Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

[In my zeal to post how brutally cold it was the other night at Critical Mass, I realized that it's been quite a while since I last updated this somnolent blog. Is it because of the usual lack of flair and increasing tepidity of my life, or am I sinking into yet another level of laziness & apathy -- the depths to rival a serial pothead?]

Summer was a gas. A handout so thoroughly unassuming and yet drenched with the kind of fulfillment that you only get out of a really great, aching workout. Outdoors, camping…I worked at a community garden, attended workshops… Actually, let’s just forgo this didactic listing of events and instead, aim for one of those meandering, metaphorical streams of recollections and reflections. The ones that somehow converge into a watering hole brimming with grunts, darting eyes and false alarms. Is it just a far-off mirage or is it actually thriving with beasts of all stripes? Are those bobbing logs or idle crocodiles? Hold your nose tight and high, dear reader, for those rare pellets of wisdom might just be under a muddy morass of self-indulgent reverie.

~~~~~

We begin aplomb with Shannon Thompson. Shannon is one of those people who get tagged with all sorts of “mushy” adjectives. Any attempt of writing about her is inevitably weighted with the desperation of fetching for qualities that haven’t been attributed to her previously by someone else. But it’s nigh impossible. Take a cursory glance at people’s comments about her and you get a sense of how much she means to a lot of people: sincere, passionate, hard-working, enthusiastic, inspiring, supportive, brilliant, so on and so forth. You see what I mean? It’s as if I’ve just missed out on this train and I can clearly see the departing end-carriage brimming with people and spirited chatter. It gets tiring sometimes, and equivocally cliché. But the words just don’t mean for naught, for I have had the privilege and the anecdotal heft to see those abstract concepts flow out, materialize and touch a medley of faces.

“Her light is one I grow towards.” Why couldn’t I think of something similar? I guess I could’ve just slipped this one in clandestinely and assume I didn’t know any better. But that certainly isn’t the case. And in any case, I should aim for higher. When you’re stuck in a pit of appraisal, the only thing left to do is look up. And Shannon’s light is definitely one that I look up to.

My first encounter with Shannon was on my interview day. I’d spoken to her earlier on phone, and the thing that struck me foremost was her enthusiasm. It’s not something you can glean just by the way she speaks, although that does play a major role, but more so with her unbridled knack for compassion (stay with me, folks). It’s more of the energetic kind, replete with an elegant skill of listening that she often attributes to her teaching & communications course that she took a while back. She hears you out completely, and unless absolutely pressing for time, returns serve in an uninterrupted, measured and determined manner. But that was the first thing that struck me about Shannon: that infectious sense of enthusiasm.

You get an idea of that energy more when you speak with her in person. The way her expressions are playfully animated, and how she sprinkles every conversation with chuckles and the singsong way by which she carries it. Youthful, for sure, but not in that overbearing way; rebellious without being antagonizing – most of the times, anyway.

Back to the interview: I was the last one being questioned and sorted out for the day. There were about four panelists from what I remember, and I half-expected them to just get through this exercise tiredly and be done with it. I actually did sense a bit of that but my memory is clouded with the presence of Shannon’s, you guessed it, enthusiasm. The questions were pretty standard and the answers flowed naturally.

I got wind of this job opening on Craigslist as I was idly browsing the web one evening. The posting looked innocuous enough, and I figured, what the heck? It sure beat all the retail job opportunities. I fired away a cover letter and résumé to Shannon, not holding out any hope in case it got shattered as usual. At the time, I was mired in a work situation that I absolutely loathed, and the application sent to Greenest City was among the many that I had written after one particularly frustrating day at work.

The following weekend, I was visiting and staying over at a friend’s place in Ottawa. We were enjoying the warm afternoon sun over a cup of tea when my cell phone buzzed. I picked it up and it was Shannon calling from Toronto. I don’t recall what we exactly talked about; it might’ve just been a confirmation from her about receiving my letter and résumé. Whatever it was, after I finished the call my friend looked at me and asked me why I had a smile on my face. I wasn’t offered any job position, really, but talking with Shannon had still left me smiling. It happened a lot over the course of summer and continues on till now.

There’s a side-point I want to address here, and that deals with the perception of me being a dedicated environmentalist or a seasoned community worker which enabled me to land this job. That, unfortunately, isn’t the case; although I wish it were. Sure, I had nascent ideas about climate change and opinions about sinister oil conglomerates. But does that earmark me from the rest of the roving populace? No. You see, the reason for me succeeding what could’ve been a field of far more suitable individuals is about as clear to me as it would be to you. The mechanics of why and how, the situational digressions and the particular environment at the time had somehow, peculiarly, aligned in my favour. I could venture a guess, from an immodest point of view, and say that my impression at the table might’ve tipped the scale a little towards my end. We are animals of vanity: from my immaculate, pin-striped suit to my starched shirt, the reasons for this and that, and the where and when get waylaid by the colours of persuasion. They are stuffed with elements of your disposition but did they really carry me past the finish line in this race? I don’t know, quite honestly. I suppose when it is all said and done, when Shannon and I and the others reflectively contemplate on the year that was, I could maybe ask her “why me?” But, for now, that sort of self-serving question remains mute when there’s still a lot that needs to be tended to. I’ll be sure to let you in on it when and if I get that question answered.

The day after the interview, I was called by Shannon and congratulated for landing the gig. I was elated. I was in the Queen streetcar when she called and I almost high-fived a fellow passenger standing beside me. I didn’t, of course. That would’ve been just confusing and really presumptuous of me. Especially so if it turned out that the stranger was just fired from his work. Talk about a faux pas!

Thus began my work with Greenest City, under the wing and tutelage of Shannon Thompson. Along with Bhavana Kapal & Abbey Huggan, we were entrusted with the task of leading six other youths, hereon referred to as the Youth Green Squad (YGS), into the heady levels of environmentalism, food security, urban gardening and sustainable consumption. Quite a plate, you would think. When you’re kind of green to this whole thing, it becomes even more daunting. It would be commensurate if I said I welcomed the challenge and faced the current with gusto. That, sadly again, is not the case.What happened instead was a curious and not-quite resolved extension of a job-in-training position that continues on till today. I bit my fingernails, wilted at times, and just tried to thoroughly absorb everything that was going on around me. Parkdale’s first community garden: check. Organic food: OK. Youth stewardship: check. Environmental awareness: check. Seed saving: right. Food security: sure. Issues on vulnerability: Uh huh. Arts influx, vitality, permaculture, 100 mile diet, cycling … I might have just bit more than I could chew. It’s definitely not the first time that I’ve gotten myself into such a scenario. But I’ve never before been thrust into a situation where I’m accountable for the holistic development of individuals, and not just for some abstract, quantifiable numbers of a faceless company.

~~~~~

On a sunny, warm spring weekend, when the breeze still harbours a trace of winter in the absence of the sun, more than a dozen hopefuls converged in the still-bare Hope garden. The name ‘Hope’ is an inventive play at ‘Healthy, Organic Parkdale Edibles (has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?) It was to be both an interview as well as a day’s session of work bee in the garden. Holding a clipboard each, as if to indicate that the participants were under a constant shadow of scrutiny — a moment’s slip and they would have to glance worryingly over their shoulder as I scribble a note while shaking my head and rolling my eyes – we sat under the shade of an imposing, aged, unnamed maple tree in the park. Shannon explained the day’s itinerary: all of the prospective environmentalists would be interviewed by a panel consisting of her along with me, Bhavana and Anna (an office intern) on the order of how we received the applications; the rest would be tending to the garden under the supervision of Abbey, the resident garden coordinator. Some applicants requested to be interviewed earlier, some later, and we tried to accommodate that as best as we could.

We had asked the Youth Green Squad wannabes, a week before the day of, to bring a piece of their creation that somehow embodied their being and, if possible, how it would enunciate their probable tenure working with Greenest City. It was idea breached by Bhavana, in the lead-up to the hiring day, to bring another aspect of the applicants to round up their presentation. We didn’t want to settle at just looking at the fruits; we wanted to smell them and taste them as well. Almost everyone brought something along with them, save for a pair of Tibetan sisters who not only managed to not do their project, but also come in late. Tut tut tut, I inwardly muttered, and placed an asterisk beside their names. I must confess that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and that writing semi-detached notes of judgement for the sake of objectivity was something I actually liked getting used to.

Of all the participants, a kid by the name of Max stood out immediately. Seventeen years old and almost bounding at the prospect of working in a garden, he clicked at all the right places. With an unkempt head of thick dreadlocks and a laid-back drawl about him, he was a student at the local Parkdale high school and had heard about this job opening from his horticultures teacher. He asked questions when we held the group palaver, and when told that they would be doing some light physical work, he jumped — eager to show his willingness at getting his hands dirty. He scored most of the right points at the interview: how he cared about recycling, his love of nature and music. A bonafide youth environmentalist prospect, if I’d ever seen one, and the rest of panel seemed to share in this sentiment as well.

And there were others. Andrew Pangowish, a shy, bear-like, sixteen-year-old native boy with a seemingly perpetual set of downcast eyes who was really into biking and well, quite reserved and unrevealing the first time around, but rest assured, he was going to play a big role later on. Yozajandi, a bright Mexican girl whose immigration status in Canada was in a state of limbo but Shannon wasn’t going to let a purgatorial obstacle like that prevent her from taking Yoz into the program. Karimah, a demure, soft-spoken native of East Africa who was majoring in Architecture at the University of Guelph. And lastly, Alyssa: a bratty, confident, sixteen-year-old classmate of Andrew’s who chastised him during the interview for wrecking her project by not protecting it well enough from the shower yesterday.

As the interviewees whittled down for the day, our ad hoc interview table now under the shade of the tall community housing building that looms over the western edge of the park, we collected our notes and bade good night to each other. We had initially intended to compare and decide who was going to be hired at the conclusion of the process, but the evening turned out to be too chilly and we gave up on that notion soon enough. Throughout the whole session, as we grilled – conversationally, of course – one youth after another, I was struck by the realization that I could have just as easily been on the other side of the table. And even from that point, I wasn’t sure I would’ve stood out as a possible YGS recruit. Some of these kids were pretty damn talented and passionate. Some were even older than me, for crying out loud.

The following day, in the basement office underneath the local community centre, we gathered our notes and engaged in a dispiriting exercise of elimination. I tested the water, since I couldn’t profess to any real, strong feelings about any of the candidates. Shannon and Bhavana were more resolute, relatively speaking, although I could tell that even they were slightly drained from picking out of a pool so equally competent and deserving. We had six to pick from the dozens, and as far as I could tell, only a couple of names were clear-cut choices among all of the judges.At the end of it, the two women decided that they were going to only choose those kids that were currently not attending university and/or, to put it bluntly, from a non-privileged way of life. I agreed, partly because this was one of our mandates in the YGS program, but mainly because this made the selection process so much easier.

~~~~~

The office of Greenest City is a basement space generously provided by the Masaryk-Cowan Community Centre. James Caldwell, the director of the centre, by Shannon’s own endorsement is a keen environmentalist and was on-ball from the inception of the program. The office has an L-shaped layout, with two points of entry from the main floor as well as from the side of the building. The first thing you notice about the basement office is that it doesn’t really feel like a basement. With the exception of the absence of windows on the wall and the presence of all sorts of pipes running across on the ceiling, the brightly coloured basement feels like any other level in the building. With it’s high walls and ample lighting, the office offers a cool respite from the heat of the summer and a warm recluse in the winter. I certainly didn’t imagine feeling how cozy it would in the cold weather; but it is, and as I type this paragraph, the steady hum of the radiator behind me gently cloaks the air with a close, dungeon-y warmth.

Most of the furniture and equipments in the office are either donated or borrowed from Shannon. The used computers were all received from a dealer with a charitable bent. Almost everything in here was once owned by someone else — the less the impact on earth. The walls are all hung with pictures from past endeavours of Greenest City, and posters of plants and animals. There are lots of chairs on the floor, as if inviting a visitor to sit down, chat and learn about the colourful pictures and posters on the wall. What’s the hurry?

The first time I ambled down the steps as a freshly inducted employee of Greenest City, the office was already thrumming with Anna and Mona Koochek typing away on the computers. Mona was a volunteer at the time and she was helping in organizing the garden opening celebration to be held on the weekend. An undergraduate of York University with an affable and coquettish disposition that far exceeds her diminutive frame, she immediately laid out the plans for the party and took us to task with it. Posters were put up, restaurant owners approached, and meals secured. The idea was to get as much cuisine as we could that reflected the diverse spices of the community. There were going to be curries, rice dishes, falafel balls, momos, Ethiopian daal … every platter a slice of Parkdale’s colourful makeup.

The opening ceremony at the garden was a celebration of vaudevillian moderation. Held in the park on which the garden was tilled, the crisp early spring air was cracked by shrieks of children laughing and people chattering. A local, bluegrass band serenaded the attendants softly, prompting the occasional whoot and claps of approval. The outdoor party was set up so that a tent covering the A/V equipment flanked the southern side of the garden, with rows of chair borrowed from the community centre lined around it further down. Colourful posters acknowledging the donors and offering tidbits about the garden were hung on the fences, artfully created by Abbey, who has a flair for wispy lines and delicate sketches.

Observing Shannon schmooze and move about the ceremony is to study a natural connector in all her glory. She stands at a medium height — with a healthy, stocky frame trained from years of cycling and indulging in all sorts of outdoor recreations such as kayaking and hiking. She capers every so often, and her penchant for operatic gestures is amplified when a certain subject or anecdote stokes her fancy. Shannon is one of those rare people gifted with the affability to instantly strike you as friendly and approachable in the most unforced manner — connecting for her is not an effort of socializing but rather a natural means of conversation.

I was stuck in one of my usual moments of uncertainty when faced with a large theatre of unknown faces mingling and creating atmosphere. I wanted to look like I was involved, like someone who was too distracted to bother introducing himself or wishing cordialities to similarly perplexed patrons. There are only so many times you can pretend like the stitch on your sleeve looked really interesting. And so I clicked. My dark, bulky and ugly D-SLR became my means of conversation, and I explored all the intricate patterns of the characters before me through the eyes of my trusty, slightly dusty zoom lens.

The whole event was a performance of colours bouncing ever which way: children’s faces were painted, the rosette of dishes screamed spice and earth-borne culture. The kaleidoscope of the procession was politely balanced with local residents and community activists; all young, old and feasting on a portion of ingredients that made up the neighbourhood where they lived. All of the dishes were paid for by the local BIA; all of them prepared by local restauranteurs. Towards the latter half of the day, an African drumming band further enlivened the affair, kids and adults alike shaking their hips and trying to maintain rhythm with the tribal beat of the drummers.

And then Shannon spoke, wearing a green, costume hat adorned with fruits and vegetables. The local dignitaries spoke as well, pledging their support and belief in all of the hot button, kitchen table environmental issues. People laughed, people clapped. It was quite the landmark event: Parkdale getting her first, very own organic garden space. A lot of promises to be met, and a lot more things to look forward to.

I clicked my camera shut and took stock of what transpired from the day. The volunteers had now started to clean the park up. No paper cups or plates were used for the party, instead we used the cutlery from the community kitchen and some partygoers brought in their own eating implements. Everything was being washed, nothing wasted. I marveled at the quiet, sensible prudentiality of the operation. All of the efforts were marked by an easy-going affirmation, none of it barked or cajoled out with an imposing aura of erudite insistence. It was my third day at work and, already, it felt like I was on the cusp of something utterly transformative.

~~~~~

To be continued…

“Listen: bound to the realms of this existence, I can only look as far as my eyes can see. And I can only hold for as long as my lungs can take. But take the plunge with me and you’ll sense the impermanence.”

We breathe in staccatos, afraid to let go of the last…bits and swallow abruptly. We cling. Do we not? We tug at futility, raging at the constant ebb and flow of impulses — some involuntarily, while others concocted from the myriad lapses of logic and perspective.

Slowly, and gently, a mother falcon nudges her chick away from the precipice, beckoning with shrill laughter at the seemingly hapless indecisiveness of the young one who has never felt a thermal updraft or the shimmering mist beside a waterfall. Does she plunge, will she follow? You were there. And you mocked at your reflection then, taunting it with words that didn’t break any bones nor any mirror. You broke a lot then, didn’t you? All that swelled inside you burst forth, but all that ulcerated inside have yet to cleanse.

Would you rather pick up the broken bits, or step on them? I have questions from many and answers for few, and I have feathers from afar, but songs that never travel far. Interpretations give way to irreverence, and all the traveller has in the end to show for his trip is a bag of rustic postcards. They are all filled with words of intent, but they lack intentions.

Here’s a bus ride with only one passenger: you. You choose to sit at the very back, on the left, because you’ve always favoured your left shoulder when leaning on the window. You choose to sit behind because then you can stretch your feet without having to position yourself sideways. You choose to sit at the back because you like the way the streets play out before you in front of all those empty seats. And the driver that you never met? Is he wearing a hat? Does she call out every stop in a singsong way? Is he wearing shorts, or is she gaining at all the wrong places?

Outside, it is just past twilight and the streets are dim with lights that are slowly coming aglow. It is pouring today. Or tonight. Can you tell? The fogged up windows and the trickling drops outside cloud your orientation. And now you’re unsure about which stop you passed by, which curve and what slope you descended into. The bus travels along at a brisk speed, the whipping rain now completely blinding the windshield, and yet the driver ignores the wipers. Do you slowly panic now? Or are you beyond reprieve?

You rub your eyes and wipe the windows, but it doesn’t help. Nausea creeps in from some absurd corner of your gut. Your hands feel distant, aloof and almost independent of your thoughts. You’ve forgotten your backpack, stereo headphones emitting tiny crackles of choruses that you never bothered to uncover. Do you stand up, or do you sit? Transfixed. A feeble attempt at opening the overhead window is met with a blunt noncompliance. You’re moving at an average speed of 66 kph, but you’re paralyzed inside.

You’re hurtling through space at a blistering pace of thirty kilometers per second, but you’re stuck. You’re barely hanging on, it seems. Clinging seems more appropriate. Do you chuckle at your inane thoughts now? Are you “reflecting”?

When the woods have cleared and you’ve brushed aside the sweat on your forehead, take a look behind the seemingly wayward journey of yours and you’ll discover an uneven path. A path strewn with broken branches and carelessly tossed tissue papers. A path, nonetheless. The falcon cries in the distant — of wonders that have yet to be beset upon, and pitfalls that lie beneath every bed of flowers.

Follow or plunge. Pack heartily in any case.

Kamera

- by Wilco

I need a camera to my eye.
To my eye, reminding
Which lies that I have been hiding
Which echoes belong.
I’ve counted out
Days to see how far
I’ve driven in the dark,
With echoes in my heart.

Phone my family, tell them I’m lost –
On the sidewalk.
And no, it’s not OK.

I smashed a camera.
I wanna know why
To my eye deciding
Which lies that I have been hiding,
Which echoes belong.
I’m counting on
A heart I know by heart
To walk me through this war.
Memories distort…

Phone my family, tell them I’m lost –
On the sidewalk.
And no, it’s not OK.

I’ve counted out
And no one knows how far.
I’ve driven in the dark
With echoes in my heart.

Phone my family, tell them I’m lost –
Yeah, I’m lost.
And no, it’s not OK.

So how’s the New Year been to all of you? I’ve been overwhelmed with uneventfulness so far. Ordinary and routine have already gnawed past my knees and are now taking root into my hips. Not that I’ve been a particularly rambunctious maverick or anything before, but this is quite the new low. There were traces of illumination but those all quickly evaporated under the dead weight of work, fatigue, stress and work. Oh, and about my work, just because you all clearly care about every second of my well-being, I’m pumped to say that this next week will be my last week of whoring for a corporation. Well, I’m actually employed by a single propreitorship company and they’ve actually been a really decent emplyer and I do like the time spent with my co-workers and…ah but to hell with it all. I can’t stay at one place for too long. I’ve already figured out all the good Pho restaurants here in Vancouver and I pretty much know all the various transit routes and you know what, it’s about time I saddled up and moseyed over to another, er, place. What can I say? I’m a loose cannon. This caravan needs to buck up and look for greener pastures. I, um, am starting to miss Toronto and y’know, dude needs some home-cooking every now and then. Jesus, I JUST CAN’T FUCKING STAND THE RAIN NO MORE! Alright? You got me officer. You caught me red, lying, cheating, drunk, hapless, broken down and dishevelled. I need some time in the slammer to wise up. Maybe a whiff of inspiration will grace me there. O Spring, where art thou?

Holy Hobo! I feel as if I’m privy to some apocalyptic undoing of Canada’s alleged western treasure trove because the way things have been unfolding here have been way too random. Not long after the fruity storm that barged its way past the coast and into the busy schedules of Vancouverites angling to break away to the mountains, we are now overwhelmed by uncharacteristically heavy snowfalls and frigid temperatures. And it’s not even December yet!

I’ll tell you what though, this cataclysmic shift in weather patterns has been long due. I remember my first winter here a year ago: you could never go by a day without the locals staring at the sky glumly and wistfully cursing the weather under their breath. It was contagious too because I found myself muttering in the same morose tones and looking up expectantly whenever there was the slightest break in the clouds, only to be disappointed and muttering solemnly a few moments later. And then there was that pathological spell last year when Vancouverites were actually cheering on the rain and hoping to beat their own record for the longest consecutive days of rainfall. It’s no wonder people can be a little distant and cold here. When you’ve got a gorgeous tract of land; uncompromising weather for much of the year; outrageous housing prices; a beloved, schizophrenic hockey team; an inept transit system; an international airport that could get submerged in the Pacific should the plates underneath decide to shake things up a bit; and so on and so forth…it’s too much on their plates, really. Between cursing at unyielding Chinese drivers on the highway and the frustrations of trying on pricey Lululemon yoga pants, who can afford the time to be open or inviting or warm? Certainly not me. Now excuse me while I get in line to order a tall cup of organic, fair trade coffee while secretly hoping to chat up with that cute UBC undergrad barista who’s probably undecided on her major and hoping to just “get away from it all!” somewhere in southeast Asia backpacking to the tunes of Jack Johnson but damn those creeps and homeless people who keep stealing packets of sugar, can’t they, like, get a job or something?

Sorry to digress there, but yeah, going back to the weather: I think it’s healthy for people here to experience all the vicissitudes of weather that mother nature has in her disposal. It’s invigorating and — never mind the fact that I’ve fully extended my premise for using the word “vicissitude” — it puts a jolt of survival mode into the sedentary minds of individuals who would’ve otherwise just toiled along to the steady drumming of incessant showers and the shades of gray that come along with it. Even the cold itself, which is challenging and piercing, is a stark contrast to that otherwise dull, gnawing sensation of cold wind and rain. And now that the snow has rightly deposited itself next to our doorsteps, and not somewhere far and convenient like on the mountains, the residents here will need to step up to the challenges: of shoveling snow (or snoveling show like my co-worker said, ok fine I said it!), salting, layering, walking carefully so as not to slip (which I failed to do so this morning), driving for once like you actually care for the well-being of the cyclists who are strangely non-existent. It took 40 minutes for the bus that I take to work which regularly stops by every 10 minutes. So, now that they’ve been finally relegated to the life that most other Canadians have to go through every winter, maybe it’ll bring about a sense of humility and cease the inherent aloofness and expectant attitude of someone who was born and raised along the coast. I just hope Vancouver can get interesting for once and not be just so content with its postcard surroundings and mild weather. Maybe I should start as well. And maybe I need to buy a pair of shoes with more gripping prowess.

Is there ever a worse feeling than when you drearily open your eyes and glare at the alarm clock and then get drawn to the cold rain that’s knocking on the window, those traces of lifeless water snaking its way mercilessly on the glass? Suddenly, it hits you that – shit! you’re gonna miss the damn bus again – and as you’re just about to fling that heavenly, warm abode of yours all in haste; that tiny voice of reason lodged up some high alpine in your brain calmly points out amidst the blizzard of irrationality that – wait, o restless one, for today is a Sunday, and unless you’re a devout Catholic, there should be nary a reason for you to abscond from your safe hearth. Rest now, child, and savour this flow of comfort and oneness while you can.

And then you sigh deeply and just so very ardently. This momentary bliss that so enraptures your fleeting consciousness that you harken back to those careless days of rolling down dirt mounds and giggling uncontrollably at the sight of your dogs panting along obediently. You can almost imagine yourself with that stupid smile on your face as you’re just about to leap from that bridge, gravity be damned!

I imagine at least a few other Vancouverites feeling the way I did this morning. It’s just such an effortless joy and you can’t help but smile beside yourself.

And for all the unfortunate souls who grumbled and tumbled their way out this morning towards whatever obligations that they or others placed on themselves, I offer you this remnant of my creation:

I hope you appreciate the sad humour inherent in this portrait. I had the dubious lack of foresight of not giving it a name, but I think that’s beside the point now. The forces of gravity have forced it to fold unto itself, and the incessant gnawings of rude micro-organisms have bared its integrity for all that it could bear. Here’s to hoping that its brief cycle of existence — replete with uninspired carvings and meaninglessness — harbours the last fading visage of a harmless Fall and the arrival of an inconsiderate Winter.

It is absolutely demonic outside. Or it was. It has kind of died down right now. But, wow, it was pretty surreal this afternoon. Slanted rain whipping against windows, powers going out, trees being uprooted, buildings collapsing. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to witness most of this carnage first hand as I was safely cocooned inside my heated workplace. But damn, even inside I could feel the force of mother nature whipping the poor souls outside like nobody’s business. I just hope this keeps up for a while so I could make some time to hit the coast and introduce my naked face to a pissed off Pacific Ocean.

Right now I’m frantically browsing my collection to see if there’s any images that can just somehow convey this absolute power and disregard for poor, homeless people.

I wonder if

this cuts it. Ahh…not quite. It’s more of an after effect of a storm rather than just actually representing any immediate power of a storm itself. Maybe this one?

Hmm…I don’t know. Actually, you know what, I’m just gonna carry my camera around tomorrow. See if I chance upon anything interesting. That should help settle my dilemma for now.

What do winds have against trees anyway?

Sometimes it gets hard to get your butt outside to take pictures of those everyday-little-things that somehow have a different sphere of existence all on their own. You know: that red fire hydrant standing harmlessly beside the hot dog stand; the insignificant power pole that’s leaning a little to show for it’s age. A cascading flow of clouds high up in the air, how they dance — oblivious to the gravity-weary souls below. The mingling of raindrops and hey, where are you from? The small, swirling leaf floating on the rivulet underneath those very trees that coldly discarded of it. Oh the pain of rejection, I feel for you brother. And lastly, my thoughts to all the neglected, lazy window panes. Your cracks show me all of your stories that I can care to capture.

And so it goes: inanimate objects that nudge me ever so slightly with their lifeless inspiration. You don’t have to move, sugar, for in you lies all the simple joys of living.

No, that’s not me getting overly excited about about a piece of Mediterranean cuisine. No, I’m referring to last weekend when I and a bunch of Students For a Free Tibet (SFT) kids volunteered as extras for this movie about the mass protests that took place in Seattle in 1999 during the whole brouhaha about the WTO meeting. Cryptically titled “Battle in Seattle“, the movie’s got a pretty powerful line-up of casts which include Ray Liotta, Charlize Theron and Susan Sarandon. We even caught sight of Andre Benjamin — he of the skinny one among the rap duo of Outkast — towards the end of the shoot. I would think it should be a pretty good flick, if not another hackneyed attempt by Hollywood in trying to address political issues. But it’s written and directed by a rookie player by the name of Stuart Townsend, whose recent works appear to be primarily in the realms of mediocre TV serials, so I’m not holding out much anticipation for the release of this movie. If anything, I’d like to think the powerful presence of SFT, and my emotionally significant Tibetan touque will elevate this movie beyond it’s own marginal expectations and propel it into the giddy heights of cinematic glory. Or maybe not.

So, between getting drenched by unseasonally torrential rainfall, freezing winds and absolutely bored-out-of-their-wits extras; it was a pretty interesting and progressively disenchanting experience. I always look forward to meeting entertaining, if not slightly disturbing, individuals with their own wildly exagerrated war stories. There was one elderly Dutch individual who declared that he kept regular contacts with a Tibetan monk in India as soon as I told him about my Tibetan roots. He claimed that they work together a lot in helping raise…orphans? I missed the part where he explained how he’s managing to be such a benevolent person so late in his game while maintaining a steady career by working as a movie extra. But, who am I to judge? If the dude can juggle between jetting back and forth to Europe, smoking pot every other day, helping save young lives in India — all the while extolling the virtues of the film industry — then all the power to him!

What else, what else? Oh, just so everybody knows, I maintain the Students For a Free Tibet Canada blog site and am also a regular contributor to its contents. So, be sure to check it out and keep yourself in the know about Tibet and SFT.

My image drop today:

Tentatively titled, “Why Daddy Wasp is Going to be Late from Work Today”. Probably my favourite picture from last month. It should speak for itself. If not, maybe you need to go to the doctor and get your ears eyes checked.

Well, ok, that’s all from me today folks. Keep checking around and maybe I’ll feel brazen enough to drop some more intimate pictures that I’ve taken.

No, I’m not talking about my nude pictures!

Or am I?…

I’ve always been hesitant of putting pictures I’ve taken online. I don’t know — this whole thing about posting images that are personal and meaningful online seems like such an anti-septic, inorganic process. Well, ok maybe I don’t care so much for the ones that aren’t all that impressive. It might just be my misgivings about sharing something I’ve created with strangers on the net. Or maybe I don’t know the criteria of which images fall under impressive and which under mediocre. Or that’s probably another issue of mine: a subconscious fear of my pictures being judged and critiqued upon.

But to hell with all that.

One of these days I’ll have to pick myself up by my ear and re-arrange and create a narrative flow of my pictures. It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s just that everytime I’ve tried, I just stare at my screen transfixed — paralyzed by my crushing laziness and inability to create a meaningful pattern from the random juxtaposition that is my image files. Maybe I should file it all under “miscellaneous”.

Man, this new Yo La Tengo album sure does kick ass.