Ford's assembly line processes. All true. Some might argue air travel has opened the world to a previously unheard of degree. No, computers. Really, it has to be. The power a small microchip has to alter a broad range of technologies, to enhance global communication, to accelerate development, change the ways we do business and, in fact, the ways in which we approach the world. Of course, this is not to say that all these changes have been good.

I am surrounded by these sorts of people on a daily basis. People pushing the envelope of discovery. Questioning the status quo -- but backing up their claims, too. I am inspired by seeing a researcher's eye light up in excitement when he or she starts to talk -- often animatedly -- about their work. About the promise of a world with cures, new technologies, new ways of looking at things. About looking at the past in a different manner and the future, in a better way. Passion still exists. And out world is better for it.

Which is, in the end, all the more reason to be fearful that North Korea, led by someone known less for intellectual curiosity than for than intellectual anomalies, has acquired nuclear capabilities. Welcome to one of the downsides.