Goodnight and Sweet Byzantine Dreams

2011-09-03T10:20:00.001-07:00

The whole Proust and nothing but the Proust.

Bird is the Word

2011-04-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

Harmonious pandemonium
Beaks squawking
A thousand wings flapping
Undulating waves of black
Navigating through seas
Of air

Spacetime Pillow

2010-11-13T10:45:00.000-08:00

The idea for this pillow came from the diagrams used to explain gravity and the curvature of spacetime. When you rest your head on this cosmic pillow, the indentation mirrors the effect of an object on spacetime.

Corporate smells?

2010-11-02T22:14:00.003-07:00

A few days ago I was thinking about how and why certain stores smell the way they do. A thought popped into my head: What if they (smelly stores) specially developed scents, perfumes if you will, that they use to scent their stores. Eau de Shoppers Drug Mart, anyone? Anyways, that thought led me to wonder what would happen if, in an effort to promote and increase customer loyalty, stores jumped on the celebrity perfume bandwagon. The result would be room sprays scented like each store. Are you a Starbucks fan? Spray Starbucks scent in your kitchen, brew up a pot of coffee or a latte (extra hot, skinny, no foam), and it's the closest you can be to a Starbucks without actually being in the store.

Lecture Hilarity

2008-10-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

I've often kept track of funny professor quotes. This year my 17th Century Philosophy class has kept me thoroughly amused. From our discussions on Descartes:

"You think you see your best friend Larry in the distance. Then you get closer and realize its not Larry...its not even a man." (On why the sense are unreliable)

"You can watch your profs eat pizza and dribble cheese down their shirts and elbow patched corduroy jackets." (on a meet-the-profs event)

"Name something is metaphysics that ISN'T wacky!"

Student: "Why does God cause evil?"
Prof: "Evil? What evil?"

Student 1: "The volcano erupting over Pompeii was a bad thing."
Student 2: "Was it? Look at how much fun we have going to Pompeii today!"

"The furniture of the mind...its getting crowded in my mind..."

"Thusly!..."

"Thats just the way we teach Hobbes. Asdfjlafei IM HOBBES Ajkfas;feinae"

"Like a chicken with lips...or a unicorn"

Unicorn vs Narwhal

2008-01-12T09:05:00.000-08:00

I'm voting for the narwhals.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6kNxf6axY4

New Favourite Site

2007-12-22T10:40:00.000-08:00

http://squid.us/

Dance, Dance Socialist Revolution

2007-11-23T16:17:00.000-08:00

In other news I discovered and then had to buy a first edition (City Lights, 1961) version of Kerouac's Book of Dreams at Pulp Fiction a few days ago. Yay Kerouac.

(And thanks to CJ Recording Device for the Soviet pic)

'Twas

2007-08-30T20:38:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night. Professor Mikhailovich hung his head in shame as he read that opening line. Had his Creative Writing students learned nothing?

2007-07-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

Just what IS a Bananafish?

Photos!

2007-07-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

www.flickr.com/photos/byzantine_dreams/

New York. The Big Apple.

2007-06-30T14:51:00.001-07:00

Russians in Brighton Beach. The matching shirts are a coincidence.

That big library

Dumpling Man, of course.

Cheap American Hamburgers? Not really, these are a European invention.

Brooklyn Navy Yard.

Vancouver. Urban Decay.

2007-06-14T18:12:00.000-07:00

Interview with a Tram Driver.

2007-03-30T23:53:00.000-07:00

Host:
We'd like to welcome the distinguished Rumpelstiltskin Rodrigues to the show tonight. [clapping].
Rumpelstiltskin is a tram driver. You've been driving trams for how many years, Rumpel? Can I call you Rumpel?

Rumpelstiltskin:
Yes, Rumpel is fine. My friends call me Stilts too. Anyways, I've been tram driving for 16 years now. I started out driving the Lombard street line in San Francisco. Now I drive the tour tram at the San Diego zoo.

Host:
A fine, fine profession. Being at the zoo everyday you must have a favourite animal? What's your favourite animal, Rumpel? The zebras? The giraffes?

Rumpelstiltskin:
The giraffes are always a hit with the tourists. I prefer the Tree Kangaroos and the birds of prey. The vicious, dangerous, malicious birds of prey.

Host:
Alrighty then. So tell us about falcons.

Rumpelstiltskin:
With falcons its all about the talons. How big are the talcons, how sharp they are, can they swoops down and pick up a medium sized animal with their talons...
Bats are pretty cool too. People don't realize how deadly bats can be. One wrong move and they've got you. They swoop down and -bam- you're missing an eye.

Host:
You like the bats?

Rumpelstiltskin:
Of course. I have a brother named Rebel. We were taught to be tough. Nothing's tougher than a stealthy, lethal bat. A bat with big fangs, two big fangs waiting for the perfect neck to bite...

[Commercial Break]

Following the Koala.

2007-03-24T09:36:00.000-07:00

What does it mean to follow the koala? If you choose to follow the koala he will lead you through ancient forests, through places that have never seen the sun. He will show you across unconquerable mountains and fields of undescribable beauty. Chances are you will cross a river, maybe two. You will dine at the lake-side and watch the sun set over unknown horizons. You will sleep in nature and awake to morning rain. You might be cold and tired, but the koala knows the journey must go on. You may think you are heading to a final destination. There is no destination, just little stops along the way. At each stop you will remember places past and marvel at the beauty and diversity of the world. Do not follow a human or venture out on your own, for humans are indecisive and care only about their personal wants. Some days you will be lazy, other days you will be overcome with personal ambition. You will linger too long in one place, or neglect to stop at others. The koala follows the intuition of nature. He does not waste time thinking "I wish..." or "If only...". He merely continues on his way.

...besides, who could resist something so cute?

Procrastination Option #1: Creative Writing.

2007-03-19T20:58:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Saturday nights at the Cosmic Cafe, the hottest joint in town. It's the place for old hippies and young lovers to gather together and toss back shots of sake and muse about life. The Cosmic Cafe is saturated with philosophy. You can see it on the walls, in the mini Buddhas sitting on the windowsills and you can hear it from the teenage poets who proclaim that God is dead and Nietzsche immortal.
The building is painted odd shades of blue and green because Vincent, the owner, saw it that way in a dream (although some claim it was an LSD trip). In addition to the windowsill Buddhas, an autographed portrait of John Lennon hangs on the wall over the coffee pot. Vincent says he bought the picture in 1979 after a meeting with John Lennon where he forgot to ask for an autograph. Portraits of Sartre and Beauvoir and a number of old Van Gogh prints are also tacked up around the cafe. They have faded in the sunlight and some are practically falling off the walls. This is not due to carelessness, Vincent has just never wanted to change the artwork. (Although, I remember one Christmas a Norman Rockwell found its way to the spot just above the door. It lasted there two weeks.)
Every Saturday night the Treble Jazz Trio provides devilish improvisations for Cosmic's patrons. An eclectic mix of regulars and unknowns will saunter in throughout the evening. Some sit in the shadows and tap their fingers while others dance the night away. The coffee and liquors are served strong. There is an law against smoking cigarettes inside the cafe, but pipes are welcome and arrive in abundance, so by the end of the night a cloud of tobacco smoke hangs in the air. One of the cafe's regulars is a police officer named Edward Jones. He arrived one night last year to enforce the province-wide smoking ban. He liked the place so much, he never really bothered to leave. I mean, he leaves the premises and all, but if you ever happen to meet him in the grocery store you'll notice a far-off look in his eyes. That look's not for some girl, but for the Cosmic Cafe.

Evening, and then Evening Again.

2007-03-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

It's nights like these, when the rain falls heavily, but the air is warm that I feel the most alone in this city. I am crazy to imagine that anyone will call me, or show up at my door. Not at this hour. I know how my night will go: too much coffee, too much T.V., all that time spent waiting. Waiting, while the night gets darker and the street lamps go out (because they do that when I'm around) and then I'll sleep and wake to the soggy, glistening city and there will be crowds of unseeing faces gathered on the street corners. But tonight, just this night, I will pretend I am the only one left in this maze of concrete and glass.

The blossoms seem to have emerged over night. There is a new, sweet fragrance in the air. I walked down to the beach not three hours ago. It was low tide and everything was fresh and new, an ancient space reborn in the sunset's glow. At the beach a solitary man sat on a rock with a scruffy dog scampering about his feet. He sang, his gentle tenor voice weaving its way around the rocks and out to the bay. His song was for nature. I only caught a few words, but I heard him mention my soul.

But now it's nighttime again. Tonight there is no rain and the fading smell of the blossoms still lingers in the air. This should be a time for silence, but the refrigerator is practicing its monotone hymn and I can hear the neighbor's coffee pot gurgling on the other side of the wall. Outside cars, trucks and buses zip by, unaware of the world beyond their destinations. Would anyone dare consider the solitary occupant of apartment 302?

There is a rose standing in a vase at the corner of the glass table. It was a gift from a friend, a reminder that maybe I am not the only one left in the world tonight. But for now it is good that no friend is here. I have used up my words on myself and would have nothing left to say. Memories provide a different kind of company, one that doesn't depend on words...or appearances.

Nederlands

2007-02-13T23:55:00.000-08:00

Me, Dutch?
Nah, who would think such a silly thing?

(Me in Grade 12. Back in the day. *Sigh*)

Haiku

2007-02-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

Yes, I assure you-
This will not be a Haiku,
These three lines of verse.

Canadian Nobility

2007-01-27T11:55:00.000-08:00

Sometime in the far away past in Russia, namely the 1700s, Peter the Great instigated a lovely Excel chart-like document called the Table of Ranks. This table told you of what noble status you were. And because Peter was all about rights and equality (ahem) it was possible to move up and down in rank. Therefore a lowly copyist (except Akaky of course) could aspire to become a Lieutenant, while a drunken General could end up a drunk without the “General”.

Now that we have had a brief history lesson you are prepared to hear the news I have for you. And that is that our faithful leader Stephen Harper has decided to reinstate the Table of Ranks. After a nasty referendum in which not one, but two blond-haired women who vaguely resembled Belinda Stronach crossed over to the other side (To the Liberals, not the afterlife, although they might be the same thing, the jury's still out on that one. An answer is expected next Election.), the idea of Canadian nobility was given the go-ahead.

The new table was unveiled today at the old FLQ headquarters in Quebec, which Harper justified with a vague comment about national unity and Quebec not being a nation. Harper was also quick to point out that the final product of the Table of Ranks was not what he had originally intended. Running a minority government is tough work, apparently. The NDP and Green Party would not allow the 18th century version of the Table to pass – mostly due to a lack of a Canadian military to fill the upper ranks and too many lower civil servants to fill the lower ranks. Thus, after much debate, which was sponsored by Tim Horton's, a final Table was made. It is as follows in an environmentally friendly manner (note the original document has been printed on 100% organic, biodegradable, twice recycled soy toilet paper, courtesy of a yoga teacher from Kitsilano. Harper's response is said to have been “What's yoga?” but this cannot be confirmed and thus we must ask you to disregard the unreliable piece of information. Lifespan of the paper is estimated at 5 years max):

2007 Canadian Table of Ranks

1. East Coast Fishermen.
2. Tim Horton's Employees.
3. Canadian Hockey Players.
Much Music Vjs
Canadian Idol Contestants.
Vancouver Transit Bus Drivers.
Anyone who can sing the lyrics to “Four Strong Winds”.
8. Jim Carry.

Josina goes adventuring.

2006-11-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

It was a rainy Friday afternoon when I realized it: this city that was once mythical, distant and incomprehensible, had become mundane. Nothing shocked me anymore. I was neither overcome by its size nor intrigued by its diversity. Long ago I was possessed by this city, but this changed and I was the one possessing the city. I wanted the city to possess me again, to be awed by its chaotic alleyways and enchanted by its rain-soaked gutters.

I set out at 5am, the time when "Miller Street" reads like "Killer Street" and the people on the street, bundled up against the cold, yawn and stagger off to their destinations to prepare the city for its awakening. This time is always precious to me. I watch the stars and wonder how many light years old the light I see is. That is the mystery. Not the stars themselves, but the vastness of it all.

6am on the bus. I select a seat away from the other passengers. It's just me and the sunrise and the open road. The chain link gate sways open, metal hits metal, and we are off. As we drive further and further from the city each light calls out, "don't forget me" and slowly, quietly recedes into the darkness.

First stop, Bellingham. There is snow here. A light dusting deliactely pauses on the tree branches. I am no longer alone on my trip. I acquired a traveling buddy who will be my companion until I reach Tacoma. Next stop: Everett, the Station Master's desperate call to America. "Last call for Spokane. Last call for Idaho. Last call, last call." Then Seattle, a city of history I was too young to be a part of. Seattle, the city I am always just "passing through". Perhaps someday I will stay longer, but I today I keep on moving.

What oddities there are to find in Tacoma. I think it started with the name. "Tacoma". It is harsh, unpoetic. Walking down a long, quiet street above a series of factories and dirty concrete lots I find myself walking behind a rather decent looking gentleman. We strike a contrast to the crowd of worn out youth huddling in the cold outside the boarded up Nativity House. I want to talk to someone, but my fears get the better of me. I can't work up the courage to say to my street companion, "Excuse me, did you know there is a knife sticking out of your back pocket?" He apparently doesn't care and asks if I am having a good day to which I smile and nod and increase my pace.

Or, down the street, the angry prostitute in black mini shorts and a puffy black winter jacket, her hair cheaply dyed and teased up in an 80s hair style. A 'bling' wearing pimp in baggy jeans harasses her on the street. They bicker like small children. Like brother and sister. She does not afford herself the luxury of regret, only contempt. Contempt not for them, because she is more powerful than they are, but for the chilly walls of this cold city has built around her - for the abandoned brick buildings that were once symbols of prestige and now are a display of poverty and desolation.

My traveling partner and I had parted ways when I arrived in Tacoma. Now my solo journey through the desolate Tacoma streets is over. Waiting once again at the Greyhound stop an angry thrift store lady preaches parables to the crowd. The other passengers slink away, afraid to acknowledge her aimless ranting. And an army print kid stands in the shooting gallery with a cross on his back. We are afraid of each other. Afraid of the gun-carrying grandmother, of the sympathetic gang member, of the pregnant teenage mother.

Back in Seattle and still alone I wait silently in the crowd, then venture outside with my camera to capture the Seattle night. The rain is thick and icy. Snow is on its way. And soon enough the rain drops turn to weightless white orbs. The Christmas lights hanging on the trees illuminate each powdery flake. The city seems to quiet down as the snow starts falling. The busyness is subdued and the city yawns. I wish to stay longer, but the wish is not granted.

Back at the bus stop, I find my place in line. Beside me is a grey-haired yuppie. When asked for his passport he pulls out some carelessly folded sheets of white paper. "For political asylum." He says. I want to support him, to say, "Yes! Run away from this corrupted nation." But there I was, a tourist who had more than willingly jumped on a bus for the South. I kept silent and borded the bus. The yuppie never made it on.

2006-11-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

Kasabian - club foot