HaikuBoxer

etc group in copenhagen

2009-12-12T15:13:00.004-05:00

Stephen Harper's going to Copenhagen only because he has to.
Diana, on the other hand, is there to change the world. That's our Di.

rover: the hakawati

2009-11-23T12:00:00.003-05:00

Here is my Rover review of one of the better books I've ever read: The Hakawati, by Rabih Alameddine.

Instead of Once upon a time, Arabic stories begin with Kan ya makan (there was and there was not). The experience of the story is more important than its veracity because, as all good listeners know, the storyteller is a trickster. “Never trust the teller,” advises a character in The Hakawati, “trust the tale.”

And so, against a backdrop of emirs, jinns, the underworld, spurned wives and fortunate slaves, rehashed Bible stories and Beiruti gossip, Alameddine’s third novel begins: “Allow me to be your god. Let me take you on a journey beyond imagining. Let me tell you a story.”

Osama al-Kharrat, a Los Angeles software engineer, returns to Beirut to sit by his dying father’s bedside. Surveying Lebanon after many years away, he muses, “I was a tourist in a bizarre land. I was home.” The bizarre and the familiar intermarry (literally) as the hospital room fills with extended family, home-cooked meals, and stories. On his deathbed, Osama’s father wants to make sure his son knows the tales of his grandfather and the origins of the family name, which means the fibber.

Osama is descended from a line of hakawatis, or storytellers. His great-grandfather, the neglected son of an Englishman and his illicit Armenian lover, learned his trade in nearby cafés. He, in turn, passes it on to his son, and so on. The family saga is narrated with much wit and dizzying descents into underworlds, outerworlds and other worlds. No sooner do you get a handle on a character or a generation, the story breaks for intermission and moves on to the next – a sort of cineplex of a novel. Multi-coloured imps help Fatima enter the underworld to retrieve her hand; the stories of Adam and Eve and Orpheus are given a new perspective; two young boys, one “evil” and one “good” can’t keep their hands off each other; the boy next door grooms his dangerous image until a militia man emerges; the girl next door falls in love with him – or rather, his motorcycle.

An air of insouciance colours the book. Clearly Alameddine is having fun. He names two of his main characters Osama and Jihad. Another character gets caught up in the “delightfully dramatic” Palestinian resistance. In one of the fanciful tales an imp uses a swarm of “lesbian mosquitoes” to protect him. In another, when one character says he cannot live with the shame of having a promiscuous wife, she flatly tells him, “practice.”

Interestingly, certainly for the Western reader, while there seems to be a role and a place for the entire kitchen sink in this book, there is little space for Islam. The al-Kharrat family are a Lebanese house blend: English, Druze, Muslim, Christian. The neighbours are equally diverse and include Italian Jews, Orthodox Christians and the odd Frenchman. Discussion of religion is met with scoffs or shrugs. One gets the feeling that those who do concern themselves with piety are only feeding their baser instincts. Alameddine is concerned with the magic of belief itself, not its institutional facades.

A wondrous tour de force full of in-jokes, cultural references and flights of fancy, The Hakawati is also a touching account of one family keeping their heads down during Lebanon’s civil war. Neighbours mysteriously disappear and local boys suddenly sport machine guns. Uncle Jihad, the glittering wit of the family, is also a gay man who never quite finds love. Osama, sent to America to study and save himself, is lost without his family.

Just as we, upon reaching the last page and closing the book, are lost too.

what evil looks / had i from old and young / instead of the cross the albatross / about my neck was hung

2009-11-18T16:30:00.007-05:00

This is an albatross whose carcass was washed up on Midway Attoll, an island in the Pacific Ocean. Chris Jordan photographed it and hundreds more. Birds whose flesh has rotted away to reveal the likely cause of their death: handfuls of bright plastic baubles. Baubles that float in the ocean, litter the beaches, that look like food, that choke the airways, that poison the young, that kill the flocks - tens of thousands a year. Bottle caps. Lighters. String. Bags. Shoelaces. Keys. Erasers. Crayons. Microchips. Jewelery. Batteries. Pens. Vials.

You look at these pictures and you can think one thing only. What we're doing is not enough. Nothing short of overhauling our entire detritus-producing economy will save these birds from choking on our garbage. It won't help that you turn down your thermostat, it won't help that you use a cloth bag instead of plastic, it won't help that you buy a fuel-economy car, it won't help that you install a solar panel to power your television, it won't help that you run a paper-less office. None of it will help because none of it gets to the core issue - which is that it ALL HAS TO GO.

Everything.

I mean, isn't that what these photos say to you? Don't they say that nothing short of total dismantlement of our bauble culture will save these birds? Is there any other way? The oceans are already full of dead zones, coral reefs are dying, the rainforests continue to be encroached upon. It really is out of control. And somewhere on a tiny Pacific island the albatrosses are slowly dying.

Remember the ancient mariner. His ship was lost in the arctic but then an albatross came to lead them home. But the ancient mariner, a man who would be comfortable in today's culture, shot the bird. Bad luck and bad spirits descended upon the ship and the crew died. He is forced to wear the dead bird around his neck. I'm really not doing it justice - read it yourself. But the ancient mariner then survives another shipwreck and spends his life in agonizing psychic and physical pain. Pain that is allayed only when he tells his story, which he does to a passing wedding guest.

I am in psychic pain when I see these dead birds.

lifestyle coaching

2009-11-10T14:48:00.003-05:00

Ranting and naming names is never a good thing. Forget what it does to the other guy, me it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

So now I'm going to rant and not name names. Let's talk about Alex K. Is that anonymous enough for you? Kafkaesque enough? It's that letter K.

Pretty, shiny Alex is in his early 30s. He's a lawyer, a conflict mediator, a lifestyle coach, and a jet setter. He advises corporate executives and government departments. He is also, modestly left unmentioned on his website, an all round creep. With those credentials, how could he not be? Because of shared property issues (Montreal shared triplex ownership) we've had some consistent dealings with him in the past few years. He is, in no particular order:

- Lazy. Lets his wife do all the heavy lifting, phone calling, organising.
- Unresponsive. A typical email to him takes 4 to 6 weeks before we get a response.
- Obsequious. Master of the empty smile, the quick handshake, the domineering body language.
- Good looking. In that soft, doughy way that will fall apart in another 10 years.
- Suspicious and tight. Makes us justify and prove every little building expense and maintenance.
- Entitled. Treats us like his personal concierge team, instead of the neighbours that we are.
- Quick to anger. You have to see the emails.

This is an educated and successful guy. This is a guy who moves through the world like an ice-breaker moves through the Arctic. Coldly. The irony that he is a conflict mediator and a negotiation trainer is just too rich to believe. Who the hell is paying him the big bucks?

What is going on with my crappy mood these days? Don't even get me started with Yoga Bitch on the third floor. I suspect that she thinks an elevated consciousness is a corner office on the 23rd floor. If anyone's going to create a yoga corporate empire, she will. I suppose I don't even have to add that she's not very friendly.

I need a holiday. I need my baby back. What is it with all the uninspiring people?

twisted image

2009-11-09T12:48:00.006-05:00

I am going to do somethng not very nice. I'm going to write about somebody I only barely know and then I'm going to say not very nice things about them. It's not because I hate them, or that they are a bad person or even deserve my rancour, nor is it because I have any kind of grudge. No, I'm going to do this because I am thoroughly fascinated by how this person got to where he is. Truly, it's a fairy tale, full of fairy dust and moon sprinkles and little elves making shoes in the middle of the night.

When I worked at a software gaming company for too many years not long ago, we had a communications director for a little while named Mitch Joel. He was a nice enough guy, if a little bland and obsequious. But he was alright, got on well with others in the sandbox, and managed to always look busy. Never mind that he never did any actual work. He blared music all day long, chatted with the shiny boys who looked up to him, talked ad nauseum about what he was going to do, and travelled to every techno and marketing junket available. He was that kind of guy. In a moment of downswing and shake up, he was let go. I can't say he was missed for more than a second. His actual contribution had been, as far as I could tell, nil.

Since then, however, he has fashioned himself, according to his own bio, into a "visionary marketing guru." Hello? He still doesn't seem to have an original thought in his head, nor a talent for real work, but boy can he market his pants off. He has published a book, won some awards, travelled the globe. It all looks so juicy and good on paper. But don't waste your money.

We don't need to hear about global warming any more - stories like Mitch Joel's are enough to let us know that civilisation is doomed. How did it happen that our society became one in which learning to "brand yourself!" was the way to success? How is it that, in the wake of one of the biggest and dirtiest financial collapses ever, we still respect white men in suits who are going to tell us everything we need to know about marketing? Aren't these guys the enablers of disaster, the ones who told the Emperor how cool he looked?

No offense to Mitch Joel, he's just another systems masseur. Guys with no particular talent (or with a hidden talent that they have chosen to ignore) but who have learnt how to massage the system for full benefit. Doesn't matter what the system is. He'd be equally adept in Pharaonic Egypt or Stassi-infected East Germany -- he plays by the rules and gets rich doing it. He's the Great Oz, booming his voice from behind the curtain, pretending that anything more than common sense is his own personal marketing concoction.

I guess Mitch Joel is happy. He's the little lost princess who kissed the right frog and suddenly woke up rich and popular. I bet it's a mystery to him too, how he got to where he is, how it is that anyone really listens to him let alone takes him seriously. Who am I to care that he has his own personal Rumplestiltskin spinning gold somewhere in his dank and lonely tower?

I guess it's every bit as fascinating as learning about those fish who live off the bellies of whales, or parasite viruses, or bed bugs for that matter. Apparently, after 10 years, the weight of a mattress is almost exclusively made up of bed bugs and their husks. How much does the weight of the Earth change if it filled with "gurus and visionaries" like Mitch Joel? If your intellectual environment includes Mitch Joel, just how many different types of environmental disasters are there? I suppose if you put 100 Mitch Joels in a room for 100 years you eventually end up with a Shakespeare play. Titus Andronicus surely.

And on that note, I leave you with my haiku on the matter.

Same old, same old toy
a bald man turns like a top
upside down he spins

butterfly boucher

2009-11-10T12:45:00.004-05:00

Everything I know about Butterfly Boucher I learned in the last ten minutes. I've had songs of hers on compilations here and there, but never explored her beyond that. But after this weekend, I now am curious. There is a CD in my car that Little Kid likes. We don't use the car much, but when we do, in goes that particular CD. And we listen to this one song over and over and over again. This weekend, with the driving back and forth and in and out and round about, I figure I heard this ONE song about 75 times. Little Kid is a musical parser. She hears every instrument, listens to every nuance of the voice, notices when it comes in, when it curls around, when it waits. She wonders why this note is here and why that instrument is there. This song has caught her imagination and, now, it is seared into mine.

Butterfly Boucher:
- that is her real name
- from Australia, lives in the UK
- plays almost all the instruments
- her Changes duet with David Bowie is in the Shrek 2 soundtrack
- label snafus resulted in a 2006 album being released only this year
- she looks like a cross between Jennifer Garner and Cate Blanchett

la danse

2009-11-04T21:48:00.004-05:00

First Lévi-Strausse dies - at the mûr old age of 100 - and now Frederick Wiseman has a new movie out. Vive les vieux or, as I'm sure the French would have it, vive les vieux cons.

Wiseman began his film career alongside cinema verité filmmakers such as the Maysles brother, Pennebacker, Barbara Kopple, and the NFB greats such as Michel Brault and the Challenge for Change program. This was a direct break from the patronising documentaries of the past, where omniscient narrators reinterpreted images and where formal interviews took the place of raw emotions. These films, often in black and white and about subject matter otherwise overlooked by mainstream producers, exploded with vitality and urgency.

One of my favourite of these filmmakers is Frederick Wiseman. Perhaps more than any other filmmaker of the time, Wiseman approached his subject matter with little preconception, letting his camera be written on as if it were a blank slate, faithfully following the minutae and characters of the institutions and contexts he was exploring. A contemporary example of his method would sort of be Michael Moore - if you removed the bluster, the ego, and the ideology.

We're used to it now, cameras everywhere and reality tv bringing even the most vapid of us out onto centre stage, but back in the 60s and 70s when Wiseman plunged his camera into dark corners, passively watching and waiting, we were shocked. Some of his films anticipated if not actually inspired real social change:

Titicut Folies, 1967, about inmates in an insane asylum.
High School, 1968, student life never looked so bleak.
Hospital, 1970, you don't want to get sick.
Juvenile Court, 1973, you don't want to get arrested.

There's dozens more but those are the only ones I've seen (and all of them in film class). Other titles seem equally evocative: Welfare, Meat, Sinai Field Mission, Model, Near Death, High School 2 (1994), Domestic Violence, etc. Most compelling title of all may be the 1971 film, I Miss Sonia Henie. Now that I'd like to see.

So, glad to see he's still alive and working. Even better, that he's made a film about that hothouse topic, the ballet. And the ballet in France, no less. Oh, la, la. I love dance, but I especially love ballet. It's the posture - I just can't get enough of good posture. He made Ballet in 1995 (according to Wikipedia), so I wonder what he's doing now that he didn't do then. I'll just have to see it to find out.

I'll walk, no run, no jetée to the cinéma!

harmonium

2009-11-01T09:32:00.004-05:00

I love playing Harmonium in the morning, especially early mornings. Celine Dion may be who most people now associate with Quebec, but really the heart and soul of this province lies with Harmonium. And, more specifically, the dulcet, emotional, longing voice of Serge Fiori.

I was too young to appreciate them in the 70s, but I listen to them now and hear the background music of my childhood, the soundtrack of Montreal.

Pour une instant...
Just for a minute, I forgot my name
But that's what let me write this song
Just for a minute, I left behind my mirror
But that's what let me see myself better
Without hesitation, I dove into the dark
Caught like a wolf without hope
I lost time to make up time
I need to find myself, to tell my story

Pour une instant....

summer wine

2009-10-16T13:33:00.003-04:00

The sun is glorious today though few birds are left to trill about it. Children dash back and forth, heavy backpacks not slowing them down one bit. Sidewalks littered with splashes of coloured leaves.
Here's a classic. The always underrated Nancy Sinatra, the too-often forgotten Lee Hazelwood.

sigourney weaver's acid test

2009-10-15T09:45:00.006-04:00

This is fun to watch. Sigourney Weaver narrated a short documentary, Acid Test, about the growing acidification, and ultimate destruction, of our oceans. It is a chilling, if somewhat pedestrian, film. In any case, an important message. You can watch it here.

Here she is, however, on Fox and Friends last week, some American tv show. The two hosts, bolt upright and panting like puppies, try to get her to talk about Avatar, the new James Cameron film coming out in a couple of months. She plays a small role and they contextualize her presence on the show by referencing her role in the Alien series. But she wants to talk about Acid Test. And so she does. The male host is clearly vexed, while the woman is eventually gracious and asks a few questions about the film. It's just too much for the boy dog: "If you're watching at home ... clean up your plankton!"

tundra watch (great canadian websites): rabble.ca

2009-10-10T10:42:00.005-04:00

Without even trying too hard, I find that I spell Canadian, buy Canadian, sing Canadian (I know all the words to the Canadian lyrics of This Land is Your Land. Yes, I even get choked up), watch Canadian, play Canadian (winter!), travel Canadian, eat Canadian.... you get the picture. I don't know if it's so much an articulated patriotism, as just a general warm & fuzzy feeling I have about this country. It certainly has alot to do with being the daughter of an immigrant, especially growing up in the expansive Trudeau multicultural years of the late 1960s and 1970s.

In those days, the story we told ourselves was that Canada was gentle, free-thinking, forward-looking, peace-loving, and open. The landscape was as wide as our hearts. My schools were always a thick mosaic of cultures and religions, my neighbourhoods a cacophony of languages old and new. Being Canadian was about embracing the world and embracing the future.

Flash forward to the new millenium and the story is no longer a fairy tale. In fact, fairy tales have been rejected in favour of committee-driven usability reports. Too many Prime Ministers cosying up to our neighbours to the south, not enough visionaries with either the will or the power to do anything about it. We waste our energies on inter-provincial fractionalism and resentments. And we've lost such huge manufacturing swaths that all that is left is dirty oil and we'll hang on to that even if it kills us. And baby, you know it will.

But we have to remember who we are and define what we want. With that in mind, Tundra Watch is my new weekly profile of great Canadian websites. Some will be small, others will be exhaustive trawlers, but they all will be great. Cause that's just how we do things up here.

The first website is Rabble.ca. They are, as they say, a community-supported non-profit media site. It's also the best source in this country for intelligent writing on domestic and international policy and trends. Pulling in writers from across the board, from both mainstream and off-the-radar press (Naomi Klein, Rick Salutin, Linda McQuaig, Heather Mallick, etc), it is critical, incisive, sometimes hilarious and always awesome. Rabble podcasts and RabbleTV also pull in and conglomerate clips on everything from the latest obscure conference to this week's featured Indie music.

It's all about the filter, it's all about you who trust and whose opinion you're going to give some weight to. If you want to go a little deeper, if you are willing to question the status quo, the party line and some creature comforts in the process, it's time to join the Rabble.

And if you still love turning your face up to catch the snowflakes, stick with me. I got one of those old wooden toboggans that'll kill your ass. But if you break something in the process we'll go to the hospital and fix it for free. Oh yeah. Tundra Watch has "Canadian-style" health insurance.

ban the burka

2009-10-08T14:29:00.005-04:00

The extremely awesome, independant and forward-thinking Muslim Canadian Congress is urging the Canadian government to ban the burka, the full-body face-hiding covering worn by some fundamentalist women. Or, to more correctly state it, the burka that is forced on some women by their fundamentalist husbands.

The MCC has often been a voice in the wilderness, sometimes the only Muslim group to insist that secular democracy is the future not the enemy, to consistently stand up for the rights of women, and to loudly and boldly condemn jihad and terrorism. Time to donate to the MCC.

Also time to read MCC founder Tarek Fatah's book, Chasing a Mirage: The Tragic Illusion of an Islamic State.

At its core and in its proper historical context, Islam was leaps and bounds ahead of its time 1200 years ago. It heralded a new respect and place for women, the concept of impartial law, and a respect for the weak and poor. It is this that people have in mind when they speak of Islam as a religion of peace and compassion, current events notwithstanding. But likewise, while the words of Jesus may have been all about love and tolerance, the churches of America have been nothing if not contemptuous.

The problem is the book. That would be Book with a capital B. Answers, like questions, come and go, reflecting the tenor of the times. But we have cemented some answers into Books and still look to them, thousands of years later, to respond to modern day cultural, social and political questions. We take those answers and shoehorn them into our lives, hobbling around on pious but ill-fitting shoes. Walk too long in the wrong shoes and you eventually fall. Put a whole culture or country in the wrong shoes and you get, at the very least, severe stagnation. At the worse, you get disaster. Muslim countries, take your pick.

As for the Muslim Canadian Congress, I want what they're wearing.

moi!

2009-10-07T17:15:00.005-04:00

Hey, look at me today. I'm blogging, I'm cleaning out old boxes, I'm posting bits from here and there. Here's the first two pages of a very small book that Big Kid started to write in 2001 when she was 8. It begins well, if I do say so myself. I hope it wasn't starting out to be a murder-mystery...

"Leila"
July 7, 2001
Leila! she's the smartest, strongest, and the gentelist you got to admit she's one of the best.

{page 2}
Leila!
she doesn't let go and its tru you got to have them mothers
Leila she's my mom.

Not dictated, I swear. But saved, you betcha.

funny ha ha

2009-10-07T16:31:00.002-04:00

These two guys are lost in the desert.
Just when they think they're going to die of thirst, they chance upon a village where market day is in full swing. They go to the first stall they see and ask if they can buy some water.
"No," replies the Bedouin stall owner. "I only sell fruit."
So off they go to the next stall and again they ask for water.
"Sorry," says the merchant, "but I can only sell custard."
"Custard?" one of the guys says to the other. "What kind of place is this?"
By now desperate, they go to the next stall, only to be told, "Sorry, but I only sell jelly."
Hearing this, one guy turns to the other and says, "This is a trifle bazaar."

THAT is my all time favourite joke. As you might guess, it sits perfectly in the sand-blown, cod-eating crossroads of my life.

dalai lama

2009-10-04T15:17:00.010-04:00

I got to see the Dalai Lama. Big Kid had a couple of tickets and was going to go with K. But then her LOVE group was going, so K got to go with me. The Bell Centre is cavernous. The number I heard in attendance was 15,000. That's alot of hockey fans - I guess. I wouldn't know cause hockey tickets are too fucking expensive. But I shouldn't swear. I'm talking about the Dalai Lama here.

The event was organized by the Tibet-Canada committee (from whom the tickets came and the reason why we were in the second row centre - best seats i've ever had for anything) and you could see the entire Tibetan community was here. And vibrating. The MC was Laure Waridel, founder of Equiterre. She could barely contain herself on stage and more than once broke down.

How does one refer to the Dalai Lama when using third person? His Holiness? Well, His Holiness's entrance was preceded by two Tibetan dance numbers. There weren't always enough boy dancers, so they simply drew moustaches on a couple of girls and presto, faster than you can say transgendered! the male contingent was rounded out.

Then, without much fanfare, the Dalai Lama took to the stage, his hands in prayer and bowing humbly. He sat with his two translators, one Tibetan who helped him sort through the occasional word, and the other a French monk who periodically recapped everything in French. The headset microphones gave them repeated glitches at first, but they joked through it, eliciting hearty laughs and applause from the audience. The Dalai Lama eventually threw his off and made do with a hand-held, and then a standing, microphone.

He began by announcing that he wanted to speak "not as a monk, not as a Tibetan, but as a human being." He went on to talk loosely about what he considered ailed us as people and as a society: we are too self-centred (people who over-use "I" and "me" too much are headed for a heart-attack); we are overly concerned with external beauty; we are greedy bastards, destroying the world because we want more and bigger.

What we need is compassion. Compassion is not just "niceness", it's not just accepting what comes along the way without a fight. Rather, it is recognizing what is good and important and then fighting for it.

He got the greatest round of applause, a spontaneous outburst really, for his mention that parents must "provide maximum affection for your children and spend more time with them."

Questions had been solicited earlier (through a website I think) and they were read out and posed. One of them asked how best do we teach and love our children. He said we must inspire their brain and nurture their heart. He said, "a brain without heart can be disaster. A heart without a brain is nice, but," rolling his eyes in a fine comic beat, "no progress."

His entire presence was laconic, funny, casual, and irreverent. It was refreshing to feel that this was not about his ego, but truly about the message. A simple message. I felt the entire Bell Centre was craving this simplicity. We already knew it, but we like to hear it coming from someone with as much spiritual and international credibility as the Dalai Lama. He said he felt positive about the future. That there was no question that the 20th century was an era of war and bloodshed, but in the hundred years of its span we went from blindly showing up for battle, to gathering in the millions to protest war.

There are many different types of smiles, he said. The diplomatic smile, the artificial smile, the sarcastic and superior smile, the money and power smile. But by practising a secular ethics (for those of us who do not practise an institutionalized religion), and by always travelling in the direction of compassion, we might sometimes remember the real reason to smile. And that is the best smile of all.

on kathryn's batavus

2009-09-23T14:17:00.003-04:00

the sky was drizzling
when i got on your bike
what a great look
for a high-riding dyke!
get to parc jeanne mance
see a cute dog
well emma thinks it's cute
i see a frog
but we keep on going
looking so swell
in the morning traffic
of bikes on rachel
get to the corner
to cross again
i love the paths
of parc lafontaine
they undulate with people
strolling to work
i think of you fondly
writing your shhrc
we get to her school
and emma's not sure
who she'll eat lunch with
oh school is so dur!
i say not to worry
that in spite of the trouble
she'll have a great day
cause i love her double
then back home again
just me and my ride
i miss you today
outdoors and inside

oh yeah? the youth in canada are even worse

2009-09-21T14:40:00.002-04:00

zora howard

2009-09-22T21:47:00.005-04:00

This kid is brilliant. She's 13, apparently. She OWNS the audience.
I'm not talking about that cute-they-met-and-fell-in-love blood.
I'm talking about that slave-raped-six-times-by-the-master-birthing-six-mixed-babies-that-are-hung blood.

Watch her go.

I can't embed the video (disabled on request. why? this girl should be viral) so go here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTnxJdxhU7o

But here's another one of hers. Tell me, how does a 13 year old kid know about being a mother of a son off to war. I mean, she knows it.

james

2009-09-19T13:56:00.004-04:00

My brother, Jimmy, died, and with him an entire lifetime of nothingness. It is this nothingness with which I am grappling. He was born a full year before me but the week I was born, so the story so often told goes, my parents brought him to the first of a handful of institutions in which he would spend the rest of his life.

I have pictures of our visits to see Jimmy. His three younger sisters and younger brother playing outside on the lawn while our parents went inside. Sometimes a nurse would hold him to the window. We weren’t allowed inside until the age of 16 which meant he was little more than a phantom, something else to add to the mysteries that adults attended to. We knew we had a brother, yet it meant something else that was undecipherable. There were no pictures of him next to ours. My parents rarely spoke of him, and none of us never knew what to say when asked the question: “how many children are in your family?” We’d look to each other, we’d look to our parents. Four? Five? Four? Everyone hesitated. We were always at a loss.

But I built up a relationship with him once I returned to Montreal in the 80s to go to university. He was fun. I liked being around him. We picked up his ashes yesterday and they sit on a table waiting for us to figure out what to do. Not a very heavy box, apparently, for an adult man. His bones were small and light. But his hair was thick and jet black, and his skin was a soft and creamy olive. I thought he was beautiful.

a man's a man

2009-08-27T18:51:00.001-04:00

For all that. Size has nothing to do with it.
This one's for Samia.

shock your girlfriend with a bigger brain

2009-08-26T17:53:00.006-04:00

Don't surprise me with a bigger penis. I don't need to add inches or make it bigger. And I really don't think you want to shock my girlfriend. 16-year old Big Kid has gone from offended to amused to - sigh - jaded, but 10 year-old Little Kid is still going "yuuuuuuuuuck, a bigger whaaaaat?"

I am officially fed up with the Vimax ads. They have crept onto every single website I read. From the local newspaper to political aggregators, from dictionaries to sports. They are, uh, popping up everywhere. What is in these supplements anyways? According to their website, they are a "natural herbal enhancement" based on some formula used by Polynesian men who "have sex 3 times a night." Being a South Pacific archipelego of hundreds of islands subsisting on meagre expat remittences and scarce tourist dollars, I wonder why the Polynesian men themselves haven't marketed this secret formula. Probably because they are all doubled over from their over-extended hemorhraging penises. Those very penises whose "appearance will arouse your sex partner." Arouse in which way, I wonder. Let's ask those Polynesian women, the ones who just kicked their sex-crazed partners in the nuts.

But I don't just have a problem with the Vimax makers. After all, they're simply spreading their joy one dick at a time. My problem is with the websites who close their eyes and think of the Bank of England. Every click on the banner or pop-up apparently garners the host website a 50% sales commission (selon Wikipedia). At $200 per order that's not insignificant. Enough money to sell granny up the road. So, my local daily, a truly crappy and sanctimonious newspaper, has no problem blistering its pages with close-ups of young women, eyes a-popping under "shock her!" taglines. There is NO journalistic credibility when that is the commercial environment to which you are beholden.

Then again, why wouldn't the local Montreal crap rag get in with this? It turns out that Vimax is a Montreal company. On Monkland avenue, no less. Not that they can spell Monkland right, but then again who cares about good grammar when you get testimonials like this: "I lasted long enough but I couldn't do it that emotionally tense like I used to when I studied in college." Sounds like exam time to me. Luckily a picture paints a thousand words, cause those Before and After shots do the job just fine. They all look a little needy and forelorn to me, but heck, I don't use one in real life.

Vimax makes it under the radar because they do not sell their product as a drug. It is not tested and they have no liability. As for the ads, they continue to bombard, invade and shape us. We blithely go along, chuckling good-naturedly while others make a quick buck off our lack of judgement. To add to Sartre, hell is not only other people, it is us. We sink further and further into our own crap, not even smelling it any more.

This is a disturbing and mocking world, is it not. Penis enlargement doodads. Breast implants. Tanning beds. Botox. Imported water from Fiji. Red Bull. Pet cemetaries. Zac Efron. Chrysler 300. Four-ply, virgin forest toilet tissue. Ad infinitum.

I know a better way to shock your girlfriend. Enhance your brain, hone your moral compass and learn a thing or two about intimacy. Heck, I'll even throw in a life-time guarantee.

haiku and boxing

2009-08-12T08:09:00.007-04:00

All things converge eventually and life imitates taglines. Big Kid wants to take kick boxing this fall - serious kick boxing, not aerobics, "are you kidding?" She's already done a year of wrestling, but wants to move onto something more combative. Okay!

Me, I will just write a haiku or two.

Composting with Lady Macbeth
My hands deep in worms
they squirm and you ask again,
Can I wash this off?

Country Roads
Motorcycles pass
all day and night, scary gangs
then dismount and oh - fat ladies!

but it's different in canada

2009-08-11T11:47:00.005-04:00

That's what Bob Lefsetz says. He's a great music writer and I've been reading him for a couple of years now. I let his postings fill up my Inbox for a couple of weeks at a time then, when I can, splurge on them in a late night feasting.

He's right about Canada. We haven't sold our souls yet cause there's no one to buy them out. So, lucky us. I'd never heard of Jets Overhead, but they seem to fit his paradigm of making music just for the passion of it. Something he bemoans in the US. Why does all the good music come out of Canada, he asks. (Reason #238: we don't have to worry about making enough money to cover our health care insurance.)
Check out the post.

leisure

2009-08-10T11:11:00.005-04:00

A copper chipmunk perched himself on a knob of a trunk the other day, the perfect vantage point for us to stare into each other's eyes. I was finally in the hammock, only the second time this busy summer, and trying to read but really wanting to nap. But his antics at the squirrel-proof bird feeder were making me laugh. If I made too much noise he'd scramble up the tree, coming down a minute or two later to jump on the feeder. Finally, he settled on the knob and decided to watch me. I couldn't hold the stare. I was the one who always flinched, not he.

One of my first thoughts was, how lucky we both are, settled next to or in a tree for a sunny afternoon of leisure. Birds chirping in the distance, the odd car on the road, bugs buzzing, hay and corn growing, roots digging. This is an afternoon on the farm.

But who am I kidding, little chump of a chipmunk. I am the only one with leisure here. I have reaped the fruits of my labour and now I relax. Who knows why the chipmunk was taking a moment out of his frantic seed-scouring day, but you can likely bet he wasn't dreaming of reruns of Battlestar Nutatika. What leisure does an animal like that have? Leisure can only exist because someone else is continuing to work. In my case, that someone else would be the system. The government, the tax base, the law enforcement, the grocery stores, the imported clothing, the transportation systems, the tapestry of diplomatic relationships, generations-old treaties and conventions, shared memories. All those keep working so, one afternoon in August, I don't have to.

Otherwise, I'd be spending my every waking moment scouring for food and warding off predators. Like the chipmunk, like my ancestors. Perhaps the only animals free from that at moments are those who have built up some semblence of social systems and heirarchies. The full-maned lion who lies about while the rest of the pride chase down food. The queen bee. Perhaps dogs and cats.

Dogs and cats. Those neurotic creatures whose penance for I-don't-know-what is to have been robbed of their wildness and have leisure thrust upon them. They get fat and yappy and stupid. Too much leisure is a rotten thing. Suddenly, the bigger and most frightening of them hurls himself over a fence when you bike by and breaks into a full gallop to catch up with your pumping legs in some kind of prideful yet vicious race (cause you sure don't want to lose). You hear his wide paws thadump thadump thadump beside you. Past the fence, pass the hillock, away from the goats you were slowing to admire.

I yell to Kathryn "go faster, go faster" because she would be the consolation prize once he tires (literally) of me. I hear her low breath as she too struggles to hit stride and outpace him. We go hundreds of metres. His will is strong and he looks straight ahead. If he had any strength left over he'd make mince meat of my ankle. Finally, slowly, in a series of heaves and wheel rotations, we outride him. He pulls off and, too spent even to make a go of Kathryn, he turns around.

Kathryn's silent almost the rest of the way but I can't stop talking. I feel like a ten-year-old boy. Did you see how big he was? Did you hear his paws on the road? Could you hear him breathing! It's the most exitement I've had in ages. Certainly not the leisurely ride we intended.

barn wood smells forever

2009-07-24T10:56:00.007-04:00

I don't know if I should seal this wood or not. It is riddled with tiny little boring holes made by termites or whatever else bores into old wood. I sanded this wood to hard butter, butter with little lumps of curd every now and then. Note the knot hole that the laptop cable can go through. I need to countersink the screws. And the legs could be better reinforced. But it started to rain and I was working outside and it had been too many days going without a desk and squatting at Kathryn's. But here it is: my table!

It's been a good ten years since I made my last piece of furniture (D left and I had none and couldn't even afford Ikea. Just as well.). The barn is full of more wood like this. Some of it old planks at least 25 feet long that I couldn't be enticed to cut shorter if you paid me. So they lean against the side or lie on the floor. I'll forage for the small pieces and make what I can.

So now I sit here and work, inhaling the lingering smell of the 150 year old barn. "Work" is a euphemism for heaven when sitting at this desk.