I went to a website and took some of the author's advice: use a neutral density filter and take 1/2 second exposures to create motion blurs that enhance the sense of movement. Sadly, I didn't use a manual white balance setting so the brightness varies a lot. Live and learn. I think this one is a lot better than the first (see below).
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Point-counterpoint across the millenia
Quoted on a pro-gun website:
It's also the reason we have streets.
"Civilized people are taught by logic, barbarians by necessity, communities by tradition; and the lesson is inculcated even in wild beasts by nature itself. They learn that they have to defend their own bodies and persons and lives from violence of any and every kind by all the means within their power." -- Marcus Tullius Cicero...And, of course, the best of those means within our power is civilized discourse. It's the reason that, unlike barbarians and wild beasts, we aren't obliged to rip each other to shreds whenever we come face to face on the street.
It's also the reason we have streets.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Artsy-fartsy video time
This is the kind of college-crap project I would have LIKED to have done... if the technology had existed when I was in college 15 years ago. :) Photos by me; music by a friend of mine tapping a marble pillar in the lobby of my building (yes... I'm serious).
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A lament for spring
I had to do a lot of driving over the last few days, it being Christmas and all, and I decided it would be a lark to put my S80 on the tripod riding shotgun and video the journeys. On the way, Justine by Indochine started playing on the CD, and it all just struck me as being a kind of dirge for the lost warm weather that's still so far away. Anyway, turned it all into a kind of kicky video that I think is fun to watch. Have a boo...
Monday, December 24, 2007
Open-air Baroque concert on the lake shore
In mid-August 2006, P-Doug suggested going down to the lake shore to take in a free, open-air concert of Baroque music by a quartet of players from across North America. It was a pleasant hour or two, and I captured a few minutes of it with my camera. Some of what I thought were the highlights I stitched together here... this runs about eight minutes. Hope you enjoy. :)
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Maybe you can go home again
This morning I had a dream about going back to a place I went for years as a child to be looked after while my parents worked. When I got there, the family was gone, and their house was a library, filled with the myriad books I remember there. I enquired after the family and learned that the woman who'd looked after me had passed away, and that saddened me deeply. But her daughter and adopted son, who'd been like older siblings to me, were still in town and I got leads on tracking them down. I spent some time in the library, going through the old rooms and remembering what had once gone on there, all the living and learning and growing. For the most part, it was a happy, hopeful dream. Oddly realistic; I woke up almost believing it was so.
Sandford Farmhouse, Mississauga
About a year ago I went out to an old farmhouse in central Mississauga to photograph it. Standing near what is now the intersection of Eglinton Avenue and Mavis Road, it had been abandoned for around twenty years, and someone had set the place on fire... perhaps someone who wants to develop the property. For years, there's been a lot of yapping about restoring the place as one of Mississauga's heritage properties, but bugger-all's been done to restore it, even when that seemed likely.
Well, after I took those pictures last winter, another fire was set last March. I was at loose ends in Mississauga yesterday, so I thought I'd go and see the place for myself. There's virtually nothing left to salvage now, so I would imagine that, before long, this once proud monument to Peel's agricultural heritage will be no more.
Well, after I took those pictures last winter, another fire was set last March. I was at loose ends in Mississauga yesterday, so I thought I'd go and see the place for myself. There's virtually nothing left to salvage now, so I would imagine that, before long, this once proud monument to Peel's agricultural heritage will be no more.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Weird dreams for everyone!
Okay, I had this strange one this morning. I was in this older suburban neighbourhood, and there was a dog living in a tree. Not like up in the branches, but a big hollow cavity in the trunk, like some kind of snack stand, you know. And part of the opening was glazed… someone had put a pane of glass in it. The dog could get out above and below it, and lived inside the space with a squirrel. The dog came out and joined us on a walk. Didn't belong to anyone, but was accepted as member of the community and the people kind of looked out for him. Or her.
…Okay, it's not exactly War and Peace, but it was delightfully weird. And more like the kind of dreams I had when I was a kid, that were more about my yearnings than my fears. A welcome change.
…Okay, it's not exactly War and Peace, but it was delightfully weird. And more like the kind of dreams I had when I was a kid, that were more about my yearnings than my fears. A welcome change.
Humber in winter
There's not much to tell, but you know I'm gonna anyhow. :)
Bassmentbeats on Flickr suggested I might want to check out the old bridge over the Humber on what once was Major Mackenzie Drive (or whatever it was called before then). It's a small one-lane bow arch bridge, bypassed some time ago by a new sweep of the road that, oddly, makes Major Mac discontinuous at Hwy 27, when it had been more or less continuous before.
We had a huge snowfall this weekend that caused me to cancel other plans. But I knew I was okay till at least Saturday afternoon, so I decided to head out there Saturday morning. It seemed likely it was a good prospect for wide angle shots, so I put the 18-55 lens on the XT and then the 0.4x modifier on that. I also brought the S80 and S70. I knew I'd want to track the trip, so I emailed myself to remember to turn on the PhotoTrackr, and I did.
I headed west about 9, I think. 401, 427, off at Hwy 7, then up Hwy 27. The PhotoTrackr route shows the little detour I made by turning one street too soon before Hwy 27. It's getting pretty built-up around there now.
When I got to the street, now called Humber Bridge Trail, it was surprising in a number of ways. First was how narrow it is. It was so tight, I wondered if I might be blocking people just by parking on it. Second was how short it was. You could walk the entire length in less than three minutes, I'd say. From the bridge, you can still see traffic going by on Hwy 27. But most surprising of all, just the other side of the bridge, the road ends at the foot of a steep drop-off from the heights into the valley. Looking at GoogleMaps, I'd never anticipated that. Just looked like a flat area of overgrowth where the road must have once been. The drop is so sharp, I'm hard-pressed to imagine where the road up the rise ever was. Obviously, there must have been one, or they never would have built the bridge there in the first place. Maps I've seen suggest it was probably south of the bridge, but looking at GoogleMaps, I'm still flummoxed trying to imagine where exactly it was or how it descended.
According to info I found online from York Region, the bridge was built in 1914, so it's closing in on a hundred years old. And it shows. Some of the concrete cladding has entirely fallen away, and rusty iron rebar is exposed like the bones of flesh torn off an arm... that's the image it evoked in me. If a bridge were alive, how this one would be suffering. The by-law — and the signs on the bridge confirm this — limit the weight of vehicle traffic to 5 tonnes. Probably the only reason the bridge is still open to vehicle traffic at all is that there is one, count it, one home on the other side, cut off from the rest of the world without that bridge.
And so the photography began. I took any number of shots with all three cameras, many of them pairs to be welded into 3D images later. When I got done, later on, mining them for good shots, I was surprised now often the ones I found really striking were the infrared ones. I only brought the S70 along as an afterthought, since I generally discount the use of infrared photography once the trees are bare. It's good to keep in mind.
After a few minutes I followed a path into a field on the northeast side upriver to get the bridge in context (and I needed to take a leak). By this time, my hands were freezing (hey, ever try to shoot with gloves?) and I was losing feeling in them. So I went back to the car to warm up and plan. I also wanted to shoot back the other way within my car in the shots, so I drove across the bridge, got my hands pink again, and left the car running while I completed some shots facing west. It was what it was, and I headed home in anticipation of the storm that arrived that evening.
In retrospect, it's surprising to me just how many abandoned bridges exist, or have remnants, on the Humber. I might be wrong, but it seems above average for the rivers I know well.
Bassmentbeats on Flickr suggested I might want to check out the old bridge over the Humber on what once was Major Mackenzie Drive (or whatever it was called before then). It's a small one-lane bow arch bridge, bypassed some time ago by a new sweep of the road that, oddly, makes Major Mac discontinuous at Hwy 27, when it had been more or less continuous before.
We had a huge snowfall this weekend that caused me to cancel other plans. But I knew I was okay till at least Saturday afternoon, so I decided to head out there Saturday morning. It seemed likely it was a good prospect for wide angle shots, so I put the 18-55 lens on the XT and then the 0.4x modifier on that. I also brought the S80 and S70. I knew I'd want to track the trip, so I emailed myself to remember to turn on the PhotoTrackr, and I did.
I headed west about 9, I think. 401, 427, off at Hwy 7, then up Hwy 27. The PhotoTrackr route shows the little detour I made by turning one street too soon before Hwy 27. It's getting pretty built-up around there now.
When I got to the street, now called Humber Bridge Trail, it was surprising in a number of ways. First was how narrow it is. It was so tight, I wondered if I might be blocking people just by parking on it. Second was how short it was. You could walk the entire length in less than three minutes, I'd say. From the bridge, you can still see traffic going by on Hwy 27. But most surprising of all, just the other side of the bridge, the road ends at the foot of a steep drop-off from the heights into the valley. Looking at GoogleMaps, I'd never anticipated that. Just looked like a flat area of overgrowth where the road must have once been. The drop is so sharp, I'm hard-pressed to imagine where the road up the rise ever was. Obviously, there must have been one, or they never would have built the bridge there in the first place. Maps I've seen suggest it was probably south of the bridge, but looking at GoogleMaps, I'm still flummoxed trying to imagine where exactly it was or how it descended.
According to info I found online from York Region, the bridge was built in 1914, so it's closing in on a hundred years old. And it shows. Some of the concrete cladding has entirely fallen away, and rusty iron rebar is exposed like the bones of flesh torn off an arm... that's the image it evoked in me. If a bridge were alive, how this one would be suffering. The by-law — and the signs on the bridge confirm this — limit the weight of vehicle traffic to 5 tonnes. Probably the only reason the bridge is still open to vehicle traffic at all is that there is one, count it, one home on the other side, cut off from the rest of the world without that bridge.
And so the photography began. I took any number of shots with all three cameras, many of them pairs to be welded into 3D images later. When I got done, later on, mining them for good shots, I was surprised now often the ones I found really striking were the infrared ones. I only brought the S70 along as an afterthought, since I generally discount the use of infrared photography once the trees are bare. It's good to keep in mind.
After a few minutes I followed a path into a field on the northeast side upriver to get the bridge in context (and I needed to take a leak). By this time, my hands were freezing (hey, ever try to shoot with gloves?) and I was losing feeling in them. So I went back to the car to warm up and plan. I also wanted to shoot back the other way within my car in the shots, so I drove across the bridge, got my hands pink again, and left the car running while I completed some shots facing west. It was what it was, and I headed home in anticipation of the storm that arrived that evening.
In retrospect, it's surprising to me just how many abandoned bridges exist, or have remnants, on the Humber. I might be wrong, but it seems above average for the rivers I know well.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Photoshop nerd panic
Ten, eleven years ago now, I used to work in an electronic education company, animating characters in a primitive marriage of Adobe Photoshop (version 3.05 at the time) and Macromedia Director 4.0. One of the animators I worked with, a guy from down east named Neil (nicknamed "Slo-Mo" for his habit of animating characters with an excruciating series of in-betweens that slowed the sequence down like the Six Million Dollar Man running "fast") was an absolute wizard with Photoshop keyboard shortcuts. One that I never gleaned and always envied was his deft ability to instantly dart between one layer and another, just by quickly pounding the keyboard. Well, I finally learned the shortcut. To go up, it's Alt+]. To go down, it's Alt+[.
I don't think you care, but I do... I wanna be able to look this up when I forget. :D
I don't think you care, but I do... I wanna be able to look this up when I forget. :D
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
No Country for Old Men
SPOILER ALERT I will be revealing details of the movie No Country for Old Men in this review, since it will be around a long time after the movie is on the shelves at Blockbuster. If you haven't it, and going in fresh is important to you, please don't read this review.
**********
I saw No Country for Old Men yesterday. It really wasn't what I expected. Hollywood usually spins tales of bad guy does bad thing and good guy sets universe right.
This isn't that kind of movie.
Bad things happen in this movie. Really bad things. Some of them for understandable reasons, but many not. In that alone, it's a disquieting movie. Set in 1980, at its heart, it's a movie about four men. Three of them think they're smart and give their adversaries due respect. The scary thing is, they are. To a "t". And yet each one is defeated by the fourth, because his methods are utterly overwhelming. It's a frightening idea that you can make all the right moves and still lose.
Pursuit movies usually start with the One Big Mistake. Oddly enough, it's not the one that it appears to be. When Josh Brolin's character Llewellyn Moss comes across a massacre in the Texas desert, a drug deal gone wrong, and takes off with the two million dollars, effectively, he's scott-free. Later on, it's demonstrated that there's a tracking device in the case, but the odds of anyone successfully discovering it just by roaming up and down Texas are remote. No, Moss's big mistake is going back, apparently to give water to the dying man he confronted at the scene. When he arrives, the man is dead, and others are waiting. His truck and its various registration information will ultimately be his undoing, and that of a half dozen others, directly and indirectly.
Tommy Lee Jones is Sheriff Bell. Bell is the narrator as the movie opens, so indications are he'll come out on top. He's a man nearing retirement who's seen the society he understood and served erode away, leaving just the ugliness beneath the civility; the kind of man who pines, openly, for the days when a sheriff could maintain order without a gun, by sheer force of personality and the weight of civilization at his back. Bell sees in the escapade one last chance to defend the right, protecting a man (with whom he as only a passing acquaintance) from himself and the force he has unleashed. But events are always just ahead of him... sometimes by moments, or inches.
Woody Harrelson appears, although fairly briefly, as Carson Wells, an obvious closer used by the mob. His fate is perhaps the most distressing of any of the principal characters, because he goes in fully aware of the capacities of the man he's opposing, and is of no small ability himself, and yet he still falls prey.
The perfect storm on legs with which all these men are dealing is Javier Bardem’s Anton Chigurn, a guy who looks deceptively like a beefed-up Emo Phillips. This is a man who seems to need to kill the way other people need to eat, and any person will do; a man who has honed murder to a hobby with his preferred method a skull-busting pneumatic hole-punch attached to a high pressure air tank. Hired to recover the two million from Moss, Chigurn goes rogue and sets out on his own course, for his own ends. Chigurn does not emerge from the movie unscathed, but he does emerge, after having (apparently) killed Moss's wife simply on a point of principle, long after he has killed Moss and, presumably, recovered the money. Like a child destroyed in the fire he started, even the men who first dispatched Chigurn on his mission are ultimately his victims, punished for the lack of faith betrayed in sending out Carson Wells.
Likewise, Sheriff Bell emerges alive, but not unscathed, though his wounds are psychological rather than physical. Bell has the skills to track down and confront Chigurn, but never the timing. Even at the end, in a heart-stopping moment of anticipation when it seems everything will now come to a head and justice will prevail, Chigurn manages to silently slip away, unconfronted and unseen, denying Bell even martyrdom. Chigrun gets away with it, all of it, leaving behind him dead bodies, corrupt and innocent alike, and Bell in an anticlimactic retirement of brooding regret and distracted preoccupation from which he will likely never emerge; possessor of a full career boiled down to a bitter residue of failure. Worst of all, he's not surprised and seemed to see it coming, in spite of all his best efforts. There's portent in his closing remarks, made to his wife in the wake of dreams, but I'm at a loss to identify of what, exactly. It will take repeated viewings, I think, for me to really get my head around it. It's an excellent movie, if a deeply unhappy one.
**********
I saw No Country for Old Men yesterday. It really wasn't what I expected. Hollywood usually spins tales of bad guy does bad thing and good guy sets universe right.
This isn't that kind of movie.
Bad things happen in this movie. Really bad things. Some of them for understandable reasons, but many not. In that alone, it's a disquieting movie. Set in 1980, at its heart, it's a movie about four men. Three of them think they're smart and give their adversaries due respect. The scary thing is, they are. To a "t". And yet each one is defeated by the fourth, because his methods are utterly overwhelming. It's a frightening idea that you can make all the right moves and still lose.
Pursuit movies usually start with the One Big Mistake. Oddly enough, it's not the one that it appears to be. When Josh Brolin's character Llewellyn Moss comes across a massacre in the Texas desert, a drug deal gone wrong, and takes off with the two million dollars, effectively, he's scott-free. Later on, it's demonstrated that there's a tracking device in the case, but the odds of anyone successfully discovering it just by roaming up and down Texas are remote. No, Moss's big mistake is going back, apparently to give water to the dying man he confronted at the scene. When he arrives, the man is dead, and others are waiting. His truck and its various registration information will ultimately be his undoing, and that of a half dozen others, directly and indirectly.
Tommy Lee Jones is Sheriff Bell. Bell is the narrator as the movie opens, so indications are he'll come out on top. He's a man nearing retirement who's seen the society he understood and served erode away, leaving just the ugliness beneath the civility; the kind of man who pines, openly, for the days when a sheriff could maintain order without a gun, by sheer force of personality and the weight of civilization at his back. Bell sees in the escapade one last chance to defend the right, protecting a man (with whom he as only a passing acquaintance) from himself and the force he has unleashed. But events are always just ahead of him... sometimes by moments, or inches.
Woody Harrelson appears, although fairly briefly, as Carson Wells, an obvious closer used by the mob. His fate is perhaps the most distressing of any of the principal characters, because he goes in fully aware of the capacities of the man he's opposing, and is of no small ability himself, and yet he still falls prey.
The perfect storm on legs with which all these men are dealing is Javier Bardem’s Anton Chigurn, a guy who looks deceptively like a beefed-up Emo Phillips. This is a man who seems to need to kill the way other people need to eat, and any person will do; a man who has honed murder to a hobby with his preferred method a skull-busting pneumatic hole-punch attached to a high pressure air tank. Hired to recover the two million from Moss, Chigurn goes rogue and sets out on his own course, for his own ends. Chigurn does not emerge from the movie unscathed, but he does emerge, after having (apparently) killed Moss's wife simply on a point of principle, long after he has killed Moss and, presumably, recovered the money. Like a child destroyed in the fire he started, even the men who first dispatched Chigurn on his mission are ultimately his victims, punished for the lack of faith betrayed in sending out Carson Wells.
Likewise, Sheriff Bell emerges alive, but not unscathed, though his wounds are psychological rather than physical. Bell has the skills to track down and confront Chigurn, but never the timing. Even at the end, in a heart-stopping moment of anticipation when it seems everything will now come to a head and justice will prevail, Chigurn manages to silently slip away, unconfronted and unseen, denying Bell even martyrdom. Chigrun gets away with it, all of it, leaving behind him dead bodies, corrupt and innocent alike, and Bell in an anticlimactic retirement of brooding regret and distracted preoccupation from which he will likely never emerge; possessor of a full career boiled down to a bitter residue of failure. Worst of all, he's not surprised and seemed to see it coming, in spite of all his best efforts. There's portent in his closing remarks, made to his wife in the wake of dreams, but I'm at a loss to identify of what, exactly. It will take repeated viewings, I think, for me to really get my head around it. It's an excellent movie, if a deeply unhappy one.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
On US war resisters
On Thursday, December 6th, the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration passed the following motion:
That the Committee recommend that the government immediately implement a program to allow conscientious objectors and their immediate family members (partners and dependents), who have refused or left military service related to a war not sanctioned by the United Nations and do not have a criminal record, to apply for permanent resident status and remain in Canada; and that the government should immediately cease any removal or deportation actions that may have already commenced against such individuals.The vote was 7:4 in favour. It should be noted that noted that no Tory voted for the motion; no non-Tory voted against it.
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Champions
In relation to my order for René Lévesque's memoirs, I got thinking about a series I remember from my high school days, produced by the NFB and CBC (and broadcast by the latter) in the mid-80s. The series was collectively titled The Champions, and chronicles the parallel rises of René Lévesque and Pierre Trudeau and their clashes in the 70s and 80s. I found them in the catalog of the Toronto Public Library, so I now have them on request. It's been years, probably since the early 90s, since I've seen the series, running about three and a half hours, and I'm really looking forward to watching it again.
Part one is called Unlikely Warriors, and tells the story of these two men up to 1967, when Lévesque, who'd been a provincial minister in the Quebec Lesage government, split to form the Parti Québecois, and when Trudeau joined the federal Liberal cabinet under Mike Pearson.
Part two is called Trappings of Power, and tells the story of Trudeau's early years as prime minister (including the October Crisis), and Lévesque's rise to premier in Quebec, and the lead-up to the referendum. Since these first two parts were completed in 1978, they leave the question of result of the 1980 referendum hanging. I can barely remember those times, but I do recall the gloom of those days, constitutionally. Not the best time ever to be Canadian.
Part three, The Final Battle, was completed in 1986, in the wake of each of these men leaving power. It tells the story of the referendum struggle and the subsequent patriation of the Constitution from Britain, something that still causes us headaches today. What I recall from this part is the poignant footage accompanying Trudeau's "walk in the snow" at the end of February, 1984, the night before he announced his resignation from office.
Since the broadcast of this series, each man has passed on. Their legacy remains and affects our lives to this day, and far into the future. I would strongly recommend this series to anyone who wants a better understanding of the constitutional eggshells upon which we tread so very lightly in this ongoing experiment in tolerance and cohabitability we call Canada.
Part one is called Unlikely Warriors, and tells the story of these two men up to 1967, when Lévesque, who'd been a provincial minister in the Quebec Lesage government, split to form the Parti Québecois, and when Trudeau joined the federal Liberal cabinet under Mike Pearson.
Part two is called Trappings of Power, and tells the story of Trudeau's early years as prime minister (including the October Crisis), and Lévesque's rise to premier in Quebec, and the lead-up to the referendum. Since these first two parts were completed in 1978, they leave the question of result of the 1980 referendum hanging. I can barely remember those times, but I do recall the gloom of those days, constitutionally. Not the best time ever to be Canadian.
Part three, The Final Battle, was completed in 1986, in the wake of each of these men leaving power. It tells the story of the referendum struggle and the subsequent patriation of the Constitution from Britain, something that still causes us headaches today. What I recall from this part is the poignant footage accompanying Trudeau's "walk in the snow" at the end of February, 1984, the night before he announced his resignation from office.
Since the broadcast of this series, each man has passed on. Their legacy remains and affects our lives to this day, and far into the future. I would strongly recommend this series to anyone who wants a better understanding of the constitutional eggshells upon which we tread so very lightly in this ongoing experiment in tolerance and cohabitability we call Canada.
Qu'est-ce que vous pensez?
I think it was my post a few days ago about the census with regard to Quebec that got me thinking about separatists again, and more specifically of René Lévesque. In spite of his goals, I always kind of admired him and I could never bring myself to really dislike him. There was just something about him that made it impossible, for me at least. But I started wondering, what was it that brought him to the personal realization that Canada didn't work for Quebec, that it needed to be separate? And what kind of an insight would knowing that answer give me into the hearts of minds of separatists generally? So I thought, well, he must have written his memoirs... and indeed he did, published just before he died. They've been translated into English, and so I went looking for them and found a decently-priced copy on Amazon.ca and ordered it. I'm really looking forward to reading it, and perhaps remarking on it here.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Everything old is new again
So I'm sitting here watching CBC News this afternoon and Industry Minister Jim Prentice is on right now talking about a new government agency to oversee foreign takeovers of Canadian firms and disallow them if they're not in the national interest. Ooo, let's all pat the Tories on the back, huh?
Uhhhh, yeah. I liked it fine the first time when it was called FIRA, the Foreign Investment Review Agency, created by the Grits under Trudeau... and then guillotined by the Tories under Mulroney.
Uhhhh, yeah. I liked it fine the first time when it was called FIRA, the Foreign Investment Review Agency, created by the Grits under Trudeau... and then guillotined by the Tories under Mulroney.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
The law isn't "a ass", it's a bully
The case of Robert Latimer must be the all-time Gordian knot of Canadian jurisprudence. I feel now pretty much the same way I felt ten years ago when he was on trial. What he did was wrong, but understandable. I felt that the jury and the judge in that trial reached the correct balance. Robert Latimer was guilty of the murder of his disabled daughter, Tracy, by poisoning her with carbon monoxide. He contended that he did it out of compassion, because Tracy's pain stemming from cerebral palsy was unceasing, and all she had to look forward to was operation after operation throughout a tortured life. The judge and jury all understood and accepted his claim, and he was sentenced to one year in minimum security and a year of house arrest. To me, this was an act of tough mercy very much in keeping with Latimer's own for his daughter. It sent the message that society could not condone one person taking it upon himself to take the life of another, but also accepted that this was not a crime of passion or hatred or utter disregard for others... it was anything but.
Understandably, the champions of the rights of the disabled were alarmed at the ruling, fearing it might encourage similar cases. They miss the point. Robert Latimer knew he was risking prison. But his love for his daughter and urge to end her suffering trumped that. It's hard to imagine any sentence in a supposedly compassionate society that would have dissuaded him.
The case was appealed and eventually went to the Supreme Court, where they overturned the sentence and applied the maximum in that case: life imprisonment. The Court said at the time it issued the ruling in denunciation of the act. The Court ignored that fact that the people of Canada, in the persons of the jurors, had already done so, to the extent that they, the people of Canada, saw fit. The Court was wrong, grasping, in its hammer-and-tong application of the letter of the law over the spirit, as expressed in Latimer's 1997 trial.
The parole board that heard and denied Latimer's plea for day release has committed the very same error as the Supreme Court in effect, and yet, this time, in denial of the law. Their mandate is to decide if Latimer represents a threat to society, not to weigh his conscience. He is a human being in a free country, and has the right to his own opinions with regard to his own actions. We all do. The parole board decided instead to play Orwellian games with this man who has himself suffered so much, and returned him to Room 101 until he will admit, against all personal logic, that 2+2=5 because Big Brother would have it so.
The Supreme Court and the parole board have between them short circuited the will of the Canadian people (as evidenced by today's Globe and Mail poll, running 86% opposed to the board's decision), and have performed a disservice to Canada that, in my opinion, brings the administration of justice into disrepute.
Understandably, the champions of the rights of the disabled were alarmed at the ruling, fearing it might encourage similar cases. They miss the point. Robert Latimer knew he was risking prison. But his love for his daughter and urge to end her suffering trumped that. It's hard to imagine any sentence in a supposedly compassionate society that would have dissuaded him.
The case was appealed and eventually went to the Supreme Court, where they overturned the sentence and applied the maximum in that case: life imprisonment. The Court said at the time it issued the ruling in denunciation of the act. The Court ignored that fact that the people of Canada, in the persons of the jurors, had already done so, to the extent that they, the people of Canada, saw fit. The Court was wrong, grasping, in its hammer-and-tong application of the letter of the law over the spirit, as expressed in Latimer's 1997 trial.
The parole board that heard and denied Latimer's plea for day release has committed the very same error as the Supreme Court in effect, and yet, this time, in denial of the law. Their mandate is to decide if Latimer represents a threat to society, not to weigh his conscience. He is a human being in a free country, and has the right to his own opinions with regard to his own actions. We all do. The parole board decided instead to play Orwellian games with this man who has himself suffered so much, and returned him to Room 101 until he will admit, against all personal logic, that 2+2=5 because Big Brother would have it so.
The Supreme Court and the parole board have between them short circuited the will of the Canadian people (as evidenced by today's Globe and Mail poll, running 86% opposed to the board's decision), and have performed a disservice to Canada that, in my opinion, brings the administration of justice into disrepute.
Isn't it incredible?
I'd like to think I'm not that old yet. I'm 39. ...Wow, that's old. Really seems like I was 26 just a couple years ago, but I wasn't. Just feels like it. Oh, Christ, anyway...
Anyway! When I was 26, I bought my first AT computer, a 486 DX-66. That was October, 1994. I don't remember anymore precisely how big its hard drive was, but I think it was in the neighbourhood of 450 MB, or just over that. Seemed big then, but even at the time, I was bottoming it out in six months and having to decide what to keep and what to throw away. Today I carry around a USB memory pen with more storage, 512 MB, just for schlepping stuff around.
It was sometime in late 1998 when I bought my first 1GB drive. It cost something close to $300 and was pretty cutting edge at the time. Now I have a chip for my S80 that holds 4GB and cost me about $80 last summer.
I now have a computer with three internal drives. Between them, they hold around 800 GB. The main drive, C, I keep almost exclusively for the OS and the program files, though I have been storing downloads there. D is some kind of dinky utility drive carved out of C by the manufacturer; it's basically the computer's appendix as far as I'm concerned. F (320 GB) is where I've mostly been storing all my digital photos, and using it to temporarily house the files needed to back up DVDs. E (250 GB) was mostly the briefcase file to back up the photographs on F.
Well, I ran out of space on E to back up all my new photos and video captures. Can you believe that? Over 500 times the capacity of my first HDD, just dedicated to that. Obviously, that also meant I was nearly the limits of F. Incredibly, I needed more space. So, yesterday, I bought an external USB drive, 500 GB... yeah, over a thousand times the volume of my first drive; and it was only $140 or so. Took three hours last night, but I transferred all my photos to it. Takes up half the space on the drive, so there's still room to grow... for another year or so.
I deleted the originals off F, and instead created a briefcase there to back up M (the new external drive... the other letters are assigned to the two DVD drives and the built-in card readers. I think the days of A and B drives are behind us, though). So, I think that frees up E to be the catch-all. The ripped files, the downloads, the various things that collect in "My Documents" but don't really fit there... stuff like that.
It is amazing, though, isn't it?
Anyway! When I was 26, I bought my first AT computer, a 486 DX-66. That was October, 1994. I don't remember anymore precisely how big its hard drive was, but I think it was in the neighbourhood of 450 MB, or just over that. Seemed big then, but even at the time, I was bottoming it out in six months and having to decide what to keep and what to throw away. Today I carry around a USB memory pen with more storage, 512 MB, just for schlepping stuff around.
It was sometime in late 1998 when I bought my first 1GB drive. It cost something close to $300 and was pretty cutting edge at the time. Now I have a chip for my S80 that holds 4GB and cost me about $80 last summer.
I now have a computer with three internal drives. Between them, they hold around 800 GB. The main drive, C, I keep almost exclusively for the OS and the program files, though I have been storing downloads there. D is some kind of dinky utility drive carved out of C by the manufacturer; it's basically the computer's appendix as far as I'm concerned. F (320 GB) is where I've mostly been storing all my digital photos, and using it to temporarily house the files needed to back up DVDs. E (250 GB) was mostly the briefcase file to back up the photographs on F.
Well, I ran out of space on E to back up all my new photos and video captures. Can you believe that? Over 500 times the capacity of my first HDD, just dedicated to that. Obviously, that also meant I was nearly the limits of F. Incredibly, I needed more space. So, yesterday, I bought an external USB drive, 500 GB... yeah, over a thousand times the volume of my first drive; and it was only $140 or so. Took three hours last night, but I transferred all my photos to it. Takes up half the space on the drive, so there's still room to grow... for another year or so.
I deleted the originals off F, and instead created a briefcase there to back up M (the new external drive... the other letters are assigned to the two DVD drives and the built-in card readers. I think the days of A and B drives are behind us, though). So, I think that frees up E to be the catch-all. The ripped files, the downloads, the various things that collect in "My Documents" but don't really fit there... stuff like that.
It is amazing, though, isn't it?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Me, me and my stone...
I don't want to give you the impression I'm a boozehound, but I'll cop to this much: there are days when I like come home and just settle into a buzz while I watch something stupid and familiar. There are weekends where I have nothing much going on and I like to blow off the afternoons the same way. And when I do, my liquor of choice for the last few years has been rum... the darker the better (ironically enough, one of the ones I used to dote on is clear as vodka... the buttery-flavoured and ironically named Black Stripe... but the LCBO delisted it).
For a long time, my favouite was Black Seal, which hails from Bermuda. But every so often I'd try something new, and a guess a couple of years ago I stumbled onto one from India, of all places, called Old Monk. I find it extremely agreeable; mingling flavours that, to me, are reminiscent of vanilla and raisins, with a little bit of spice. If I were to be honest, I'd have to admit that Old Monk has edged out Black Seal as my favourite.
A couple of weeks ago I went looking for a bottle. There was supposed to be some at one of the outlets near me, but when I got there, there was none. I decided to try a different rum. Won't name it, but I didn't like it overmuch. But every time I checked the stocks online, they seemed to be locked in place... only a handful of stores in the province had it, and even then, the numbers never changed.
Well, I found out why a couple of days ago. Apparently, glass particles have been found in some bottles, and the LCBO hauled Old Monk off the shelves. They say it's a factor of the bottling process, so hopefully it's something that can be addressed. But it sounds to me like it's going to be a while before I taste my favourite rum again. Ah, well. The waiting will make the first taste all the sweeter.
----------------------------
Recipe:
The Cuba Libre
Recipe: 2 oz Rum 3/4 oz Lime Juice 5 oz Cola
Preparation: Put lime juice and a twist of lime into highball glass. Add rum and fill with cola.
For a long time, my favouite was Black Seal, which hails from Bermuda. But every so often I'd try something new, and a guess a couple of years ago I stumbled onto one from India, of all places, called Old Monk. I find it extremely agreeable; mingling flavours that, to me, are reminiscent of vanilla and raisins, with a little bit of spice. If I were to be honest, I'd have to admit that Old Monk has edged out Black Seal as my favourite.
A couple of weeks ago I went looking for a bottle. There was supposed to be some at one of the outlets near me, but when I got there, there was none. I decided to try a different rum. Won't name it, but I didn't like it overmuch. But every time I checked the stocks online, they seemed to be locked in place... only a handful of stores in the province had it, and even then, the numbers never changed.
Well, I found out why a couple of days ago. Apparently, glass particles have been found in some bottles, and the LCBO hauled Old Monk off the shelves. They say it's a factor of the bottling process, so hopefully it's something that can be addressed. But it sounds to me like it's going to be a while before I taste my favourite rum again. Ah, well. The waiting will make the first taste all the sweeter.
----------------------------
Recipe:
The Cuba Libre
Recipe: 2 oz Rum 3/4 oz Lime Juice 5 oz Cola
Preparation: Put lime juice and a twist of lime into highball glass. Add rum and fill with cola.
Hall of Mirrors
I heard on the CBC this morning that for the first time since the 1930s, the percentage of mother-tongue francophones in Quebec has dropped below 80%. This is according to the 2006 census. It's true; I just checked the numbers at Statcan and if you don't figure in the 70-some thousand who gave their mother-tongue as French and something else, then the figure comes in at right around 79%. (By the way... according to the same table, the mother-tongue percentage of English speakers right here in Ontario is only 68.4%.)
Naturally, someone in the course of the story cried that this was the signal for independence for Quebec. What isn't? The numbers of francophones are down, so the language and culture are under threat, so Quebec must separate! If the numbers had been up, that would mean Quebec was self-assured and could go it alone, so Quebec must separate! Too much rain? A lot of sunny days? Long hair, going bald, need a boob job? Separate! Blah blah blah. Anything to break the ties to "others" and wallow in the xenophobic Hall of Mirrors they wish Quebec could be.
I don't know what the answer is to the declining numbers of francophones in Canada. Maybe there isn't one. Frankly, I don't think independence is really the answer, because it doesn't change a damn thing about the realities of Quebec, which are: it's embedded in North America, 5.5 million francophones in a sea of 300 million anglophones. Separating from Canada won't change that. The reality is that there are simply more opportunities, in North America and around the world, to live and especially work in English than in French. I would like to see "the French Fact in America", as they've called themselves, continue into the distant future; part of my own roots lie in that soil, and that blood is in my veins too. But sooner or later Quebec's going to have to come to peace with where it is in the world. I'm not saying, by any means, that they ought to abandon French or cease to promote its use at home and in the workplace; I understand the need for that and I support it. But if 500 years from now everyone in Quebec is speaking English, or Mandarin, then so be it. That's how people then will want things; it'll be as natural to them as this is to us. I don't vastly lament the loss of Gaelic in my own heritage... I'm proud to be of that stock, but times moved on, and I have a different set of symbols with which to express myself. If French is meant to survive in North America, it certainly will, because people will use it because they want to use it, they love to use it, and because it makes sense to use it. Not because someone closes the border or sticks a legislative gun in their face.
Quebec, sit back. Love your language. Love your culture. Be who you are, here, now, today, and enjoy it. That's the surest way of all to influence the character of your posterity. Impoverishing them geographically, economically, and symbolically will be doing them no favour at all.
Naturally, someone in the course of the story cried that this was the signal for independence for Quebec. What isn't? The numbers of francophones are down, so the language and culture are under threat, so Quebec must separate! If the numbers had been up, that would mean Quebec was self-assured and could go it alone, so Quebec must separate! Too much rain? A lot of sunny days? Long hair, going bald, need a boob job? Separate! Blah blah blah. Anything to break the ties to "others" and wallow in the xenophobic Hall of Mirrors they wish Quebec could be.
I don't know what the answer is to the declining numbers of francophones in Canada. Maybe there isn't one. Frankly, I don't think independence is really the answer, because it doesn't change a damn thing about the realities of Quebec, which are: it's embedded in North America, 5.5 million francophones in a sea of 300 million anglophones. Separating from Canada won't change that. The reality is that there are simply more opportunities, in North America and around the world, to live and especially work in English than in French. I would like to see "the French Fact in America", as they've called themselves, continue into the distant future; part of my own roots lie in that soil, and that blood is in my veins too. But sooner or later Quebec's going to have to come to peace with where it is in the world. I'm not saying, by any means, that they ought to abandon French or cease to promote its use at home and in the workplace; I understand the need for that and I support it. But if 500 years from now everyone in Quebec is speaking English, or Mandarin, then so be it. That's how people then will want things; it'll be as natural to them as this is to us. I don't vastly lament the loss of Gaelic in my own heritage... I'm proud to be of that stock, but times moved on, and I have a different set of symbols with which to express myself. If French is meant to survive in North America, it certainly will, because people will use it because they want to use it, they love to use it, and because it makes sense to use it. Not because someone closes the border or sticks a legislative gun in their face.
Quebec, sit back. Love your language. Love your culture. Be who you are, here, now, today, and enjoy it. That's the surest way of all to influence the character of your posterity. Impoverishing them geographically, economically, and symbolically will be doing them no favour at all.
More weird dreams :)
Last couple of days I've had three dreams that I can remember. Here's what I can recall...
This morning's dream was about places I know well that looked different from what I remember. It was December, but unseasonably warm, so I was in the jean jacket, peddle pushers, and sandals again. I was going to my old university library. I remember there was a collection tray for some charity at the bottom of some stairs (that have nothing to do with the library where I went to university), and people were dropping loonies and other change in. I dug in deep, hauled up a big fistful of change and dumped it in. I went up the stairs, looked around in the stacks for a while.
Afterwards, I took my DSLR out with the 300 mm lens because I could shoot off Bayview Avenue bridge down to the old one (which is actually not a bad idea; I should give that a try). Then I decided to get both bridges in the shot, so I pulled back to the heights of the university (oddly enough, York University does have a campus in the vicinity, but I went to university nowhere near there, and not at York anyway). I set up the shot and noticed there were all kinds of kids, dressed for winter, lining up and falling over backwards off the bridge and the bank into the water. It was like some kind of weird "polar bears" thing, except with heavy clothes on. They were having a blast, waving to people taking pictures, and falling in again and again. I think the idea was to get in the papers or something.
...Yesterday, the first dream I had was about catching a mouse in some small apartment above a storefront. The mouse tried to bite me and get away but I held on. It turned out the mouse could talk, but in a voice that was believable for a mouse. I talked the mouse into being a pet, since I could assure him a soft option in life. I remember a long conversation but I don't remember its nature. He was afraid of my cats but I assured him they weren't hunters and were no threat. I have the impression that near the end, the mouse was discontented with it all and wanted his old life back.
The second dream was about coming home to some well-appointed home, and finding a homeless man had broken in and was asleep on a settee near the door. I woke him up and told him to leave, but he wouldn't. I threatened him with outside assistance, and I picked up the phone and called my dad, who worked for many years as a security guard, and loudly asked him what I should do. He gave me a phone number with three numbers, two more numbers, and two letters. I asked what the letters were for and he said they were a security device so that not just anyone would be able to dial that number. Uh, yeah, okay, whatever... made sense in the dream. Well, both I and the homeless man knew that if I dialed that number, I meant business, so, cowed, he left as I ended the conversation with my dad.
And there you go. A lot of significance with not much sound and little fury, but a whole lot of nothing. :D
This morning's dream was about places I know well that looked different from what I remember. It was December, but unseasonably warm, so I was in the jean jacket, peddle pushers, and sandals again. I was going to my old university library. I remember there was a collection tray for some charity at the bottom of some stairs (that have nothing to do with the library where I went to university), and people were dropping loonies and other change in. I dug in deep, hauled up a big fistful of change and dumped it in. I went up the stairs, looked around in the stacks for a while.
Afterwards, I took my DSLR out with the 300 mm lens because I could shoot off Bayview Avenue bridge down to the old one (which is actually not a bad idea; I should give that a try). Then I decided to get both bridges in the shot, so I pulled back to the heights of the university (oddly enough, York University does have a campus in the vicinity, but I went to university nowhere near there, and not at York anyway). I set up the shot and noticed there were all kinds of kids, dressed for winter, lining up and falling over backwards off the bridge and the bank into the water. It was like some kind of weird "polar bears" thing, except with heavy clothes on. They were having a blast, waving to people taking pictures, and falling in again and again. I think the idea was to get in the papers or something.
...Yesterday, the first dream I had was about catching a mouse in some small apartment above a storefront. The mouse tried to bite me and get away but I held on. It turned out the mouse could talk, but in a voice that was believable for a mouse. I talked the mouse into being a pet, since I could assure him a soft option in life. I remember a long conversation but I don't remember its nature. He was afraid of my cats but I assured him they weren't hunters and were no threat. I have the impression that near the end, the mouse was discontented with it all and wanted his old life back.
The second dream was about coming home to some well-appointed home, and finding a homeless man had broken in and was asleep on a settee near the door. I woke him up and told him to leave, but he wouldn't. I threatened him with outside assistance, and I picked up the phone and called my dad, who worked for many years as a security guard, and loudly asked him what I should do. He gave me a phone number with three numbers, two more numbers, and two letters. I asked what the letters were for and he said they were a security device so that not just anyone would be able to dial that number. Uh, yeah, okay, whatever... made sense in the dream. Well, both I and the homeless man knew that if I dialed that number, I meant business, so, cowed, he left as I ended the conversation with my dad.
And there you go. A lot of significance with not much sound and little fury, but a whole lot of nothing. :D
The very latest in weird dreams
Last couple of days I've had three dreams that I can remember. Here's what I can recall...
This morning's dream was about places I know well that looked different from what I remember. It was December, but unseasonably warm, so I was in the jean jacket, peddle pushers, and sandals again. I was going to my old university library. I remember there was a collection tray for some charity at the bottom of some stairs (that have nothing to do with the library where I went to university), and people were dropping loonies and other change in. I dug in deep, hauled up a big fistful of change and dumped it in. I went up the stairs, looked around in the stacks for a while.
Afterwards, I took my DSLR out with the 300 mm lens because I could shoot off Bayview Avenue bridge down to the old one (which is actually not a bad idea; I should give that a try). Then I decided to get both bridges in the shot, so I pulled back to the heights of the university (oddly enough, York University does have a campus in the vicinity, but I went to university nowhere near there). I set up the shot and noticed there were all kinds of kids, dressed for winter, lining up and falling over backwards off the bridge and the bank into the water. It was like some kind of weird "polar bears" thing, except with heavy clothes on. They were having a blast, waving to people taking pictures, and falling in again and again. I think the idea was to get in the papers or something.
...Yesterday, the first dream I had was about catching a mouse in some small apartment above a storefront. The mouse tried to bite me and get away but I held on. It turned out the mouse could talk, but in a voice that was believable for a mouse. I talked the mouse into being a pet, since I could assure him a soft option in life. I remember a long conversation but I don't remember its nature. He was afraid of my cats but I assured him they weren't hunters and were no threat. I have the impression that near the end, the mouse was discontented with it all and wanted his old life back.
The second dream was about coming home to some well-appointed home, and finding a homeless man had broken in and was asleep on a settee near the door. I woke him up and told him to leave, but he wouldn't. I threatened him with outside assistance, and I picked up the phone and called my dad, who worked for many years as a security guard, and loudly asked him what I should do. He gave me a phone number with three numbers, two numbers, and two letters. I asked what the letters were for and he said they were a security device so that not everyone would be able to dial that number. Uh, yeah, okay, whatever... made sense in the dream. Well, both I and the homeless man knew that if I dialed that number, I meant business, so, cowed, he left as I ended the conversation with my dad.
And there you go. A lot of significance with not much sound and little fury, but a whole lot of nothing. :D
Monday, December 03, 2007
Canada's statesman, part II
It's funny how it works out. I just blogged about Joe Clark kind of out of the blue a couple of weeks ago, and now this.
An opinion piece by Lawrence Martin in this morning's Globe and Mail suggests that Brian Mulroney might owe a lot more to Karl Schreiber than just three hundred grand and some influence. He might owe his political career to him.
Schreiber, an Austrian named Walter Wolf (chair of the supervisory board of — guess what? — Airbus Industries), and a man named Franz Josef Straus — incredibly, the premier of Bavaria at the time — orchestrated and bankrolled between them Joe Clark's fall. Why? Clark was a red Tory, and didn't wasn't the kind of guy to look after their Canadian interests the way they wanted. There's a tacit suggestion they were working elsewhere to export their 'preferred' brand of conservatism as well.
It turns out that these guys were putting money into Mulroney's sneaky little campaign to unseat Joe Clark as leader of the Progressive Conservatives in 1983, to the point that they even used to Boeing jets to get anti-Clark delegates to Winnipeg to vote against him, all expenses paid, including their wives' shopping trips. They did enough to tip the balance against Clark, who had stated before the review that he wanted a 70% mandate from the party. He got 66.9%, resigned to face a leadership campaign, and lost it to Mulroney. Our entire history turned on this.
In other places, in other times, this would be called a coup. And now it's coming out it happened here. And for nine years, this country was run by a man put there to serve the interests of rich German and Austrian investors. Brian Mulroney huffs and puffs and tries to blow the truth down, but I think this time it's made of bricks. I've hated the man for years, and I'd be loving this if it weren't so sickeningly unbelievable and soberingly chilling.
How Joe Clark managed to walk into that cabinet room every day for all those years without vomiting in that man's face, I can't imagine.
An opinion piece by Lawrence Martin in this morning's Globe and Mail suggests that Brian Mulroney might owe a lot more to Karl Schreiber than just three hundred grand and some influence. He might owe his political career to him.
Schreiber, an Austrian named Walter Wolf (chair of the supervisory board of — guess what? — Airbus Industries), and a man named Franz Josef Straus — incredibly, the premier of Bavaria at the time — orchestrated and bankrolled between them Joe Clark's fall. Why? Clark was a red Tory, and didn't wasn't the kind of guy to look after their Canadian interests the way they wanted. There's a tacit suggestion they were working elsewhere to export their 'preferred' brand of conservatism as well.
It turns out that these guys were putting money into Mulroney's sneaky little campaign to unseat Joe Clark as leader of the Progressive Conservatives in 1983, to the point that they even used to Boeing jets to get anti-Clark delegates to Winnipeg to vote against him, all expenses paid, including their wives' shopping trips. They did enough to tip the balance against Clark, who had stated before the review that he wanted a 70% mandate from the party. He got 66.9%, resigned to face a leadership campaign, and lost it to Mulroney. Our entire history turned on this.
In other places, in other times, this would be called a coup. And now it's coming out it happened here. And for nine years, this country was run by a man put there to serve the interests of rich German and Austrian investors. Brian Mulroney huffs and puffs and tries to blow the truth down, but I think this time it's made of bricks. I've hated the man for years, and I'd be loving this if it weren't so sickeningly unbelievable and soberingly chilling.
How Joe Clark managed to walk into that cabinet room every day for all those years without vomiting in that man's face, I can't imagine.
The proof of the pudding...
...is in the eating, as they say. Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has narrowly lost his referendum bid to expand his powers and remove term limitations. The vote was 49.3% yes, 50.7% no. Chavez has appeared on television to acknowledge the defeat.
The people have spoken. Now is crunch time for democracy in Venezuela. Will Chavez sincerely honour the result, or try to find some sly way to circumvent it? Will democracy survive in fact, or will Chavez simply dispense with it now in the "best interests" of Venezuela — especially when the result was so close? We'll see.
Personally, I've largely supported Chavez and his aims and most of this actions. He's been strong and bold and gone a little beyond the Pale on occasion, but he's still upheld the democratic ideal and has, in my opinion, done an excellent job focusing on leftist principles of improving the lot of the people. So long as he's willing to bow to their expressed wisdom in these matters here, I'm willing to elect him to my personal pantheon of tough fighters for what's right in the developing world... there've been all too few of them in history.
Please, Mr. President... don't let us down now.
The people have spoken. Now is crunch time for democracy in Venezuela. Will Chavez sincerely honour the result, or try to find some sly way to circumvent it? Will democracy survive in fact, or will Chavez simply dispense with it now in the "best interests" of Venezuela — especially when the result was so close? We'll see.
Personally, I've largely supported Chavez and his aims and most of this actions. He's been strong and bold and gone a little beyond the Pale on occasion, but he's still upheld the democratic ideal and has, in my opinion, done an excellent job focusing on leftist principles of improving the lot of the people. So long as he's willing to bow to their expressed wisdom in these matters here, I'm willing to elect him to my personal pantheon of tough fighters for what's right in the developing world... there've been all too few of them in history.
Please, Mr. President... don't let us down now.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Maybe the strangest one yet
Okay, here’s a weird dream for you. Had this one this morning.
A Russian gymnast dies at the Olympics. She’s cremated, and for some reason, it’s up to me to get her ashes back to Russia. They’re heavier and bulkier than I expected, and I managed to knock them over in one of the upstairs bathrooms of my parents’ house. The ashes go everywhere. I have to get a Dust Buster to gather them all up… and a new one, so it’s clean inside!
On the trip I end up at this tiny restaurant in southwestern Ontario (somewhere in Cambridge, I think, for some reason). Two men are arguing at the table in the window, and the one with his back to the wall shoots the one with his back to the counter by the door. A lot of fighting, a lot of confusion for a few moments. The dead man and the murderer are taken away. With some reluctance, I take a seat in the dead man’s chair. The other people in the restaurant are shocked at my being willing to sit where a man was murdered, and some resent my presumption. But I sit there quietly, every second more and more certain I have every right to have done so.
I’m in a car, being driven along a country road westward somewhere up in the forests and farmlands of western York Region. The driver of the car is Jody (Jody is a friend of mine who died of cancer in June, 2004; we knew each other for ten years over the net but never actually met in person in life). We’re both anxious to see this over and done with. I have the box of the gymnast’s ashes in my lap, but suddenly I notice all the ashes have disappeared, probably blown away during the trip, and all we have left is a horrible skull, grey with ash and still kind of pink with its newness (are newly defleshed skulls pink?). It’s too terrible for either of us to look at for long. I’m worried the police will think we murdered her if we get stopped. What will the Russians say if we show up with just this, having lost all the rest? We start thinking about just burying the skull somewhere.
That’s about all I remember. A couple of points I’m sure tie in… I actually do have a small vial of Jody’s ashes; they were given to me by his roommates at his memorial service in Texas. Second, I also have a copy of the state-issued certificate declaring them human remains… Jody’s Uncle Jesse was pretty insistent that I would want to have that while transporting his ashes, especially across the border.
A Russian gymnast dies at the Olympics. She’s cremated, and for some reason, it’s up to me to get her ashes back to Russia. They’re heavier and bulkier than I expected, and I managed to knock them over in one of the upstairs bathrooms of my parents’ house. The ashes go everywhere. I have to get a Dust Buster to gather them all up… and a new one, so it’s clean inside!
On the trip I end up at this tiny restaurant in southwestern Ontario (somewhere in Cambridge, I think, for some reason). Two men are arguing at the table in the window, and the one with his back to the wall shoots the one with his back to the counter by the door. A lot of fighting, a lot of confusion for a few moments. The dead man and the murderer are taken away. With some reluctance, I take a seat in the dead man’s chair. The other people in the restaurant are shocked at my being willing to sit where a man was murdered, and some resent my presumption. But I sit there quietly, every second more and more certain I have every right to have done so.
I’m in a car, being driven along a country road westward somewhere up in the forests and farmlands of western York Region. The driver of the car is Jody (Jody is a friend of mine who died of cancer in June, 2004; we knew each other for ten years over the net but never actually met in person in life). We’re both anxious to see this over and done with. I have the box of the gymnast’s ashes in my lap, but suddenly I notice all the ashes have disappeared, probably blown away during the trip, and all we have left is a horrible skull, grey with ash and still kind of pink with its newness (are newly defleshed skulls pink?). It’s too terrible for either of us to look at for long. I’m worried the police will think we murdered her if we get stopped. What will the Russians say if we show up with just this, having lost all the rest? We start thinking about just burying the skull somewhere.
That’s about all I remember. A couple of points I’m sure tie in… I actually do have a small vial of Jody’s ashes; they were given to me by his roommates at his memorial service in Texas. Second, I also have a copy of the state-issued certificate declaring them human remains… Jody’s Uncle Jesse was pretty insistent that I would want to have that while transporting his ashes, especially across the border.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)