The Scattered Mind, or, How I Defeated The Dragons Using a Combination of Luck and Leprosy

100 Words or Fewer

2011-06-09T19:28:00.003-04:00

This is a short-short story I wrote for a competition at 100wordsorfewerwritingcontest.com. The goal of the contest is to write a short story in 100 words or fewer. Although I didn't win the grand prize, I received an honourable mention, and top marks from the judges.

Dead of Winter

The fall fell. Winter filled the vacuum. The insanity of a snowstorm was followed by darkness.

The wolf moved through the trees into a clearing. The moon beamed its bastard light onto the snow.

A man was lying face down in the snow. Stiff.

The wolf approached. Sniffed the man’s neck. Dead. Not long. Hours, maybe.

A distant wail carried on the wind. The wolf’s ears pricked up. A message.

Someone was coming now. Moving noisily. Calling a name.

The wolf retreated into a shrub. Hiding. Watching. A woman emerged. Weeping. She knelt by the stiff figure. And howled.

Buddha Buddy.

2011-03-29T22:42:00.003-04:00

This is a paper I handed in to my Religions of Asia course. As part of the assignment, we were supposed to visit either a Hindu, Jain, or Sikh Temple. The report asked us to relate our experiences and place them in the context of what we learned in the class.

Visit to: Gaden Chang Chub Chöling Tibetan Biddhist Temple

Sunday morning saw me running. The Daylight Savings “spring forward” once again caught me unawares, and by sheer luck or perhaps divine intervention, I was able to catch my mistake before it was too late, but not too late to stop me from having to run to the metro. I was on my way to the Gaden Chang Chub Chöling Tibetan Biddhist Temple, and I did not want to be late.

I found the Temple using a google search a few days earlier, and I emailed the Temple telling who I was and about the class and asking whether or not it would be alright for me to attend one of their services and don’t worry this is all legit. A woman named Hèlene responded telling me that there would be a service on March 13 I could attend, but there might not be anybody able to show me around. That’s fine, I thought. Sometimes I am confident like that.

So now it is Sunday morning, and like I said, I am running to the metro and, miraculously, (I mean, somebody really wanted me to be at that Temple that morning) I was able to leap onto the metro seconds before the door closed and was on my way.

I arrived at the temple fifteen minutes early, and stood outside waiting, not wanting to be too early. The exterior of the Temple reminded me of a store front. So inconspicuous was its presentation that a slight rearrangement of letters on the sign would turn it, from the outside at least, into an Asian restaurant. I was definitely nervous before going in. What if this is some weird Buddhist cult? What if I am made to be part of the ritual? What if they are militant (like those militant Buddhists you see in the movies) and I offend them? These fears were and are irrational, of course. I know this, and knew it at the time. But they sit in the back of your mind, like a burning coal, some darkened corner wherein monsters lurk and make low growling noises. Regardless, I let the rational take over from the irrational, and I step inside.

Inside, the decorations and incense seem to invade every corner of the space. The walls are covered with images of the Buddha and bodhisattvas in different colours and postures. Coming from a protestant background, the imagery is startling. The multitude and variation of representations remind me more of the Hindu Pantheon. I even see one that looks similar to depictions of Shiva with its plethora of arms. I grew up in a Baptist Church. Protestants are not keen on imagery and iconography beyond a wooden cross and the occasional artist rendering circa 1950 of “prince charming Jesus,” with his icy blue eyes, wavy blond locks, and that white tunic with the blue sash that seems impervious to dust. There was a lot to take in.

Popping my head around a corner into the main worship area, a man greets me, and I tell him that I am a student from Concordia University on a class assignment. His look changes from mildly hospitable to outright suspicious. “Are you supposed to be here?” he asks.

“Yes, I received an invitation from Hèlene.”

“Ok” he says, and then proceeds to ignore me.

So I stand awkwardly in the room, surrounded by images of the Buddha and other revered Buddhists and rainbow bodhisattvas, wearing my coat and the lukewarm reception. Until Mel arrives.

The first thing I notice about Mel is that she is African, which surprised me as I have not seen many African Buddhists. The second thing I notice is that she laughs. A lot. It seems to bubble up out of her and she is powerless to control it. She takes me downstairs to take my coat, and I give her a ten dollar donation for the Temple’s time and hospitality. The ritual, she explains, is called Chittamatri Tara Puja. In it, we are to pray to Tara to help us overcome our inner as well as external obstacles and fears, showing the seed of enlightenment within our mind. “The only thing you must remember is not to point the soles of your feet toward the Buddha. It is considered rude.”

No soles of the feet. Got it.

We go back upstairs where the ceremony will take place under the stony eyes of the Buddha statue. Mel distributes the prayer books, handing me the one with the Tibetan on one page and the corresponding English translation on the other. I sit cross-legged on a small red cushion in front of these long low tables and thank the lord that I did not sit on them as I would on a pew in a church. The rule is, whenever you are in a strange place with strange customs, never be the first to do anything.

The observant sit facing a wall festooned with decorations and effigies. In the center in a glass case sits a watchful Buddha, and to his left and right the walls are lined with smaller statues, more fantastical and otherworldy than the solitary Buddha. Behind the glass they look like trophies in a case.

The ceremony begins and proceeds as follows. The group reads the Tibetan words in unison, with a strange musical quality to it, similar to a Gregorian chant. Following along was difficult, as I needed to listen very carefully to the phonetics of the words spoken and match them to the Tibetan words on the page. Often they would jump forward pages, skip pages, or double back. Mel was kind enough to leap up from time to time when she saw me flipping through the book desperately, and point out where we were. I felt a little bad about this, as I think I was interrupting her ability to worship. Later, I apologized, but she said, “I am a nurse. I feel I need to help people.”

The chanting went on for a long while, and I found it difficult to stay focused on the text. My mind kept wondering all over the place. The woman sitting in front of me had a weird mole that seemed have been inflated out of the back of her neck like a balloon and I had this bizarre urge to pull it out. The monk had his hands occupied with prayer beads on a necklace, and I thought of the beaded necklaces at Mardi Gras, and then I thought, humans have a very fluid conception of the purposes of beads. But no. Focus. Focus. Where are we? Thanks Mel.

The ceremony included props too, which I found very interesting as well. Bells would be rung at different points, and some members had on their laps three rings that would be filled with rice and placed one on top of the other. As the ceremony closed and we came to the last page, I read the English translation for what was about to be chanted. Loosely, it read, “forgive me if at any point during the ritual I made mistakes.” That part I did read in the Tibetan. It seemed I might need it.

The ceremony concluded, and I was able to interview two members of the Temple, Steve and Mel. Steve is a middle-aged French Canadian man, born and raised a Catholic, before falling away from Catholicism and its dogma. Mel was born in France, but never raised in any religious group. Both said they had felt a large emptiness in their life, felt that the outside world with its material wealth had never interested them. They both felt there was more.

For Steve, the decision to become a Buddhist occurred after seeing the Dalai Lama on television. He decided that Buddhism, and Tibetan Buddhism, was the way to go, and came to the Temple due to its proximity to his work. He told me of one of the first times he visited, and read through those same Tibetan prayers I had read through. “It was like I knew it. I was able to follow along at a great pace, and pronounce all the words properly. The other members said they’d never seen anybody pick it up so fast. And for me, it just felt natural. Like I’d been doing it all my life.”

“Maybe in a previous life,” I said.

“Yeah, exactly! When I came here, I just felt like I had found where I belong.”

Mel’s story was similar. The same spiritual emptiness that had plagued Steve affected her too, and she actively sought the council of her religious friends, but each time felt that what these different religions (Catholicism, Islam, Protestantism) offered was missing something. She came across Buddhism in an Encyclopedia, and to her, it all made complete sense. Like Steve, she felt like she had finally found a place she belonged from day one.

When I walked into the temple, a man had asked me, “Are you supposed to be here?” and I thought about that on my way home. The answer to this question for Mel and Steve was immediate on their first visit, they said. They knew, they felt some pull, and they had found home. I felt awkward and uncomfortable (physically as well, as sitting cross-legged for over an hour is difficult), despite the hospitality of many of the members. The statues and photos on the wall seemed just that to me, unmoving and static.

The Tibetan brand of Buddhism follows in the line of the Mahayan tradition, and teaches that bodhisattvas, like Tara whom the ceremony was meant to be dedicated to, have delayed their own enlightenment. They exist in a heavenly realm, and are able to affect and aid followers, much like Catholics who pray to the panoply of saints. Mel showed me the different images of bodhisattvas printed on cards. “This one comes in orange, this one in blue, this guy, he is red. They are all here.”

“Like bodhisattva hockey cards. Collect and trade,” I said smiling, and she laughed.

From what I had learned about Buddhism in class, I felt I really connected to the ideas expressed by the Buddha himself, particularly the much more conservative ideas in early Buddhism, that each person makes his or her own karma than to the ideas expressed in the Mahayana school. The bodhisattvas, and this ability to transfer merit, are far too mystical to me. It reminds of Catholic saints, who act as intercessors between us and God, and it just seems like such a human construction, that God, who created the universe, would need us to take a number. It is its very logic that seems so illogical. But for Steve and Mel, this place was where they belonged, and I can't argue with that.

The Cold Sore.

2011-03-29T22:24:00.003-04:00

I get cold sores. I will feel this tingling on some part of my lip, an incessant itchiness that kicks around the nerves and I know what is coming.

Usually when this happens, I attack early. I have this medicine that I put on the affected area, and it seems to work as a pre-emptive measure. But every now and then, my lip will explode and an area about the size of a quarter will begin to inflate and become irritated and red. Small blisters will begin to bloom, little white sacs of puss that offset the maddening red of the inflamation, and the effect is...hideous.

That is what I have now. One gigantic cold sore on my lip. I can feel it throb, beating an infernal pulse, like something alive. My cold sore has a heartbeat, I think. And now I feel like rather than me having a cold sore, my cold sore has a me. I am a vehicle for this gross pustule. I carry it around. We take walks together.

It literally hangs on my every word, such is its geography.

And the thing about the cold sore is that it is, beyond its hideousness, herpes. It’s full name is Herpes Simplex, and when you have it, you have it for life.

So not only do you get to walk around with this gigantic organism attached to your face - eerily familiar to those days in highschool when a large zit would be growing out of your forehead - the cold sore is like a large billboard that screams, “This guy has herpes! On his face! Look!” And then it cackles. Yes, my cold sore cackles. Pity me.

Naturally, one attempts to find a way to quickly and effectively remove the sore. And where does the responsible citizen of the 21st century turn when afflicted by cold sores, foot-and-mouth disease or geriatric profanity syndrome? Dr. Internet, of course.

A simple google search of “how to get rid of cold sores quickly” rendered 723,000 results. So in not too long, I had a handful of homemade remedies that were guaranteed* to get rid of cold sores quickly - and if not painlessly, at least imaginatively - and ranging from the plausible to the ridiculous. Personally, I recommend numbers 1 and 2.

Top 10 methods on the internet for removing cold sores:

1. Lancing the blisters with a sterilized needle, rubbing salt paste on the sore, then covering with petroleum jelly.
2. Brewing tea and placing the tea bags on the sore
3. Rubbing paint thinner on the sore
4. Freezing the sore by holding an ice cube to the sore
5. Rubbing hydrogen peroxide on the sore
6. Rubbing earwax on the sore
7. Rubbing alcohol on the sore
8. Cutting off the sore
9. Cutting off your head
10. Abreva

When I get a cold sore, I put Carmex on it, because Carmex is supposed to alleviate cold sores. I don't know if it does help, but it will make them more shiny and noticeable. It's like cold-sore-highlighter. Maybe they could come up with an arrow that heals cold sores.
-Mitch Hedburg
*not a guarantee

Squirrel and Toad

2010-10-27T15:59:00.008-04:00

The brown squirrel moved her tiny paws up to her face and rubbed her face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you” a low, croaky voice from behind her said.

She turned around, and saw two large eyes like globs of jelly looking right at her. It was the large toad. The squirrel chirruped a laugh. She had always found toads to look absolutely ridiculous, what with their grotesquely bloated bodies covered in strange bumps, and their tiny front legs that look like pathetic stumps when compared to their green bulk. It was always hard to take them seriously, though the brown squirrel knew that toad was supposed to be very wise, if not also cruel, so she remained where she was.

“That is a trap," the voice continued. "I saw the man lay it down there not more than three days ago.”

“Now that is ridiculous, toad. Why would anyone want to trap a squirrel?”

“I had always found that squirrels could be both flighty and dense at the same time. You appear to me no exception. It’s not meant to trap you, though it will, if you get to close.”

The brown squirrel pondered this. The food did look delicious, but the more she thought about it, the more it did seem a bit unusual that food like this would appear out of the blue. For one thing, peaches were very unusual in these parts, and really only grew in the man’s orchard. The other thing was that, from the squirrel’s own experience, food was not usually found sliced and laid out on a brass plate, as though it were an offering to some god of the forest. No, the toad was right. This was a trap.

“Who is it meant to catch?” the brown squirrel asked.

“One of the rabbits, I believe,” the toad croaked.

That made sense to the squirrel. She had never heard of the man eating a squirrel before. Even toad was safe from the man. The ones at real risk were the rabbits and the ducks. For her part, she had never much minded the man. She was far more concerned with hawks. But something was troubling the brown squirrel. She thought back to all those times when the man had left his cabin to hunt the rabbits or the ducks. On those occasions, he had always been accompanied by that traitorous hound, (all animals had a profound dislike for the dog) which walked alongside the man, and would run into the tall grass to flush out the birds or the rabbits for the man to shoot. But this was different. This was a dish on the ground with peaches on it. Did rabbits even eat peaches?

“Hey toad, do rabbits even eat peaches?”

“What? You will have to speak up, my ears are just tiny holes in my head.” The
squirrel chirruped at this. She repeated her question.

“The rabbits. Do they eat peaches?”

The toad seemed to think about this. Presently, a flap of skin crossed over his jelly-eyes, and then they disappeared into his head. A second later, they re-emerged and the toad spoke.

“I...don’t know. Do you think I am an expert in rabbit food preferences? Honestly, I don’t know how you eat that stuff anyways.” He sounded angry, and fixed her with a glare.

“Oh, and I suppose flies and grasshoppers are much better?” the brown squirrel started.

“Indeed they are.”

“Have you ever seen yourself eat? It’s disgusting. Your mouth looks like its unhinged, and you never seem to get all your food in your mouth. There is always a leg or something hanging out. I honestly think I can hear you getting fatter, its completely disg—“

A shadow passed over the sun, and sharp talons gripped the brown squirrel. She was lifted high into the air, propelled by the mighty wings of a hawk.

The toad’s tongue flew out of his mouth, and grabbed a fly lazily buzzing over a peach slice.

Best Man Speech

2010-07-27T23:28:00.001-04:00

Hi everybody. For those of you who don't know my name is Matt and I am Andrew's brother and best man. Before I begin I would like to remind everyone that this portion of the evening has a 3 drink minimum. For those in the audience unable to drink, don't worry, I have taken on your quota personally. Also, I have taken great pains and endured a substantial financial cost to bring this speech to you in 3D. And suddenly the 3 drink minimum becomes despairingly apparent. Bare with me...

My brother and I are close. Uncommonly so. I say uncommonly, because history has revealed to us time and time again that this is not often the case.

Think of Cain and Abel, those pioneers of fraternity, who proved that while blood may be thicker than water, rocks are much harder than skulls.

Or Romulus and Remus, who, having built Rome in just over 24 hours, found their relationship strained when they attempted to found their next city, Detroit. The work suffered...

And who could forget Orville and Wilbur Wright, famous inventors of the airplane. History records that it was Wilbur who named the area of the plane where Orville always sat, “the cockpit.”

So our perhaps unlikely friendship comes as a surprise. Why is it our friendship has not only survived, but thrived?

In the winter of 1990, my brother and I received a Nintendo. During the next few months, we spent a lot of time, far too much time probably, sitting dangerously close to a Zenith television, our hands desperately clicking a controller and our eyes reflecting the images on the screen in all their 16-bit glory. My brother would always assume the role of Mario, and I, being the younger would take on that of Luigi. I don't know how many of you remember or even played the original “Super Mario Bros.” for Nintendo, but basically, the first player, Mario, would attempt to complete a level, and should he fail, Luigi (player 2) would step in and try to succeed. If the person playing Mario was good, it might be hours before Luigi could step in. And my brother was the best.

Normally, for children, this is a recipe for sheer chaos. Witnessing a magical new toy needing to be shared between two children has made stronger people lose faith in humanity. But for us, it worked. I remember my brother, completing level after level, and each time, offering me the controller. “Wanna try? Go on, take a turn” he'd say. And I would always respond the same way. “No. You're better. You go.”

You see, I took just as much joy watching my brother succeed as I did playing. And my brother, for his part, never took that for granted. He never assumed that it was his birthright to have the first crack at a difficult level. His successes were my successes, his failures were also mine. I knew he was better, and he never held that against me. He would humbly attempt to correct me.

With his friends, he was equally apt to share. And this time I was willing to oblige. His friends became my friends, and accepted me into their group. Andy, for whatever reason, wanted his little brother around. He never found me tiresome or annoying, at least not to my knowledge. And that is the marvelous thing about Andy. He is quick to share, slow to anger, patient, generous, and good at calculating tips at restaurants.

Andrew and Bailey, here we are at your wedding day, and this is an exciting time. In this moment we see the children that were, and the people they have become. We see the long, twisting path that has brought us to this moment, and briefly glimpse the direction it may lead, a future being whispered.

It is on this note that I want to bring up children, yours that are unborn. Baidrews I call them.. I want to say that I am tremendously terrified of them, of the Baidrews. Knowing the people that you are, I can only imagine your offspring to be the recipients of a razor sharp wit, capable of cutting you to pieces and leaving you in stitches. And when I will look into their smiling little faces, I just know they will be about to jab me with something.

I look forward to it. I can't speak for Deb, but I know my Mom is eager to make that transition to grandmother, which is nice. Although I think the business cards she's been having made with “Grandma” embossed on the front might be a bit premature.

But this is your wedding day, and I think I may be getting ahead of myself. And I want you to know I don't think of it as losing a brother. Rather, I see this as gaining a sister, who happens to have a 27 year old child that requires frequent naps, and prompting when he eats.

In all seriousness, Andy, I am so happy for you today, for both of you. And just as in that dark basement when we were trying to rescue the princess all those years ago, I am proud to be by your side, to have you as my big brother, cheering you on, always and ever.

To Andy!

Day 1

2009-11-02T14:44:00.000-05:00

The next morning we woke up at an appropriate time and opened the blinds to look out on a city blanketed in smog, with the distance of buildings gauged by the thickness of the haze obscuring it, like layers of wax paper. Moving downstairs, we quickly ate a very processed tasting breakfast beneath a sign asking us "Please don't eat to extravagance" before wandering out onto the streets. We were to meet with Tony later that morning, and with a few hours to kill, we were eager to venture out of our comfortable air-conditioned room and into the hot, sticky city beyond.

Outside the hotel, the sidewalks were bustling with people, mainly women, carrying opened umbrellas. The sun was shining down and heating the liquid air, and everywhere, there were umbrellas. I wondered if they knew something we didn't.

Another thing I noticed was the children. All the children that were around the age of three wore special pants that looked like they had been cut open around the crotch and the legs for what I correctly assumed was a simple waste management scheme. At first, I thought this was pretty gross. I mean, the chips are allowed to fall wherever they may, by which I mean they are FREE TO POOP ANYWHERE. As well, I doubted the cleanliness of such an option, as gravity's ever constant pull would simply cause things to fall in a direct line downward, landing successfully in the cuffed pant leg (yes, they left the pant leg CUFFED). But then consider our system from their eyes, wherein we have devised special plastic-y pants in which children are free to shit themselves to their hearts content, then spend the next while making a smudgey mess. So instead I put myself to wondering whether the pants were purchased this way, or made using a handy pair of scissors (or as they have in China, chopscissors). I never did find out...

We arrive back in the hotel to see a familiar face. No, not Tony's. But Tony's bodyguard, whom we met the night previous. With a few frantic gestures, he alerted to us that Tony had gone up to the room to meet us, and not finding us, was now on his down.

The elevator slowly drifted down, and the digital numbers displayed a strange countdown to our friends arrival. 5...4...3...2...1...tony.

We embraced quickly, and moved outside, where he had parked his fire-red Ferrari, and his bodyguard the Audi SUV. This was all very surreal, to say the least. Climbing in to the SUV, we went on our way to the mansion.

In a strange and distant land

2009-10-27T21:44:00.000-04:00

Far beneath the comfortably appointed cabin of the 747 jet, the lights of Hong Kong burn like fiery embers scattered over a dark and empty canvas. The plane begins to vibrate, the wings shaking, moving up and down and inspiring anything but confidence. The seatbelt light comes on, and you realize you probably should have gone pee...

Its always in these moments on a plane where my mind becomes contemplative, in both the landing and the take-off. In the landing, one anticipates the adventure awaited, staring out the tiny window and contemplating this new and foreign geography, trying to make out the people and cars that inhabit what is to be your new home for the next while. Stretching out below you, slowly coming into focus, is a place that up until this moment, existed only as ink on a page, a word or description in a book, in photographs, once imagined now realized. Now it is visceral, tangible, real. On take-off, the feeling is reversed, as one becomes pensive and withdrawn, reflecting on the events that has brought him or her to this moment, all that is being left behind, of friends and family, for good or ill. It is a heartbreak unlikely matched with a feeling of desperate adventure. But enough of this diatribe.

I'm going to lay it out in simple, honest terms, one that everyone can read and understand. 19 hour flights suck. After about hour 8, there suddenly ceases to be a comfortable position on those airplane seats. I could go on about the miseries of 21st century travel, but I will refrain, as I have already said enough on the subject in an ealier post.

But perhaps now, more of an introduction is required. So I shall begin.

This summer, I went to China. It was a hairbrained plan, uncomplicated by such things as an itinerary or sufficient funds. The plan was as follows:

My friend Brock and I decided that enough time had passed, and we needed to see our good friend Tony, who works and lives in China, and is, for lack of more persuasive words, f---ing rich (not that this in any way a motive for our reunion, nor is it an interesting element of Tony's character, although it is something that sets Tony apart, a canvas onto which his unique "Tony-ness" is spattered and globbed). So we book our tickets, receive our visas*, and hop on the plane. From here, it is simply a matter of spending 19 hours on planes, crossing countless timezones, entering three different countries, before ultimately landing in Hong Kong, where we were to meet some unknown employee from Tony's company, who will then take us into Communist China, wherein we will meet our friend from highschool, who is now a billionare, and we haven't seen in two years, at a club, drink some, then head to back to Tony's apartment, where, he was sorry to tell us, Brock and I would have to share a bed. Of course, we did not mind, and Brock and I both agreed that I would be the little spoon.

Of course, the best laid plans...

As it turns out, Tony was too drunk that night. His actual words were "I'm feeling sick", but we are keen and know Tony well enough to decipher this as code for 'drunk'. So we were sent to a hotel, where we amused ourselves by pointing out all the engrish and sleeping, because the next morning, we were going to be reunited with our friend.

*A note on the visas: The getting of the visas itself was something of an eventful occasion. While we were in the 'planning' stages (by this I mean phonecalls between Brock and myself wherein we would contemplate which endangered species we would be fed on the journey. I suspected we might get a taste of the world's last Bengal Tiger, which I imagined might need some hot sauce.), Brock and I had been in touch with Tony to ensure that our coming would not be troublesome, and attain assurance that we would have a place to stay while there. He informed us that we would be needing a visa to enter mainland China, but then, due to some technical reason, we stopped receiving messages from him. And without knowing exactly where he lived, we could not apply for visas. Without visas, we would be landing in Hong Kong, homeless, and shivering like a couple of shaved chihuahuas, and holding each other for warmth and security. Luckily, it did not come to this, as three days before departure, we got in contact with Tony, and got our visas.

Remembrance

2009-07-09T12:38:00.001-04:00

What can we say about a man like you? How do we sum up what you have meant to all of us? People will be talking about your legacy for years to come. Children will see your picture and wonder about what kind of man you were. How could one man do so much?

You were a dividing figure. One moment you were force for good. The next you came to represent the depravity of man. A fallen genius. Controversy surrounded you. Some called you a monster, though who can blame you. If ever there was anything monstrous in you, it was created by us, by our crushing expectations of you.

But we who loved you always suspected good intentions. Your later years were marked by your deterioration. Your last moments on earth were spent attempting to reconcile yourself.

And then you were gone. So quickly. So suddenly. And the world is poorer for it.

We love you, and we will miss you, Robert McNamara.

Robert Strange McNamara
June 9, 1916 - July 6, 2009

2009-03-30T09:48:00.000-04:00

An end to the silence...

2008-02-28T12:59:00.000-05:00

I write this now from my new residence in that cultural coif that is Montreal. I have been here for almost two months, and strangely enough, the time has flown. I came here seeking something to challenge me, and that I have found in spades. Academically, I am pleased to report that I am encountering success, and this bolsters me. The future is bright, but the present is dim. I will admit it has been far more difficult making friends here than I had anticipated, although I seem to be making a fair number of acquaintances. Ah well, enough of the whining. I am confident things will get better, and in the mean time I keep myself occupied with little things that make me happy, such as reading a good book, wandering, bird loathing, and hiding.

Now I am sure you have many questions, such as, "Why does it take you so long to update your blog?", or, "What have you been up to since we last saw you?", and, "What's the deal with people not flushing toilets in public restrooms? Do people just sit down, do their thing and leave, thinking that is all that is required of them? That they have completed their job, and can't be bothered to even use their foot to hit the flusher? Are we not living in a society?" The answer to all three of these queries-madness.

Recently I was in New York as well. Both the city and the state. Perhaps thats why I brought up the public restroom thing. I had to use the restroom/bathroom/toilet in the downstairs of the hotel in which we were staying, and that in itself was an experience. I heard one little girl warning her father, "Daddy, be careful, it is PU-BLIC", stressing both syllables equally in the word public. And indeed it was. Every square inch of real estate in the stall walls had been used up to provide the reader with hate-filled and vulgar diatribes. Certainly, these people were spewing shit from every orifice. The manner of its writing reminded me of early man, communicating using paintings on the walls of caves. I can't help but think evolution is going backwards.

Out Of The Blue, Into The Gray

2007-10-31T05:15:00.000-04:00

I've heard it said that in space, no one can hear you scream. Well, I was at 30,000 feet, and I can personally attest that it made no difference in the volume of the small baby seated next to me. Without hyperbole, it screamed 7 hours of the 9 and a half hour flight. Needless to say, sleep was as distant as the bed I left that morning. So, before landing, I did something I never do. I did it out of necessity. I'm landing in a foreign country, in one of the most populous cities, in one of the busiest airports in the world, and I was going to have to find my own way around it without any guide. So I had a coffee. It is not something that I will make habit. But I do suppose it suited it's purpose. I left the plane, followed the crowds and the signs, got some very helpful information at the tube ticket booth from a man with a 15 letter name consisting of about 98% consonants, and was on my way to my temporary home.

I must say I am very grateful to Jill and Adrian, the parents of a friend (Kaylee) I'd met on my travels through Costa Rica. They spared no expense in making sure I was well cared for and well fed. As well, Jill acted as a chauffeur for me, and drove me to and from various places I needed/wanted to go. She even helped me sort out a cellphone, which so far has been an invaluably tool. I spent the first number of nights there, recovering from jet lag and then a cold.

Sunday I spent the day in London. Unfortunately, that thick gray cloud into which I had descended just a few short days before had failed to dissipate. While, as a tourist this is regrettable, the mood and pallor of the place was probably a more realistic image of the city in its natural state, much as a visitor to Vancouver in July may get a view of the city as a very bright and summery type of place, having not experienced the 10 months of wet and darkness that hang over the city like a shroud. No, luckily for me, I was not burdened of having my memory seen through a golden-coloured lens on this day. It was, however, one day, and I have planned to spend more time in London before I head home.

So then on to Nottingham, staying again with fellow journeyers of Costa Rican range, the Sorsbys. Nottingham is perhaps most widely known for its connection with Robin Hood, whose terrorist acts of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor eventually led his deeds to be immortalized by the acting talents of Kevin Costner. While heralded by many as a hero, it was Mr. Hood's accountant who encouraged him to invest his money in something that would give better return, rather that freely doling it out amongst those with little to no education, and would likely piss it all away on the next peddler selling rancid mash and magic beans. But Robin Hood ignored the wise and kindly advice of his accountant, and carried on in much the same manner, eventually succumbing to dementia and gout, of which he died. History does not record what happened to the mysterious accountant however, as it is the lot of those who recommend sound judgement and fiscal management to die in obscurity, lost forever in the filing cabinet of history.

So now it is from Nottingham that I sign off.

Good Evening, Peppermint Children

2007-07-10T23:32:00.000-04:00

I know the first thing people do when they haven't written in their blog for an extended period of time is immediately point this fact out and then apologize to their readers. Do not worry. I will not do this.

As many of you no doubt know, I have returned home from my travels. I have seen and done much, the scope and magnitude of which is more expansive than this mere blog is able to contain. I have wandered/dabbled/sojourned/blundered, and dare I say, ambled throughout that greatest of isthmuses, Central America.

Upon returning from my journey, I faced still some challenges. I have been sick since my arrival home, with varying degrees of intensity. Another concern is that I have lost my wallet. My transportation, the lovable 1986 Toyota pick-up we lovingly refer to as "that piece of shit we drive", was not able to be tested for aircare due to a hole in it's exhaust, rendering it unable to be insured. I learned also that passports are not machine washable. On the plus side however, I did find my prodigal cell phone. It is now re-activated, and assuming its proper position in my right front pants pocket. It looks...awkward.

All in all, it is somewhat good to be home. Though I must admit, much of my time at work is spent daydreaming of better times.

Too much to say

2007-05-10T11:10:00.000-04:00

I've been really busy. I have little time or money to update the blog but will do when I can AKA when it isn't so nice outside. So if you want more info, contact my sister. She will have the answers. Now I will try to write some.

It's hot here. Very hot. But thats ok because most places here have a swimming pool/beach. Today I am going snorkeling. I am going to punch a stingray for Steve. So far I've met some very cool people. Seen some very amazing, and some very not amazing, places. For those of you who actually read this blog, thank you and I miss you. For those of you who don't, I will put you in a headlock. Thats right. A headlock. Like some jerk relative you haven't seen in a while and remembers you as a kid, and in an effort to appear youthful and still display his dominance over you, decides this is the appropriate physical response to seeing you. It is not cool and he goes to far. Why doesn't he try talking to you? Having a simple conversation? I mean, what is wrong with him!? Anyways, maybe I'll write more later. Maybe. If you're good. Maybe pictures too. We'll see...

A whole lot of nothing

2007-05-03T13:22:00.000-04:00

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Very. And it was long. Very.

We landed in Guatemala City, and I managed to get through customs in about 2 minutes. Now came the moment of truth. Did my backpack arrive with me, or was I doomed to wander Central America much lighter than anticipated? My prayers were answered when, through the rubber streamers, my backpack came, with all the straps and snaps facing upwards and looking reminiscent of a dead spider. I grabbed it quickly and made for the exit. There I found the driver hired to pick me up, holding sign that said ¨"Matt Glose¨". I figured that was close enough. He took me to Antigua. And here I remain. At least for a little while. Other than this, nothing exciting has happened. Nothing.

The Flight of the Instigator

2007-05-02T15:52:00.002-04:00

All good stories need a really good beginning. A plateau for their story to leap from, to achieve new literary heights of intrigue and interest. This story will have none of these things.

It begins on a plane, next to a Ukranian couple who keep nuzzling each other. It´s weird. Im at the very front of the plane, or as far forward as one can be when one is in the economy section. I briefly glance back and see a look of worry on the faces of the other passengers. I´m not a mind reader, but I think I know what is on their mind, for it is on my mind as well. I manage to get the flight attendants attention, and ask the question that I believe is on everyones mind, but in as polite a tone as one can. "Are there going to be any motherf---ing snakes on this motherf---ing plane?" I ask. SHe just smiles her patronising smile and shakes her head. This is going to be a long flight I think unhappily...

Out of the frying pan...

2007-05-02T15:37:00.000-04:00

I´m writing this in an internet cafe in Antigua. It´s very hot today. Milk was a bad choice.

In the last 5 days I have:
-Aided a friend with his wedding by decorating and participating in a rehearsal
-Been a groomsman in said wedding
-Smote not one, but two warlocks
-Moved out of my house of the last four months
-Succesfully pulled off a bank heist of epic proportions
-And flew to Central America, where I shall remain for another 49 days

This blog is by far the hardest thing I´ve had to do yet.

A Poem

2007-04-08T16:25:00.000-04:00

Apologies for brevity
This ticking clock it follows me
Look I at it with enmity
I haven't time at all

And here I stand atop this threshold
The path before me starts to unfold
its secrets and its stories untold
And then I start to fall

I sit here now with untrained mind
And start to think my brain is blind
What dangers am I sure to find
The road begins to call

Think I it ends 'neath reed and willow
In yonder creek bed with no pillow
And there it stops and never will go
It's there it hits a wall

And as I think of it a peace
Of unknown origin increase
My beating heart it's worries cease
I do not feel so small

I Know, I'm Kind of Disappointed Too...

2007-03-28T22:18:00.000-04:00

I WILL CRUSH YOU!

And now for something completely different...

2007-02-07T11:44:00.000-05:00

I love The Office, both the British and American version. The mockumentary style allows scenes to end with a blank look at the camera, facial twitch, sigh, or a revealing under-the-breath comment. This is a welcome change from the more formulaic sitcoms we are more used to seeing, which attempt to cue our emotions using laugh tracks (which include other audience noices, such as woops and hollering, and the dreaded, "Ooooooo") or pop-song hooks. Ricky Gervais is absolutely brilliant as David Brent. The problem I have with the British "Office" is the underlying message of hopelessness. Its a place where dreams, youth, and love slip away, and where once stood a vibrant youth with hopes and dreams now stands a pasty, overweight, and depressed person condemned to die alone, viewing their life in terms of "what could have been". The American one, while still touching on those very important themes which made the original British version so poignant, offers hope. In the final scene of an episode entitled Halloween, we see Regional Manager Michael Scott, sitting alone in his new condo, when the doorbell rings. Michael is immediately smiling and enthusiastically greeting a group of young trick-or-treaters, spilling candy in his eagerness. Who we are at work does not have to define us.

I was watching some deleted scenes of the American "Office", which are actually still quite funny, with my sister. Afterwards, she turned to me and said, "I don't think there wasn't one scene they shouldn't have left in". My head promptly exploded.

Take a long drive with me on California One

2007-02-02T22:56:00.000-05:00

I seem to catch myself pining a lot lately. It used to be that I yearned, but recently I switched. I remember reading somewhere that pining is better for you. I don't feel better. Which came first, the verb or the tree? These are thoughts that vex me.

Most appliances and tools in the kitchen would look pretty scary from the perspective of food. Thats why I think that I'd like to be lettuce. Sure, the knife isn't much fun, but then, not many foods escape the blade. However, the spinner looks like it might be fun. Plus, before it gets eaten, lettuce gets dressed. Bonus. What form of comestible would you be?

That is all. I hope I didn't take up too much of your time.

Pictures

2007-01-27T17:47:00.000-05:00

This is the house

Jericho Beach, 10 minute bike ride away

abra cadaver

2007-01-16T22:42:00.000-05:00

There's nothing quite like a really good jaywalk. Somebody who is so in tune with the flow of traffic that they can seamlessly move from walking on the sidewalk to crossing the street without changing their stride. It's very impressive. This is one reason why I admire the homeless. They have mastered the jaywalking ability. I always seem to misjudge the speed and distance of oncoming cars, and end up doing a back and forth dance before retreating back to the safety of the sidewalk. Also, the stairs in my house are really creaky. You have to be all kinds of ninja to walk them unheard.

Can't Sleep, Clown Will Eat Me

2007-01-10T17:18:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I think I'm too nice to people. It may be yet another of my many faults, like getting distracted easily. This chair is extremely uncomfortable. Also, lately I've been plagued by many a disturbing dream. This is made more unusual by the fact that I rarely dream. Everytime I tell people I don't dream, there's always someone too eager to explain to me that I do dream, but simply cannot remember the dream when I wake up. This may be an important fact for those learned folks studying sleeping behaviours and patterns, but to me, it is a moot point. So maybe I should clarify for those who disagree with the mootness. I will admit that it is possible if not probable that I do dream when I sleep, however, when I awake, those dream memories are erased, thus, I am robbed of the "dream experience", and am not impacted in any conscious way by it. But like I said earlier, lately I have been plagued by disturbing dreams. I have also come to the conclusion that, left to my own devices, I would probably become a recluse. This is a conclusion that my family tends to agree with. I'm not sure how I feel about all this...

2006 died quietly on Jan 1, at midnight, while everyone was out partying. And that's sad.

2007-01-02T20:39:00.000-05:00

New year, new post. 2007 has arrived, and brings with itself some changes. For me 2006 was a bit of letdown, so we'll have to wait and see how 2007 fares. This new year seems to be the year of weddings, as I know five people from my graduating class that are getting married this year. Also, most of 2007 overlaps with the Year of the Pig in the Chinese calendar (dates until February 17 are in the Year of the Dog). Just an observation. Alot of people think that the band Radiohead is really cool, but if somebody actually had a radio-head, that would not be cool, because they would not be able to live.

Let the Great Experiment Begin

2006-12-20T23:18:00.000-05:00

And so it has come to this. A blog. Why "blog"? It is such a gross word. Is this the best we could come up with? But I suppose it is too late now. "Blog" has seemingly permeated our society and its lexicon, and I am quite incapable of stopping it. And now, I too, am a proponent of blog culture. Another cog in the blogger machine. Perhaps "clog" would be a more appropriate term.