down under

25112006
a sombre reflection on life. on the sadness of the world around us. i was walking around the city the other day. thinking about nothing in general. when i saw a poster. an art exhibit in the middle of the city. the earth from above. ah. i remember a friend had told me about this. as i stepped closer. a series of photos. aerial photos of the earth. beautiful photoes. no. photos. no e. but i digress. the world around us. from above. and how we are destroying it. how sad. but i walk away. nothing changes. then an article on airplanes. sent by a friend. by email. a while back. terrible pollution. released into the upper atmosphere. terrible for the environment. the solution? don't fly. don't travel so much. shit. can i give this up? no. the weight on my shoulders gets a little heavier, but i have a drink and shrug it off.

Opening orientation on the 51st voyage of the peaceboat

May 30, 2006
A tribute to Kumar - 51st Peaceboat GET co-ordinator and friend who followed his dream and sadly passed away in Kenya. Kumar Lewis

the more i have, the more i want to have less,

roundtheworldbybike.com

He's stopped crying. You have replaced him as it were. The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all. It is true the population has increased.

a pail full of concrete and he's sinking quickly...

The Death
Three months later the child with the inprobable head died. It happened on a quiet cloudy Monday afternoon. The mother, after setting the child down carefully in the crib, left to wash the dishes in the kitchen below. Upon washing the third dish the baby breathed its last. By the time she picked up the fourth dish, it was already dead. (This seemingly random fact would be one the tiny tiny mother would never know.)

Rest in peace. Perhaps someone can find beauty and reason for your three months.

The Birth
About twenty years ago, in this very city, a child was born. At twenty pounds and ten ounces, he was a rather difficult delivery. During which, there was an enduring scream that reverberated from deep in the mother's throat and hovered throughout the room like a restless ghost. When the child finally emerged, it too started crying. And so an unbroken chain of screams and cries poured from delivery room number 26 and spilt into the hallways.

I suppose most births have similar ominous beginings, For the child, where do the memories go? Forever tucked away? From the start we are taught to forget.

The attending nurse, herself a veteran of such deliveries, was rather surprised that such a large child could come from a such a teeny tiny mouse of a woman. So awestruck was she by the child's sheer size that she stared unblinkingly transfixed at the child. It was only after the doctor called her name thrice, each time louder and louder, that the hypnotic spell was broken.

The child cried. The child sucked its thumb. The child was generally icky, as most children are. In fact, it was ordinary in all respects except one. For this child had the head of a mule.

there's this body floating down the ganges river. he's halfway between life and death. but you wouldn't really suspect he's still alive, except for the occassional sputter. other than that, he floats down the river perfectly still.

12:37 and the only sound is the quiet whir of the computer fan. a haunting acapella version "only you" plays over the tiny computer speakers. at the same time a guy gets off a train some forty kilometers away and sighs, straightens out his tie and walks home. his footsteps the only distinguishable sound. he mutters something to himeself before he takes out his keys and walks into his door. brown. imposing. tall. it's all too cliche. everything. when he speaks to his wife, he knows what she'll say before she says it. why must it still be said? he wishes for and dreads the silence. the gawd awful silence.

“what a grotesque thing a rose is... E

Jack, all we ever talk about is shit. I mean, nothing we ever say ever means anything important. They're all stupid words said to make us feel better about the way we live our lives. You and I both know that the truth of the matter is we are all hypocrites in anything that we do that brings us happiness.

03/02/2004
the 12:05 train usually comes on time here. maybe one or two minutes late. but never three. three minutes late would lead to confusion and chaos. people would begin to doubt the time on their wrists. and once people begin to doubt time who knows what's next?

it's all gone to hell. two bullets to the body and one to the head. yeah, i did it. there's really no doubting that. a pound of steel hangs lifelessly from my hands. it's weight pulling me through the floor.
i kind of regret it now. the trigger on the gun turned out to be much lighter than i thought it would be. i hadn't fired a gun before and now i find myself standing in front a a dead man. an honest to goodness dead man. all i can remember is the blood. oh. the blood. oh god. the blood. some stains just can't be washed away with soap. lord knows i've tried. my jaw tightens as i my mind races from the present to the world that awaits me. sirens approach.

i sit up all night. i usually sleep just fine. in fact, i don't think i've ever had a case of insomnia. well, except for that couple of weeks ten years ago when a bullet lodged itself in my head after some failed robbery. damned amateur. he couldn't even hold his gun steady. the bullet bore a hole into my skull and clipped a nerve. some wiring must have gone bad.

but tonights a different story. hell, that bullet isn't even in my brain anymore. a ten hour operation took care of that. they pulled out the bullet and left a hole two inches deep inside my skull. buried somewhere in those two inches of (removed) nerves were memories of my childhood. god, i hope it wasn't anything important. no. tonight it's because of a few words. some fucked up utterance by a pot head. his words haunt me. i can't sleep because of them;

"wanting to save the world and wanting to destroy it are the same."

011604

"hello. can i help you?"

"yeah. you can give me ALL the money in the register."

"are you robbing the store?"

"what a shame. such silly last words." bang. bang, bang.

i heard a rumour that jesus never laughed... and i wonder if he was invited to a lot of dinner parties.

Small apartment flat in Shinjuku, Tokyo
9:17 am

He wakes up and looks around the bed. Shuffling to his feet, he puts on his red slippers and looks forward to his first meal of the day. Eggs, perhaps? Turning on the light blinds him momentarily. Feeling for the wall, his eyes are uncontrollably locked into a squint. The morning's first light is too much for him.

Jack is 37. Single, and has no idea what he is going to do today. He decided to quit his job two days ago. Just up and left when that last phone call was too much to deal with. Now, it's hard to think of a particular reason to get up - well, other than to feed himself. Pouring himself a bowl of sugary sweet cereal flakes into a white - almost brilliantly so - bowl, he considers his options for the day. Jill. I'll call Jill. She'll know what to do.

"Hello?"

"........ Jill? How have you been?"

"Who is this? Jack? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Umm... Shit. This is unexpected. I can't believe you still recognize my voice."

"Wow. It's been almost 10 years. What do you want?"

"Yeah.. it's been a while eh? Just wondering what you've been up to..."

"Look, umm... I've got a meeting to get to, but we'll talk later alright"

"Okay, bye."

9:25. Only 14 more hours to kill in the day. Jack starts clicking his fingers on the countertop and finishes his cereal in silence.

20:48
the quiet hummmmmmmmm from the refrigerator fills the air with sound. there'll be food for tomorrow. living another day won't be a problem. it hasn't been a problem for a long time I guess. living on the edge of hunger everyday. what is it like? what was it like? this computer in front of me. i type. it types. it beeps, i respond.

a small paper lamp in the corner of the tatami covered room casts a soft light on his face already illuminated by a computer. below him his neighbour sleeps, or eats, or is taking a shower - it really doesn't matter. the guy downstairs isn't part of the story right now. the events of the day slowly make their way through his head. only small vignettes and the pictures become frustratingly fuzzy when he thinks about them too much. the harder he tries, the less he remembers - the words of her T-shirt, the last words she said... does it matter that she said them if he doesn't remember? then memories from further in the past make their way through the haze - random in their randomness yet not random at all? and now is the time to put them in order though it will eventually prove futile.

3 weeks in hokkaido.. back soon.. my tired tired legs..

running through the streets he suddenly slips and falls.
Why am i here? By what twist of fate have i found myself flat on my back, on the road, gazing up into the night sky? it's all an endless loop of random happenings - some good, some bad, until it ends no more.
around the corner, a killer waits.

fish fish fish head head head. sakana, sakana, sakana, atama, atama, atama...

watashi wa kuruma desu yo.
What your car would say if it could speak japanese.

anata wa baka da yo!
What your car would say if it could speak japanese and didn't like you.

watashi wa sabishikute, purozaku (tm) ga hoshi desu
What your japanese car would say if it could visit a psychiatrist.

february 13, 2003
i think its time for you to go home now.
YOU CANT MEAN THAT.
until yesterday, the worst thing i did in my life was cheat on a biology exam.
...
real guns make me nervous.
i'm better with the candy bars.
JACK. WE CAN MAKE THIS WORK.
Thank you.
FOR WHAT?
For believing in me.

november 5, 2002
dear prime minister koizumi,
i am a big fan of yours. your rock star attitude and low key approach to everything makes for wonderful tv. i wish canada's prime minster was like you. but can you please smile more often?
sincerely,
MISSING THE LETTER R.

november 12, 2002
Dear MISSING-san,
Please do not write to Mr. Koizumi. Or if you do, please at least have the respect to capitalize the K in Mr. Koizumi's name. Your comment about the smiling will be taken under advisement. Good day.
From the office of the Prime Minister.

jim wasn`t a terribly concieted man. he just loved himself alot, and didn`t understand why everyone else didn`t see him the same way he saw himself. one day, jim ran across the street to the the corner store and was struck by a car. with his dying thought, jim wondered if the driver of the car hit him on purpose.

september 3, 2002

life in japan

June 6, 2002

8:16 pm on the sandy beaches of frazer island
a lowly tiger shark circles the dark waters of the island, carefully eyeing the birds floating on the water's surface

7:16 pm office building in downtown tokyo
salariman typing the final pages to a 400 page report on the potential of a million dollar american investment

11:16 am cafe in downtown paris
man in beret orders a cafe au lait and a croisant for breakfast

10:16 am at a stop light on rue Charles de Gaulle, Burkina Faso
in thirty plus degree temperatures, boy sells variety of goods to passing motorists. gum and tissues for 100 cfa

5:16 am on rue sainte catherine (just outside the doors to a late night strip club)
thirty something man stumbles out of club shouting obscenties to the bouncer

3:16 am bachelor pad in calgary
phone rings thirteen times as oblivious college student sleeps soundly on couch

2:16 am typical south vancouver household
boy sits in front of computer. wondering what the world is up to. making up stories about different places around the world

Chapter 1
Man and a woman work in an office tower in a metropolitan city. He is a young mid-thirty-ish, successful middle manager of some corporation. Comes dressed up in the latest designer double-breasted pin-striped black suit, with his loud "yellow" power tie. He is getting ready for the biggest meeting of his life. She is a young-ish (looks eighteen but really pushing her high twenties) and subtley attractive single woman who is working her first ever shift as the general lobby receptionist. She is wearing a grey business suit ensemble. Cherry red lipstick, eyeglasses and hair tied back to give the impression of a woman in control. He enters the building and notices the attractive new receptionist.
M: hey, how're you doing?
notices the handsome man in front of her and instinctively becomes self-conscious. musters out a reply but can't manage to stare at him for longer than a couple of seconds
F: umm. alright i guess. first day on the job.
he notices that her eyes are darting everytime she tries to catch a glace at him; he seizes the opportunity to flirt
M: good to hear. looking forward to seeing more of you.
he winks and she giggles and blushes a little.

buttons, knobs and dials - don't see too many knobs and dials these days.

FUN FOR A MONTH!
5'8", 125 lbs, relatively fit SAG seeking non-commital SF. enjoys books, movies and travelling - but not with other people. leaving in a couple months so ACT NOW! please send all inquiries to box 224. serious inquires only please!

04.22.2002
went to a concert downtown. struck a converstation in the waiting line with some korean guy who also came alone and who probably could have been me in an alternate universe. afterwards, waiting for the bus home, started chatting with this guy from france, who's been living here for a couple years. chat with him about why france is more fun than vancouver, why vancouver seems like a cold place to strangers, why money = freedom, and his plans to create yet another e-business (www.erobson.com). halfway through the bus ride, i meet up with an old highschool friend, and he and the french guy begin conversing in french. turns out my highschool friend is going on the same English teaching program as i am.

"Tomorrow let him love, who has never loved; he who has loved, let him love tomorrow."

the more you understand freedom, the less of it you have. john fowles

when it all comes down to it life either has meaning or is meaningless. it's that horrible in between that's the problem.

3:47 am. i love the night. the quietness. the calm. the peace. it's not normal. NORMAL people are asleep at this hour. this godforsaken hour. normal people with good jobs or school. it's the feeling that during the night anything is possible. that the normal rules of the day won't apply. stuffy and constrictive rules. instead we can say, do things that we might regret tommorow. that we WILL regret tommorow. but for the here and now of the night.

I got up. climbed out of bed. slid across the browned checkered floor. made my way to the bathroom. pulled out a the translucent toothbrush with my dentist's name scrawled on the handle and started brushing side to side. until i realized that it was better to make circular motions with the toothbrush. brush brush brush spit. sip some water from the tap. swish swish swish spit. douse my face in icy cold water and wipe it down with the towel behind the door. make my way into the kitchen. open up the refrigerator. eggs. milk. and some coldcuts in a 70's plastic tupperware-ish tub. close the fridge forgetting what i had wanted. open the cupboard and pick up a glass. fill it halfway and take a sip or two. toss the rest down the sink. look around the kitchen and out the window. walk to the kitchen window and turn on the radio. spin the dial looking for some talk radio.... ssssshhh... "... in the news today, more violence in the middle east..." ssssshhh...."... hit me baby, one more time..." sssshhh... "You're listening to CBC Radio..." perfect. walk back to the refrigerator. flip open the door and look inside. still the same. pull out the jug of freshly made orange juice. walk to the cupboard and pull out a cup and pop it on the table. pour some juice. sip sip. pour some more juice, spin around, flip open the refrigerator door and pop the jug back in. look at the clock above the window. 10 o'clock.

Knock knock.
who's there?
Bill
I don't want to talk to you Bill.
Jeez, open the bloody door!
Come back when you're sober.
I am sober. Will you just open the damn door?!
No.

A = B, B = C, therefore A = C? it's fundamental

No purchase necessary to participate - you can receive a card without making a purchase by submitting an original handwritten 50-word essay on "Why Shopping Is Good", a ___ sales associate must scratch the starburst and if "It's Free" appears, the prize awarded is a $1000 credit to your ___ card.

funkophobia: the fear of being funky.

2 am and i can't sleep. big splash versus little ripple.

Which are you drinking? The water or the wave?

on two kinds of laughter. to see the devil as the partisan of Evil and an angel as a warrior on the side of Good is to accept the demagogy of the angels. things are of course more complicated than that.
angels are partisans not of Good but of divine creation. the devil on the other hand, is the one who refuses to grant any rational meaning to that divinely created world.
dominion over the world, as we know, is divided between angels and devils. the good of the world however, implies not that the angels have the advantage over the devils (as i believed when i was a child) but that the powers of the two sides are nearly in equilibrium. if there were too much incontestable meaning in the world (the angels' power), man would succumb under its weight. if the world were to lose all its meaning (the devils' reign), we could not live either.
things deprived suddenly of their supposed meaning, of the place assigned to them in the so-called order of things (a moscow-trained marxist believing in horoscopes) make us laugh. in origin, laughter is thus of the devil's domain. it has something malicious about it (things suddenly turning out different from what they pretended to be), but to some extent also a beneficent relief (things are less weighty than they appeared to be, letting us live more freely, no longer oppressing us with their austre seriousness).

umph. turns out i did do the horizontal and vertical lines wrong. puck me. it works - but it could've been simpler.

well, i understand that some people are checking out the website again... you two people out there know who you are. i've learned to use the ftp function in dreamweaver and wholly-puck it makes life a lot easier...

time runs too quickly that we may never bask in the momment before it is over. are photos all we have? - 5 x 7 memories of shiny happy people in a time that vanished in a flash. etched are the good times or better. saddness and quarrels erased - leaving only sentiments and remnants of the good times. a twenty-four karat smile

where have you gone? what are you doing? i miss you alot. like something's been missing. i see your photo, i wonder if it wasn't? i don't know you anymore. you're the same but so very different. i turn the page there you are. i wish you were here. memories are all that we are.