So you know that monkey in Mr Magorium's Wonder Emporium that kept on reaching for Jason Bateman. Well I got that monkey for Christmas. And it really is a love-monkey. A solidly constructed sock monkey that has arms perfectly shaped for hugging. And I mean perfectly shaped, ergonomically designed, the perfect hug formula, with just the right amount of all factors to make it a hug-monkey. On our way home from Kelowna the Volvo broke down outside Agassiz so we had to tow it into Burnaby. Unfortunately that means that Mindy (my Firefly) is stuck out in Aldergrove and I have too much stuff (including hug-monkey and an awesome old portable typewriter) to take on the bus so I'm kindof stuck in Burnaby for a while. It's not that great because I have to move into Langley on the 1st or before and I need to start work on maybe the 2nd and school on like the 4th or something. But hey, I'll get there eventually. In the meantime I'm going to do some typing on the typewriter, maybe spit out some masterpieces. Merry Christmas all!!
pipesmokingprofessor
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Dawn to Darkness
It's hard to believe that a Christmas could ever be spent away from home. Ever since we actually started celebrating Christmas (only about five years ago I guess) I've always been there, no matter where I'm at, I'll always show up for Christmas. This year I've been up in the Okanagan for the last week, seeing my incredibly cute new nephew Jonas and visiting all my friends and family up here, but with the weather conditions the way they are, driving home come Monday may not be a possibility. The roads are supposed to be a bit better tommorow, but there's that possibility that just looms over my head that we might not be able to make the trip. Then this morning I was reading Christoph's most excellent travel blog and I realized that he's going to be spending his Christmas in Liberia. I mean he doesn't even have snow, but the place of contentment that he has over there, because it's where God wants him to be, makes his blog entries so joyful. That's the kind of peace that I want, that's the kind of contentment that only God can give. I was reading my bible this morning and I came across this verse in Amos:
Amos 4:13
He who forms the mountains,
creates the wind,
and reveals his thoughts to man,
He who turns dawn to darkness,
and treads the high places of the earth-
the Lord God Almighty is his name.
God is in control.
Amos 4:13
He who forms the mountains,
creates the wind,
and reveals his thoughts to man,
He who turns dawn to darkness,
and treads the high places of the earth-
the Lord God Almighty is his name.
God is in control.
Monday, 1 December 2008
Powder
I believe this is the last poem that I wrote for my creative writing class that I actually edited and handed in. On Thursday, when I read three of my poems to the class, I had a sudden realization that most of my poems are really dark. Most of them seem to focus on the down and outs, the druggies, the prostitutes, "White Trash" and "Beardo". In fact this made me realize that there is a definate distinction between what I write and emo. To be certain, some of my stuff has been fairly introspective, but most of it is about other people or things. When it gets as dark as some of my stuff it's a small line, but it's a big deal. On that note here's the poem.
Powder
down the front steps
white sneakers left behind to bake in the sunshine
and far out in the field you lie
mesmerized by the white rabbit
white whale
albino everything in the sky
beneath you is a world of dark
you dig in black loam and find
oily white tuber roots
remember one time back home
dog's ear sitting in the trash can
maggots like ants, milling
your whole world turned around
and from then on
it was all ash from a chimney fire
or snow by the late night light of the streetlamp
the universe glimpsed from your bedside
white powder, illuminated dark
snorted in a downtown hotel
beauty takes its time
and then its toll
heads banging on a short carpet
think of nothing else
you don't remember anymore
awake to white walls and watching rerun tv
you OD'd and hit the floor
buck stops at the bottom
watching Charlie Chaplin faded Buster Keaton
pratfalls in a nearby hurricane
nothing fades to grey in film reels
just shades of black and white
so one day you'll walk out
put on a clean cotton shirt
good to the skin
ready for dirt stains
find a field
leave your shoes behind
Zen Master
Powder
down the front steps
white sneakers left behind to bake in the sunshine
and far out in the field you lie
mesmerized by the white rabbit
white whale
albino everything in the sky
beneath you is a world of dark
you dig in black loam and find
oily white tuber roots
remember one time back home
dog's ear sitting in the trash can
maggots like ants, milling
your whole world turned around
and from then on
it was all ash from a chimney fire
or snow by the late night light of the streetlamp
the universe glimpsed from your bedside
white powder, illuminated dark
snorted in a downtown hotel
beauty takes its time
and then its toll
heads banging on a short carpet
think of nothing else
you don't remember anymore
awake to white walls and watching rerun tv
you OD'd and hit the floor
buck stops at the bottom
watching Charlie Chaplin faded Buster Keaton
pratfalls in a nearby hurricane
nothing fades to grey in film reels
just shades of black and white
so one day you'll walk out
put on a clean cotton shirt
good to the skin
ready for dirt stains
find a field
leave your shoes behind
Zen Master
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Pillar of Smoke by Day
Pillar of Smoke by Day
Suspended over the city
like the sepia tone frames
of an antique mushroom cloud
it's a pillar of smoke by day
Charcoal dark it rises up
to mingle with the sky
either man has built an idol
to worship the night gods
or God is pouring down black paint
to mark the earth
Below it is the burnt apartment shell
like a dead animal carcass
the smoke a cloud of dark flies
keep sentry and call the predators in
sirens howling at your ears
put out this toxic campfire
asbestos and wood fill up our noses
gaped wide in search of autumn
As you move through the city
your eyes are drawn
they follow it like Israelites
until a building shields your view
and you can look away
Park Ranger
Suspended over the city
like the sepia tone frames
of an antique mushroom cloud
it's a pillar of smoke by day
Charcoal dark it rises up
to mingle with the sky
either man has built an idol
to worship the night gods
or God is pouring down black paint
to mark the earth
Below it is the burnt apartment shell
like a dead animal carcass
the smoke a cloud of dark flies
keep sentry and call the predators in
sirens howling at your ears
put out this toxic campfire
asbestos and wood fill up our noses
gaped wide in search of autumn
As you move through the city
your eyes are drawn
they follow it like Israelites
until a building shields your view
and you can look away
Park Ranger
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Ashoka
Listening to Kings of Leon - Sex on Fire
Last post I was listening to a really great song, Danger! High Voltage, and when it was done I put up the hyperlink to the video of it, which I unfortunately only barely glanced at. So then when I finally do watch the video and realize I need to change the link because it's pretty sketchy, I turn right around and post the most sketchy sounding song I can find. I mean what's with that. No, it truly is a good song and a not sketchy video (as well as being a really good band). My only initial complaint was that the main riff sounds strikingly similar to the one from Soundgarden's "Mind Riot", but I think that's just because he uses the same sound and manages to capture the same vibe, so not bad.
I'm now officially finished with my first class. (dropping out of philosophy of religion halfway through doesn't count) I handed in the rest of my poems for creative writing and had a public reading and some brownies that the prof made. All I'm waiting for now is my final marks (which have to be above 60% in order for me to advance to the next creative writing class). I also won the award for the student who was most likely to be late. A very dubious honor. Here's one of the poems that I handed in on Thursday. It's about a really great indian restaurant in Langley.
soundmime
Ashoka
It's sense of smell that draws you in
To find a crowded restaurant
And what you want you know
But finding chicken biryani
Is hard when you don't know the words
Of what your nose descries
Paper thin papadums for appetizer
Menu tells you what you want
It's butter chicken isn't it
The only one you understood
There are other choices now
If you're so inclined
Floury naan bread fills you up
Chunky biryani, cautioned to be hot
Eating with your hands tastes better
Feel every grain of rice in sauce
And every tender chunk of chicken
Disintegrating, butter melting
Curry yellow, in your mouth
Wash your hands in cold water
And return for pungent anise
Biryani in a box, waiting at the door
Lunch tommorow or the next
Or just when you get home
Last post I was listening to a really great song, Danger! High Voltage, and when it was done I put up the hyperlink to the video of it, which I unfortunately only barely glanced at. So then when I finally do watch the video and realize I need to change the link because it's pretty sketchy, I turn right around and post the most sketchy sounding song I can find. I mean what's with that. No, it truly is a good song and a not sketchy video (as well as being a really good band). My only initial complaint was that the main riff sounds strikingly similar to the one from Soundgarden's "Mind Riot", but I think that's just because he uses the same sound and manages to capture the same vibe, so not bad.
I'm now officially finished with my first class. (dropping out of philosophy of religion halfway through doesn't count) I handed in the rest of my poems for creative writing and had a public reading and some brownies that the prof made. All I'm waiting for now is my final marks (which have to be above 60% in order for me to advance to the next creative writing class). I also won the award for the student who was most likely to be late. A very dubious honor. Here's one of the poems that I handed in on Thursday. It's about a really great indian restaurant in Langley.
soundmime
Ashoka
It's sense of smell that draws you in
To find a crowded restaurant
And what you want you know
But finding chicken biryani
Is hard when you don't know the words
Of what your nose descries
Paper thin papadums for appetizer
Menu tells you what you want
It's butter chicken isn't it
The only one you understood
There are other choices now
If you're so inclined
Floury naan bread fills you up
Chunky biryani, cautioned to be hot
Eating with your hands tastes better
Feel every grain of rice in sauce
And every tender chunk of chicken
Disintegrating, butter melting
Curry yellow, in your mouth
Wash your hands in cold water
And return for pungent anise
Biryani in a box, waiting at the door
Lunch tommorow or the next
Or just when you get home
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Blood Behind Your Ear
Listening to Electric Six - Danger! High Voltage
Editing your work is important. This never really connected with me fully until last week on Sunday night. In my creative writing class a few of us have started up a "write club" for reading our stuff and giving and recieving constructive criticism. I read out some stuff that was totally freewritten and unedited and I got a lot of great ideas for it, but I realized how much better my stuff would be if I actually bothered to edit it. That's not to say that I don't (I do), but I'm not guerilla enough in my approach, I get too attached to what I write that I have a hard time changing it. I did this great freewrite about this actual person wandering around Surrey central station a while back so I decided to take all the constructive criticism on it from the first "write club" meeting, and get medieval with it. This is after editing.
Listening to Cold War Kids - Hang Me Up To Dry
Blood Behind Your Ear
You, middle aged man, wander through the bus stop crowd, cry Lucy with your head upturned. The pavement is your friend, it is your only friend. Cause Lucy is out there in the city, in a hotel room, on the floor, on a binge, with a snot slide burning at her cheek in fevered convulsion. In her eyes is infinity, the hotel bedside and the universe of stars and planets collide like her coke and LSD. But out here you wear down the rocks, caked blood behind your ear from when she left, two days ago, but you still call out her name. Throat bare and raw, chimes cut from a string, windtunnel backporch, untuned, unhinged, in love, in the city, waiting. You wonder was it drugs or a pusher brought her out and down? Or was it just running away? The blood behind your ear, testament to a bathroom fight with pillbottles and a razor. And you know it could be yours or hers, neither one of you is sure. So I look up to you, looking up as you walk by. You, middle aged man, keep calling her name. She's lost to the rest of suburbia, but you've left that world behind. You belong in the gutter and the motel room where she lies in waiting, not knowing. Mistress of mud, and you, middle aged man, will become the mud for her.
park ranger
Editing your work is important. This never really connected with me fully until last week on Sunday night. In my creative writing class a few of us have started up a "write club" for reading our stuff and giving and recieving constructive criticism. I read out some stuff that was totally freewritten and unedited and I got a lot of great ideas for it, but I realized how much better my stuff would be if I actually bothered to edit it. That's not to say that I don't (I do), but I'm not guerilla enough in my approach, I get too attached to what I write that I have a hard time changing it. I did this great freewrite about this actual person wandering around Surrey central station a while back so I decided to take all the constructive criticism on it from the first "write club" meeting, and get medieval with it. This is after editing.
Listening to Cold War Kids - Hang Me Up To Dry
Blood Behind Your Ear
You, middle aged man, wander through the bus stop crowd, cry Lucy with your head upturned. The pavement is your friend, it is your only friend. Cause Lucy is out there in the city, in a hotel room, on the floor, on a binge, with a snot slide burning at her cheek in fevered convulsion. In her eyes is infinity, the hotel bedside and the universe of stars and planets collide like her coke and LSD. But out here you wear down the rocks, caked blood behind your ear from when she left, two days ago, but you still call out her name. Throat bare and raw, chimes cut from a string, windtunnel backporch, untuned, unhinged, in love, in the city, waiting. You wonder was it drugs or a pusher brought her out and down? Or was it just running away? The blood behind your ear, testament to a bathroom fight with pillbottles and a razor. And you know it could be yours or hers, neither one of you is sure. So I look up to you, looking up as you walk by. You, middle aged man, keep calling her name. She's lost to the rest of suburbia, but you've left that world behind. You belong in the gutter and the motel room where she lies in waiting, not knowing. Mistress of mud, and you, middle aged man, will become the mud for her.
park ranger
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
2046
I just finished watching 2046. Best movie I've watched in a long time. It walks a fine line. It lost its way often, without ever losing meaning. It was full of sex, but it was never obscene. It had science fiction, but only ever as a metaphor. It was hard to watch, but in the same frame compelling. It was beautiful and artistic, full of drawn out pauses and avant-garde cinematography, but it never alienates the viewer. I would recommend it, but unfortunately I don't think a lot of people would appreciate it, to be honest I'm not sure why I did. Not for the faint of heart or those with a short attention span.
I had a great test this morning. I only studied for it while I was driving to school, but I had taken surprisingly good notes so i think I did pretty good on the test. Next up is a whole slew of papers and approximately two poems that need doing. I could be doing the poems right now, but unfortunately I need to do the papers at the library and I haven't really had much time on campus now that I'm on the scc. And now that I'm acting director I probably will have even less time. I truly am fortunate that Kari is there to take the majority of the responsibility and show me how it all works.
fool sitting here typing
I had a great test this morning. I only studied for it while I was driving to school, but I had taken surprisingly good notes so i think I did pretty good on the test. Next up is a whole slew of papers and approximately two poems that need doing. I could be doing the poems right now, but unfortunately I need to do the papers at the library and I haven't really had much time on campus now that I'm on the scc. And now that I'm acting director I probably will have even less time. I truly am fortunate that Kari is there to take the majority of the responsibility and show me how it all works.
fool sitting here typing
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