It seems that the wind is blowing once more. It whisps through the passages of the city, between the low houses in the west, up across the industrial smaug of etched ideas, through the wandering fragments of illusion that speckle the broken sidewalks traced through grassy fields turning green in the spring rain, and then drops anxiously into the high-rise jungle where it is absorbed by the angry masses hiding their fear of what might be coming. It seem that change, for better or worse, is once again fell in the western breeze. I think I may need a jacket soon.

May 31, 2004 after 3PM | city , walks | maybe more»

In the brash trend: there is something primal between the cracks in the sidewalk, smooth patches broken by regular grooves of shaped cement that rattle underfoot as we glaze by faster than intended by the city's engineers. Clip, clip, clip... at metronomic repetition, paced almost too quickly to count.

I bladed to work this morning, the sun shining at my back as I paced through the rough sidewalks and fragmented pathways that don't exactly lead where I need them to go. There are still too many rocks, too much, and too little experience with that thin layer of connection between the asphalt and the rounded, spinning edges of my wheels.

Speed is a factor in the city. Either one walks, drives, skates, cycles, trains, planes, or finds some means on conveyance: but speed is always a factor. Things get lost with speed. And even when we're sitting still, thinking that we are patiently letting the day pass us by, we truly are not. There is always speeding involved. Our minds are racing, our words are bolting, and our lives are spinning wildly, often beyond our means to control their every movement. In this way, some fractured and fragile way, bolting from place to place, from home to office, office to home, or from somewhere to nowhere and back, these are all symbolic of something larger.

I used to wonder what would happen if we were able to completely stop moving. I used to ponder if there was something odd that would happen if by some chance every spacial vector became zero: from the gentle swaying of our bodies in our chairs, our heads bobbing imperceptably from side to side, to the grand flux of ourselves, our cities, our planet, our massive orbit around a vast star cruising through a galaxy, itself tracing a path through the universe which may not be sitting still in whatever vast plane of existence shapes it's outer reality. What if we could cancel all those things out, and just stop?

What would happen?

Something interesting? Or would we be so busy trying to fling our frail little bodies in the right direction and at the right speed that we wouldn't notice that none of it was really worth it?

I suppose if I skate REALLY hard home...

May 26, 2004 after 9AM | city , fitness , thinking , weather | maybe more»

A central purpose of the city is to network. In a neo-modern trend-sense this might mean building interconnected relationships between people, linking individuals into synapse-like patterns of information and favour-passing nodes. In a traditional sense, the idea of a network represents the demodularization of task, spreading knowledge and function across an ever-branching spread of links. Given the loss of a single node or link, the large network would survive and continue because it would still be supported by those other still remaining participants.

The city is a vastened network. It is grand in it's simplicty, and marvelous in it's complexity.

One wonders what nodes one might be linked to, man, machine, or otherwise.

May 25, 2004 after 2PM | abstract , city , thinking | maybe more»

One would almost think that grilling, as a summer activity, should be simple and enjoyable. Building a fire in one's own space, sizzling raw foods to smokey, charred perfection in the confines of a small bite of open air, and savouring that sizzling smell wafting from an elegant steel barbeque should be something that is elegant and enjoyable.

But I suppose, like all activities that bring leisure, one must pass the rigours and trials that entitle one to such points.

Karin and I went BBQ shopping yesterday afternoon. Shortly after four-thirty we took the elevator to the basement, found our car, and ventured west to tour the stores where comfortable living and good prices meet. After a bit of driving, a bit of walking, and a lot of shopping we found ourselves passing a decision and waiting for the lad and his red shirt to bring us the big box with our new toy wrapped snuggly inside.

That's right: two-hundred and forty square inches of natural gas grilling power, packed in styrofoam and cardboard and sailing through the aisles of Canadian Tire to meet us and begin a grand adventure.

We paid, and then found ourselves with a little bit of a problem: The rather large and unweilding box, obeying the strict laws of physics, decided it didn't want to fit in our little car. What's Sunfire to do? Bel's trunk is only so big. Three teenagers, a few box-cutters, and a lot of grunting later and the pieces of the new BBQ were splayed out the parking lot around our car like so many failed games of Tetris. It was a sight, and oh, how I longed for my camera. First the grill in the back seat, then the stand. Then the grill in the front, and the stand in the trunk. Finally, Karin gripping fiercely to both the stand and the grill from the rear, while I drove, the blunt corner of the grill rammed painfully into my thigh. It was a sight.

We got the thing home, hauling it piecemeal up the elevator, and spread the disaster on the floor of our living room.

And then the assembly began. Nuts, bolts, washers, and little unexplained bits of metal and plastic: most all of them found their place in the grand ensemble that emerged on our patio in the evening light. It was fantastic. The grill was smooth and shiney. The polished black metal of the frame was elegant and bold. The knobs were spry and alive. The igniter, it's single battery cell clicked furiously waiting for the gas to flare the beast to life.

I attached the hose, pulled the end towards the supply line emerging from the wall of the building, and...

Now, I don't claim to be the smartest guy in the world, but it doesn't take a high IQ to recognize that it's pretty much impossibly stupid to try and fit a 3/8th inch gas coupler to a 1/2 inch supply valve. I mean, logically -- literally -- you're playing with fire. And most people, faced with this dilemma at eight o'clock on a holiday Monday evening would have sat back, regretfully put the steaks back in the fridge, and waited for a professional. Most people would have given up. But what fun is that?

Back in the car we went. And back to the Home Depot, where we hadn't bought the beast, but where we knew they would have an adequate supply of gas fittings, couplers, hoses, and tools -- and at least a vague knowledge of how NOT to blow ourselves to kingdom-come installing them.

It was well past nine when I wrenched one last time on the teflon coated connectors, pulling on the spanner with enough leverage to ensure that I didn't peel the metal to shards, but so that we wouldn't have a nasty visit from the gas-leak fairy. It was well past nine, when I finally lit the beast, it's grill roaring to life, heating, burning-in, and at last, cooking our dinner to medium-rare perfection. It was well past nine when I realized that barbequing my dinner tonight is going to be a heck of a lot easier than this little adventure.

May 25, 2004 after 11AM | food , life | maybe more»

Organic growth meets concrete and steel between the cracks of the city.

We planted boxes of small, helpless leafy organisms on our patio -- flowers, vegetables, herbs, and fruits -- their bundled roots twisting like hundreds of slender white worms through the dark brown soil. I bought thirty litres of dirt, soft and fresh, packed in a colourful plastic bag which we hauled up the elevator and out the sliding door. We ripped in, gorging on the peat with our bare hands as we scooped clumps into pots and trays smoothing it into the controlled spaces of our design. And then, poking wells into the organic mass with probing fingers, I plunged and packed the green and leafy masses bottom first into the spaces.

And now we wait.

Growth of something in a seemingly sterile environment. A space without life beyond that which I supply -- or that which finds it's way unwelcomed into the gaps I leave in my care.

I read a story once about a man who finds himself two hundred years into the future. Humanity has all but been wiped out, and what is left doesn't dare enter the city for lingering fear of the plague that destroyed their unlucky ancenstors. The man is shocked to find that the plants -- the tropicals, tomatoes, and violets -- have sprung to eccentricity, and unchecked, have filled the spaces left by humanity's absence.

If I left tomorrow -- however that might be -- would my mint, my strawberry, or my marigold go on to spawn countless generations of ever-mutating breeds, filling those spaces in the city that I left behind? Or would they dry up, wither, and die? It makes you wonder.

May 22, 2004 after 6PM | city , thinking , writing | maybe more»

It is a place of contrasts. Large. Vast.

Imagine a fold of individuality, stacked, squared, boxed, shuffled, linked, spun, and woven into a delicate hive.

Where once, perhaps, there was simplicity, lisps of light and dark organic matter stretched in ubiquitous harmony across a field of shapes and rolling hillsides of ancient foundations, there is now marvelous complexity. It is deep and daunting, holding promises of whimpering forces steady in their shrouds of layered dreams and haunting the eclipsed spaces of gaps between the fringes of what is real and what is not.

The city is exactly what it is. An organism of human invention, alive in ways that a brain could barely percieve, hanging between intellegence and function. As it ebbs and beats it's spirit along the fringes of our perceptions, stories leak from the rubbing gashes, rips, tears, and swollen breaks that would otherwise wash gently upon organic smoothness.

It is complexity that drives further complexity.

It is the city, itself, woven tighter and tighter, with ambient froths of power and life blending into coils of ever tighter loops and whorls, spinning and churning into something greater, that breeds upon itself. And one might wonder, etched in the rough and trailing fringes of these bleeding memes, where and when we might begin to feel the interaction of it all.

May 21, 2004 after 9PM | city , thinking , writing | maybe more»

What I'd really like to do is open this place up to creative thought. You know. To move away from the whole thread of reality that has spread like a bad haircut over the face of blogdom, now that would be nice.

Make that choice for yourself, of course. I'm just lacking in scope since recombining the fractured efforts of an attempted commentary of my literal life. I think I need to sway. Drift, as it were.

Thus, this feed becomes the garden: in that literal space, a place to cultivate ideas and random norms of ficticious environs. A play on words envelops the world, and I stretch into the original purpose of my digitalis: scope the memes and creative pathways stretching untapped from this source, and draw them into a universal dictum.

Wowsers!

In a vague sense I'm thinking of relationships: whose and whatsits. The foundation of any thoughtspace is a gap into the fragments of menial and structured relationships between ideas and people and things. It is a gripping thought, bringing something to nothing, connection to individual droplets of disinterest.

I was reflecting on a modestly old book about dragons. Something Pern-related actually. I was thinking about the mentorships and relationships between the universe and beings and between beings and other beings. It is deeply profound, really, that idea of symbiosis. And it resembled the embryonic shards of some idea I have been trying to convey.

Perhaps I will have more thoughts later.

May 21, 2004 after 1PM | abstract , meta , thinking , writing | maybe more»

I spent two hours last night in a nearby cafe, sipping green tea, my computer pried open on my lap. I was -- if I could be so bold as to say it -- writing.

Flipping through, and levelling might be a better descriptor.

And I'm torn. Where to go. Where to go back. Where to move on. And then what...

May 21, 2004 after 11AM | coffee , writing | maybe more»

And I wanted to write something of consequence...

All this babbling about this and that: it seems trivial right now, for some reason -- a reason I can't quite grasp. Sometimes it's important. Other times, not.

I think sometimes we fool ourselves into feeling more stability that we really have. Sometimes we need more than that illusion.

Everything is spinning, in a way, and I just want it to slow down so that I can enjoy it. Despite this, time lags, days draw out, and the world creeps along while I draw circles around the ticking hands of the clock.

And then what?

May 18, 2004 after 3PM | life , stress , thinking | maybe more»

...to start writing again. Here. There. Everywhere.

It seems settling in sends one signals. On some higher plane of existence -- some vague level of animal existence -- there is a hierarchy of space and mind. Food, shelter, safety: these all rank near the foundation of that preferential needs pyramid. Entertainment, stability, well-being: tucked neatly into the middle somewhere. Creation: well, it's the point at the top.

Take many animals for example. In zoos, they will not mate / reproduce / create offspring until they are well-fed, safe, and content that their world is secure and entertaining.

I think I can be the same way: with security looming on the horizon, time seems to be my only issue -- and I'm scoring that in leaps and bounds as I cut off my commute, cut off my laundry duty, and cut down on my dishes-chores.

That peak is in sight. I think I could almost start writing again: what? That's a different question.

May 14, 2004 after 2PM | life , writing | maybe more»

I was driving to work this morning pondering the idea that about half the cars travelling in the opposite direction were covered in a loose layer of snow. Haven't seen that in a while.

Last night, I wandered over to the video store where I had earlier spotted a cheap previously viewed copy of the Matrix Revolutions on DVD. I bought it, walked it home, unwrapped, openned, and plopped the disc into my computer to watch it on my widescreen laptop. Double-take. It was the wrong movie.

It may seem like a trivial point, but they had put a copy of Reloaded (as opposed to Revolutions) into the case (which clearly stated Revolutions on the outside and even inside pamphlet).

I took it back to the store, explained the error, and the girl told me to grab another copy and check it, promptly passing me off to another teller. She, in classic-stupid fashion, scolded me for opening up another two cases to discover the same sort of issue: right case, wrong movie.

Eventually, we found a copy that matched, I drove home a little frustrated, and we decided to look at some of the special features as opposed to staying up too late to watch the long feature.

So how is that, then?

At least Jess contributed to order of my life last night, picking up a healthy stack of moving boxes, and helping to reduce the bothersome clutter of our apartment.

May 13, 2004 after 8AM | movies , stress , weather | maybe more»

It's that monday thing again, the time when I sit back, put my feet up, and panic that I did nothing on the weekend but socialize and think about all the things I have yet to accomplish before I can say my life is complete.

I think, in some bizarre way, I'd rather it just spotted along, regular-like, and never mind all this onagain-offagain reality.

And then again, variation is good, too.

We drove grandma home last night, plunked her down in her house, installed her snoopy (don't ask) and drove away, waving, our temporarily clean car once again speckled by bits of dirt, salt, and highway-snow residue. It's like we live here again. Oh yeah. We do.

A stir-fry appeared on my plate last night. I think I went shopping for the ingredients, but the with the blur and the busy-ness, I'm not even sure. It was spicy. I have leftovers for lunch again. Leftovers! Do you know what that means? It means we have enough food in our house once again that I'm even forced to consume it at work.

My other adventure -- which I marginally do remember so hold onto your hats -- was the trip to Safeway to buy a light bulb. Yes. One of those experiences of settling: you finally sit down in a living room that isn't filled with boxes, on a couch that isn't cluttered with stuff, to watch a television that is actually plugged in and connected to other appliances, and -- voila -- no lightbulb in the lamp.

Hardly and emergency situation, I know, but rather that stare vacantly at Survivor (wherein they dragged out a story where everyone already knew dull ending) I wandered out the door, pondered the wonders of residential lighting in the brightly lit aisles of the local grocery store, and purchased a handful of various energy efficient bulbs.

It was an enlightening experience... pause... groan.

May 10, 2004 after 11AM | life | maybe more»

Jess mused poetic this morning on the arrival of summer, lurchingly marked by a waking frost and a bit of snow on the patchy spaces between everything. It reminded me of yet another reason for my own disposition to a new living locale: seasons.

I grew up with seasons. Four in fact. There was summer, of course, but also a definite autumn when the air got brisk and the leaves fell. Following close behind, winter made it's mark with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, wind-chill reports, and snow (oh, bless-ed snow!). And of course spring, leaves budding from the trees, the first robin pecking for worms in the lawn, and anticipation of a summer's worth of camping and hiking and reveling in wearing sandals everywhere, is a nice season, too.

Vancouver lacks seasons. Oh, I'm sure some would disagree, argue, present detailed evidence of vague changes in temperature. And I might even agree with that, adding the caveat that Vancouver seasons are just really, really subtle, the maximum temperature variation only thirty degrees celcius between winter and the peaks of summer.

It's always t-shirt weather there.

Here, as I remember the temperature swaying easily in the ninety degree spread, from minus forty-five in the deepest of January to positive something similar in the heights of summer, well, it's just more rewarding somehow. Being able to survive the vast climate variations is something amazing.

Ask me again in January, of course, but for now I'm relatively happy.

May 6, 2004 after 11AM | city , life , thinking , weather | maybe more»

It's stuff day. Apparently. According to the vague interpretations of those involved we may have delivery of our moving van this afternoon. This makes me happy, in a simplistic sort of emotion kind of way.

At the moment, however, I'm still thinking about where my virtual home is headed: simplicty or obscurity.

I'll be sure to inform or display. It's such a thing. Such. Whatever.

May 5, 2004 after 10AM | meta , stress | maybe more»

...and I'm never too sure where to start. I guess it would help to have a destination. With over seven hundred raw entries of pure bloggy goodness under my belt, you'd think I'd have this thing under control by now.

But no.

It's May One. I'm no longer a BC resident. I'm no longer lost in an unfamiliar city. (Missing one that grew on me perhaps.) And I'm not sure where I'm going here, yet. Here, as in Edmonton. Here, as in this webspace. I considered something more serious. I considered keeping it free. I considered... well, I considered a lot of things. But I think I'll let it decide for itself, and like my iPod, flip randomly as digitalis dictates.

So that's it. A first entry. This place will not look the same in a little while. It will change. Evolve. Grow to fit the space.

But I just wanted you to know that I was still here.

May 1, 2004 after 11AM | city , iPod , life , meta | maybe more»