To Have Loved and Lost

It has been a rough last month for my good friend, one of those patches of life that grabs you and shakes you to your core. At his core, and at most of ours is that most human of basic needs, to feel loved and to give love freely. But what of those times when love is not reciprocal? When love is met with anger, or worse yet, indifference? It is one of Life’s most exquisite pains: love unrequited, one heart beating frantically, a yearning rhythym to ward off impending solitude, one heart beating mercilessly, a military march squarely into singlehood. The echo of retreat is simultaneously deafening in its cacaphony, and yet not loud enough, for each beat takes that one heart further away into oblivion. The oblivion of Ex-hood. Of not knowing every last detail of your fading beloved’s life.

The losses are at first gradual. For the first time in the longest time, you aren’t informed of the blandness of her chicken salad, aren’t reminded of the necessity of daily calls, don’t receive a nightly, sleep inducing kiss. It’s disorienting, like amputating a limb. The world seems tilted, off-kilter, swirling dangerously close to the edge of nothingness. Feelings come in sharp bursts, or not at all. Mornings are the worst, continually bereft of sweet dreams where She might visit, heavy with the re-realization of loneliness. Some feelings recede entirely; the happiness of simple existence, of shared double-churned, vanilla-bean ice cream. So, the solution seems too simple: to eat more. Not so simple. Other needs surface sluggishly, as if oozing through a dormant volcano: hunger, thirst, hygiene. It’s as if a razor has lost all meaning and purpose, for stubble seems insignificant in the face of such mental anguish. The world turns all shades of achromatic. Life begins to mirror your razor blade.

One feeling that is constant is the pain. All kinds of pain. There’s the dull ache of missingness, the cravings of the body and the psyche for the drug of Her. It causes desperate acts, watching 30 second video clips of friendly banter on a sickening loop, just to hear her laugh, haunting you with its joy. Smelling the clothes that she left behind, vowing never to wash them of their olfactory comfort. There’s the whip of despair, acidifying eyeballs from the inside, slashing the tendons that hold your knees upright, disembowelling torsos, and bruising your flesh, top to bottom. After this onslaught, which happens unpredictably, and all too frequently, the aftermath maybe spent kneeling on the kitchen floor, panting, or slumped against the hallway, fists grasping linoleum, eyes unfocused. A large portion of the day becomes an extended exercise in avoidance. Mentally casing areas for clues that could trigger memories and subsequent suffering. At least with pain however, there is feeling. Eventually, even this poor comfort recedes. And then you’re faced with it, looking down deeply into inky blackness, contemplating loneliness not as an abstract concept but a living entity, witheringly patient in its knowledge that all succumb to its silent insistence. The Void breathes, it expands and contracts, but it is ever-present. For there is the knowledge, deep in the recesses of your mind, that you can never escape the finality of it all, the impending island of alone, where all visit with increasing frequency, and eventually take permanent residence.

Then there comes a point where there appears a glimmer, framing the horizon with a pale effervescence. One star appears, wondrous and encouraging, appearing more intoxicating than any star that has ever existed previously. The star takes many forms, perhaps floating in a moon-lit pool after a soul-cleansing run, or the shy smile of a fast food employee, as she gives you an extra serving of greasy satisfaction. Regardless it is there, undeniable, hope coalesced. Then, miraculous as life itself, other stars come into view, braving the icy paralysis that comes with carnal knowledge of the beast. They practically shout, “WE ARE HERE, LIFE IS GOOD!” Their voices resonate with another part of you, as implacable as loneliness, the part that hopes, the part that thirsts for life. Now there are more tears, but of a different nature; tears of gratitude for this shining counterpart, standing out in impressive relief against the despair of the night. There is also an anger, a fierce pride in reclaiming what has been taken. A vow to stand square and firm, and turn your back on the Void, to say “It is not yet your time! I will be strong.” And these feelings combine to explode out of you in a rage of gratefulness, filling the universe with your presence. You were broken and now you are reformed, harder and purer, and more indescribably you than you ever were before.

Truth comes then, a knowing that Void and Hope are One, neither truly existing without its partner. What is a star without the night? What is darkness, but absence of light? Truly, love cannot be appreciated without loss, and that is the beautiful essence of having loved and lost: the hope and gratitude of love renewed...

Monthly Challenge: Palmistry

It seems that seeing a psychic has gone to your head a little hasn't it Sam?

Actually, it was quite inspirational. So far, one prediction has come true, and one seems on the verge of veracity. My interest has been piqued to the point where I want to learn more. I want to learn how to read palms.

Didn't you get a tarot card reading? Weren't you told that palmistry is a little less specific/accurate?

These are both valid points and I cannot refute them adequately. Therefore, I will bring up two points that will demonstrate the practicality of my choice, rather than focusing on its predictive value. One, I am too cheap and lazy to buy a pack of tarot cards. I am unemployed after all. Related to this point, I would look like a huge nerd if I were to carry around a pack of tarot cards everywhere I went. In most social situations, palms are more readily available. Unless it was really cold, or I was at a tarot card convention, or I happen to be involved in an amputee fund raiser. That was terrible, forgive me. The second point is that tarot card reading looks too complicated. There are 78 cards and they all interact in some crazy way, depending on your energy flow and karma and the amount of money you pay the tarot card reader. That's way too much to learn in a month.

So what's with this monthly challenge gimmick? Sounds like a lame way to boost your blog's pageview count.

That's fair, nowadays at least 50% of my motivation for most activities is to produce an entertaining blog post, and gain the fleeting respect and interest of my peers. In the end though I always feel empty, like a cheap hooker who attempts to fill her ever present void with male genitalia, only to realize that their companionship is based on her willingness to embarrass herself, rather than her goodness as a person. Love me for me, not for my eloquent penmanship dammit! I digress slightly. More seriously, challenging myself to accomplish feats of skill and daring seems like a good way to stretch myself beyond what I am currently capable. Theoretically, I could also gain a plethora of useful abilities that are likely to benefit me in the long term. I could learn a language (not really) or make the perfect souffle or learn several mammalian mating calls. You know, for when I'm alone in a hispanic-speaking rainforest, with nothing to sustain me but fluffy egg-based desserts and the carnal delights of three-toed sloths.

There are rules for this sort of thing.
1. The challenge is something that can be reasonably accomplished within the time frame of one month. Alas, warp drive technology may be slightly ambitious.
2. The challenge must be moderately challenging. For example, napping for 20 minutes is not challenging. Napping for 4 hours is. Ah, the possibilities of unemployment!
3. Progress on the completion of the challenge must be blogged at least twice per month. For more pageviews.
4. The challenge must have a measurable, objective endpoint. For example, if I am able to convince a complete stranger that I can assess their personality via palm identification, then I win.

Well, how are you even going to pull this off?

Through various internet sources. Duh. Luckily, it's quite cheap to become proficient in palmistry. Approximately $3 can earn you basic knowledge, and $10 can give you an in-depth 398 page textbook, replete with 480 illustrations and chapter review quizzes. Also, this textbook has received excellent reviews, just listen to these amazing testimonials:

Subject: your fabulous book
Date: Tue, 20 Jun 2000 07:56:45 -0700
From: "Kim McGaw" (xxxx@chickmail.com)
Organization: ChickMail (http://www.chickmail.com:80)

Dear Larry,

I have thoroughly enjoyed your book. It is already dog-eared and worn from use.

Have had a blast reading friend's hands. This book has been passed around the dorm like a strumpet. Just LOVE those tests and reviews at the end of each chapter--so unique. Of all the books I have, yours is referenced the most because it is easiest to use.

Thanks!

Kim McGaw

I ask you this: how many other books have been compared to a strumpet? None. Because no other books are this awesome. Also, any book that encourages hot college co-eds to read is impressive.

From: Megan Twisk xxxx@vic.chariot.net.au
Nov 12, 2006 10:15 PM

Hi Larry,

Have just paid a small fortune for a course in palmistry, your info is far better!!

Thank you, Megan

So cost effective!! Better than an entire course in palmistry! Where are these courses offered btw? Sounds like a science requirement for phys ed majors.

Admit it, this is just some weird and slightly creepy way to hit on attractive ladies.

You should see next month's challenge.      

Psam Psees a Psychic

On a whim, I decided to see a psychic today with a few friends. This was my first official tarot card reading and I came in harboring a healthy dose of skepticism. How can you tell what the future might bring? What could you tell about me that you couldn't glean from observing me and my interactions with my friends? Is this really worth charging me $30 for a 20 minute reading? Rather than allowing myself to totally foreclose on the idea, I decided that I would try it out and let the predictions speak for themselves. For me to be completely satisfied it seems that a 75% success rate would be sufficient. Three out of every four statements, because after all, no one's perfect. I was also looking for a certain amount of specificity in the predictions. Dates, actions, numbers etc. would all lend greater authority to the events that were foreseen, rather than nebulous statements. Also, I was hoping to feel something odd, a sensory experience that would signify the presence of a mysterious power at play, perhaps goosebumps or unexplained changes in air pressure. In any case, before getting to the details of my predictions I thought I would share something of the setting and the journey.

Giovanna has been in business at her downtown location for 15 years, right across from the Eaton's Centre in the heart of Toronto. Now that in and of itself is an impressive achievement, considering the price of rentals in the downtown core and the ever-changing facade of that particular setting. You enter through a narrow stairwell, grey on all sides, leading up to a spacious reception area. Imagine a glow in the dark mini golf course, and you get some sense of the decor. Two huge, and very purple right hands serve as seats in one corner, at right angles to the large storefront windows. They are cupped slightly so when you sit, your butt is cushioned by their palms, almost lovingly. Across the room from these chairs is a circular booth with a low table. On this table are recent issues of Cosmo and People magazine. It is not difficult to grasp the general demographic that frequents this establishment. If you sat in this booth and looked at the far wall, you would see three murals of various celestial bodies, I presume wormholes or galaxies. Gazing at the ceiling, you would observe that there are stars and planets painted haphazardly on a deep blue background. It's like you are in your younger brother's bedroom, if your younger brother was a star-gazing science nerd. Below the murals are glass display cases containing all matter of psychic apparati--crystal balls, tarot cards, and odd figurines. All for sale. Apparently Giovanna is not afraid of competition. The sitting room itself is enclosed by a sliding glass door partition that allows you to see but not hear your friends being future-sighted. It is lit from a table lamp in the middle of the room, casting shadows on the walls in all directions. The walls are red and velvety with various iconography.

Giovanna herself is dressed in a black v-neck shirt and jeans. She greets you pleasantly and exudes a certain warmth. Her raven hair matches her smoky eyes, and well trimmed eyebrows, lending an air of mystique to her bearing, enigmas buried deep within her ebony features. Her voice is rich, but not cheesy. She promises to tell it to you true, no matter your preferences. I wouldn't have it any other way. She asks you to think of two things with utmost sincerity: one question and one wish. I ask about my love life. I wish for a loving family. She repeatedly flips over the tarot cards in an inverse pyramid and tells of things past and things that will soon come to pass...

Predictions:

1. You're in the process of friendship pruning, letting go of old friends, and friends who will soon reveal their "true colours" to you. I shudder inwardly at this negative connotation, wanting to believe that I know those who are close to me, and wanting them to stay friends. You will have a small, close and supportive group of friends, who, to a person, are good and true.

2. She asks if I have any brothers, which I truthfully deny. She reveals that within the next few weeks, someone "like a brother" will come in need of comfort. He will be depressed and out of sorts. I will need to be there. This individual is smart and will be successful. He is worth holding onto.

3. You will receive a check in the mail with a large sum of money before the new year. Something like $2500. This money will be earned legitimately. Numbers and dates, a strong prediction that is easily verified. Who is this mysterious benefactor though? 


4. Your positive energy will peak in the spring of next year. Apparently the dates near your birthday are auspicious. In my case, this peak period is being transferred to spring. You will finish a large project by June 2012. Pretty impressive prediction. She accurately surmised that I was working on a dissertation, and said that originally it was to be finished within the next 8 weeks, all without being foretold. 

5. You will meet someone in April or May 2012. This person may or may not be the one for you. At this point, that is unclear. I will meet someone in the spring who may or may not work out?!? Both excruciatingly frustrating and confidence draining. How about I may or may not pay you?

6. You will travel a lot in the upcoming year, many small weekend trips but also one large trip in July 2012. Well my cousin is getting married on June 24th 2012, this would be a good time to visit Malaysia!

7. You will be married in 4 years. Well that seems a little late. Perhaps there are cougars in my future. There are no divorce cards, you will have a happy and solid relationship. I pity those who get the divorce cards: "you will be happy for two years, after which you will  catch your wife cheating with your best friend. I suggest a prenup." You will have two sons. Sounds good to me.

8. You will make an investment in September 2012 which will be successful. Perhaps with the money from my mystery sugar momma!


9. You will be in "hibernation" this winter, you may date but they will be casual relationships, until the spring 2012. Focus on you. Why can't I just migrate instead? Like to a warm southern location with many beautiful women offering deep satisfying relationships?


Okay Giovanna, let's see how accurate you really are. Maybe next time I can choose which predictions won't come true?

Vampire Diaries

This Halloween I decided to become a vampire. In my mind all that required was a set of face paint, a pair of reusable fangs, and a fair amount of vanity.

So now that I am properly attired and have had my fill of preening, the question becomes, what exactly does a vampire do for fun? Perhaps get in a little trouble with the law.

Or perhaps Brazilian firefighters? She actually refused to let herself get bitten. Without consent, this was as close as I could get. The audacity.

Hmm, feeling a tad thirsty. Where can I get a good drink around here?

Luckily for me, there were an abundance of nurses out that night. In easily accessible uniforms I might add.

Sometimes, its nice to see a familiar face.

It's Friday, what's a bored vampire to do? Let's go to the mall.

Perhaps a little light reading?

Followed by a light snack... 

and some sunscreen...my skin gets a little sensitive sometimes

Well, it's Halloween, gotta get me some candy! But first, my little sis needs to become immortal, so she can annoy me for all time :)

Some might say that I'm a little too old to be trick-or-treating, but I say what's a couple hundred years if you have young blood flowing through your veins!

Happy Halloween!

Tombstone Rhetoric

Morbid title? Yes, I think so, but fits my mood like a pair of jeggings. Let's face it, we're all inevitably dead. It can happen anytime, in any manner, and is infrequently scripted. How many people get to say their goodbyes, tie up their loose ends, end on their own terms? And how many slip sudden and accidental-like into the void? The odds were never in our favor. It follows then, that any moment, any action could be my last. And therefore I have a responsibility to those moments, every drop of life, so that I am remembered as I would want to be, and honored with the best of intentions. For, in life, there is a strong wish to be celebrated and in death this wish does not diminish, perhaps not by me, but by those we entrust with our heart-memoirs. Sorrowed is he that is celebrated as an absence, whose life-actions invited joy at his passing, and not mourning.

What to make of these existential and obvious truths? A kind of wild hope and nervous dread. Tomorrow's uncertainty necessitates a certain moral code. If I live such that each moment, vibrant or mundane, could be the penultimate moment, I would want those moments to be largely righteous, good, or at least neutral. If, to the best of my ability, I spend as much of my life in acceptance, in equanimity, in accordance with my values, then I can worry less about death's timing. My hope is to shift honorable death-odds in my favor. Of course, given the nature of my days, I am quite likely to pass in my sleep or sadly, on the can. At least there is some shred of honor in doing what one must. However, time spent in arguments, angers, jealousies, pettiness, depravity would be playing constantly against the house, because the card-house of life could crumple from the slightest breeze. A showing of hands for those who wish their last moments to be frozen road rage, plotting revenge for a slight, sloven lacklustre, or jealously coveting another's possessions. The greater the rage, the more likely the regret, and the greater the dread.

Not only are the momentary foibles real and motivating, but the total calculus of one's life should be entertained. For, as buddhists are fond of expressing, what is life but a series of moments? The past is forever done, the future yet to come. Adding up a multitude of Presents eventually allows one to divine patterns of a life lived. To put watercolors to paper and form contours, shadings, meanings of an existence. To the extent that a life is bright, vibrant, dripping with saturation, we can say that it was a fulsome and beautiful work of art, worthy of framing and admiring. And as much as a life fell to shadow, to greys and achromaticity, there will be a tiresome, foul, and/or unremarkable portrait. It is in us to choose our color palette.

In psychology there is an exercise meant to distill your values, simply and directly. One is asked "what would you like your tombstone to say?" With the eventual implication that no matter what is said, a life has to be lived in that direction for one's prophecy to bear fruit. I'm going to play this game with some caveats. There should be a word limit, perhaps five sentences. Also, there will be a statement about something I did within the preceding day that I would have been proud to admit. Here goes:

Samuel Siah, 1984-present, died gazing at his beloved

Here lies a man who lived for others
Family and friends were everything
such that no joy was unshared, no despair was lonesome, and no need too burdensome
Immortal shall he remain in the hearts that he touched

It's a worthwhile exercise, I suggest you give it a shot, either here or elsewhere. Happy painting.

Haiku for you too, eh?

The last of my haiku series. For all my friends who have some connection to the T. There are a lot of you and I'm not sure if I got everyone. Please do let me know if I missed you and I will rectify with utmost haste.

Fifthsoul's sole member
pursues miserly delights
with female soul mate

Oft injured, n'er bowed
Loved by all, promised to one
Winged goddess' son

Procurer of snacks
job is occupational
mocks lover with love

Queen of royal chair
Balances books, gems, sashes
Jill of many trades

Reluctant doctor
Hopeless thinker, romantic
Friend in every sense

Lawyer to his core
El Bulli's fond disciple
White diversity

Gluttony's true heir
Brutally honest ally,
and Judges' Dread

Utterly Dobreved
Follows men of Ashe, Camp Nou
Boldly goes, never gone

Master of all games
An enigma to many
lone wolf with large pack

Fan that earned his Spurs
Asian fever roils within
Jewish, not kosher

Linguist, traveller
constant collector of friends
downtrodden's heroine

Loves Spanish wedgies
Works with stirrups everyday
doesn't ride horses

Unshakable faith
sings of weddings and scarecrow
seeks spotlight's embrace

Named with perfection
Accounts for Dong and Rupee
Maple Leafs'd forever

Future diplomat
Indiscriminate film buff
Patriot in love

Cheerful, cherub-like
deftly wields rolling pin, oar
dances uniquely

True Leaf in shark tank
Engaged to Chinese lover
Works in the Matrix

Haiku for Yinz!

For all you Watsoners, an ode to thee. Divine my inspiration if thou art willing.

PC is his b**ch
Heart beats to African drums
Worships Kid's Penguins

Locks flow like Samson
A double-rainbowed Champion
Watson's brave last Hope

Irish ninja gnome
stealthy, sneaky, vigilant
clueless task master

Fiesty scheduler
smokes and swears like a trucker
but beloved by all

Keeper of the keys
Master of facilities
Health South conoisseur

Thinks herself awesome
Compensates for small stature
With generous heart

Queen of assistants
Patron Saint of lost interns
Heart of Yinz and gold

Mailman's wife and child
Master of stats and straight flush
Ghetto professor

Gleek and stats lover
Dances with Catholic guilt
Laughs at ODD

Deft hamster farmer
Christmas spirit incarnate
Cheerful improv queen

Sweet heart with sweet tooth
Runs to work and back for fun
Carolina bound

Relentless dancer
equally snarky and sweet
snorts and cries with glee

Haiku for You

I challenged myself to transform the people in my life into Haikus (not sure if that's the plural form). Since I know a lot of people I figured that I would categorize them neatly. Psych peeps, you're up! Read on to find out if you've been Haiku'd!

Curvaceous baker
Disciple of Kinsey's path
and winged genital

Champion of Eagles
Imprisoned not convicted
Oft glad, mad loser

California girl
Loves breakfast, hates winter's chill
A fragile beauty

A fierce lioness
But gentle with her school cubs
Big sis, loyal friend

Goddess from Greek Isle
Fiery, Intelligent
Graceful, falls for Man

Born of stringed muses
Wed to gentle outdoorsman
Hallow's eve temptress

Humble Officer
Zombie slayer, golf goddess
Heart friend, evermore

Gentle voice belies
Mother Confessor's steel will
Heart beats for one love

Hero, honor bound
wields Magic and CBT
Loves one, eternal.

Let me know if I've missed you. I can always add on.

Whitest Night Part II

For those of you who missed Part I, you can get it here

11:42-11:51 pm. Arrive at City Hall, and it is awash in laser light, smoke, and what looks like the weirdest ziplining I've ever seen. I learn that this exhibit is an exploration of urban flight. Apparently this means that people line up for hours for a chance to harness themselves into a bird like contraption (based on an albatross' wings) and zipline all of 20 feet from one platform to another. There's also a cardboard cut out that you can use to simulate hand-held flight outside of your car. You know, for those times when you need your right hand to achieve flight. This whole set up comes off as slightly desperate, like someone tried just a little too hard to be clever. But, I'm a sucker for lasers. Look at those pretty colors!

12:01-12:13 am.Walking down Bay street allows me to make a few observations. There are a lot of people out tonight, and there is a crazy energy about, like its Christmas for the artsy-hipster crowd. There are also a lot of confused faces, to go along with whimsical smiles. This makes me feel better because even the artistic crowd is somewhat puzzled/bemused. I'm not totally ignorant after all! Suddenly a drum car appears in front of me. It's a car that has been deconstructed and now houses snares, symbols, basses, and cowbells (!) of all kinds. The drummer looks like he's been drumming since the 60s. I'm digging it. And now there's a lit balloon suspended between two skyscrapers, swaying violently in the wind. Chimes sound out at random intervals. I learn later that there is a cellphone number you can call to make it chime. I call it vigorously. I'm still calling it.

12:18-1:01 am. Now things start to get really crazy. I stumble upon a full size tennis court deep in the heart of the financial district. I learn that two individuals are replaying the famous 1980 Wimbledon tiebreak between Bjorn Borg and Patrick McEnroe. 34 points will be recreated as authentically as conditions will allow. There is a scorer's table replete with a droll English commentator, an umpire's chair, and four ball boys. Most importantly there are Borg and McEnroe! Complete with 80s curly fros, white, mid-thigh hugging shorts (which takes serious balls--pun intended--considering temperatures have dipped to below freezing), and wooden rackets. I am beyond excited. As they play I am amazed by the attention to detail. The lovingly re-created service motions, the serve and volley style, the shorts--they're so short!

1:02-1:52 am. It is freezing. I'm in a winter coat, scarf, and gloves and I wish that I wore two more layers. I meet up with my friend Grace and her friends. For some reason they have been standing in line for over an hour to get a common household item from a guy who is giving away his personal effects in a decorated bus shelter. It's called the Free Shop. Eventually they show me the spoils of their labor: a cheese slicer, a dented tin, a magazine, and a threadbare scarf. Totally worth it. We move on to an exhibit called Soon. Basically, it feels like you've just escaped prison. There are spotlights everywhere, highlighting various individuals from obscene heights. Some people try to escape but they are quickly spotted. There is a constant droning which crescendos periodically, as if a helicopter is forever on your heels. It's massive, interactive fun. I run a little to stay warm. The spotlights miss me. Apparently Asians are non-threatening. After permanently escaping this exhibit we decide to enter a coffee serving atrium to warm and relieve ourselves. Not a moment too soon for I am losing circulation to my legs. I take a photo of myself outside the bathroom. It's Art. Trust me.

1:59-2:07 am. We stagger outside and come across a mass memorial of lit candles in a sandy enclave. It is a tribute to the sacrifice of migrant workers in Toronto. Next there's an alley that looks like it's constantly raining. It reminds me of a cartoon where a character is cursed to have a rain cloud constantly hovering over him. I enter with a friend under a sturdy umbrella. It's pretty cool because it's raining and misty, and the lighting is at mid-body level. Makes it dramatic. Also makes me wet.

2:16-2:24. Meet up with friend Steve for the 2 am to sunrise shift. Eat Tiny Tom's donuts. They taste warm, soft, sweet, and heavenly. We buy 3 dozen to get the fourth dozen free. I seriously consider buying 6 dozen. Steve and I get trapped in caution tape. Now, a group of four artists are pushing a large boulder over metal cylinders, carefully removing each cylinder that the rock just passed over and placing it in front of the oncoming rock. Like Sisyphus, except without the eternal punishment, because this is how they actually want to spend their free time. Apparently they have been doing this for 4 straight days, 5 hours per day. Asking why seems almost snarky at this point. I let it go.

2:30-2:45. We decide to head into the Eaton's Center because there's supposed to be some cool stuff, but mainly because it's warm. There is a paucity of cool stuff. There are robots that supposedly follow you around and take pictures of you. You have to sign a waiver to participate. As it turns out the waiver is superfluous because the robot spends the majority of its time running away from Steve and I. When we leave we observe it happily taking photos of others. We surmise that the robot is racist.

2:57-3:03 am. Steve has not yet seen The Heart Machine. He needs to see The Heart Machine.

3:10-3:27 am. We enter a building and there are rows of multicolored clay statues, corresponding to different emotions. I'll let you guess what this little orange guy stood for. Hint: you'll never guess. Afterward we are encouraged to crush him mercilessly, which we do, and we are immediately asked how it feels to destroy something that another person has created. Dude, it's 3:30 am, stop f***ing with my mind. We walk some more and I lose more extremities to the cold. Now there are lights in an alley which undulate when various hanging poles are pulled upon. They're supposed to be clouds. Why couldn't they simulate tropical islands?

3:28-3:45 am. Steve really needs to go to the washroom, propelling us to the nearest 24 hour gas station. There is a line for the unisex stall. While waiting in line a Lady of the Night approaches us. She is in a red dress, cut low to reveal a black bra, torn stockings, high heels, and too much mascara. It is a very unflattering dress, especially from behind. She looks tired and must feel cold, considering her lack of weather appropriate clothing. She really needs to pee, apparently more so than Steve, because she tells him that. Steve does not argue. I privately wonder what affliction could possibly necessitate a constant, strong urge to pee. I decide that I will not avail myself of her services if they are so offered. To my immense relief, they are not. I also decide against any pictures. Use your imagination, I know I'm trying my best not to use mine.

3:46-3:54 am. Things are starting to blur now after walking for almost 6.5 hours. There's an exhibit where you can pretend to be in a sitcom as the dad, complete with a pre-recorded family, cue cards, full television crew, and a slightly embarrassing projection of your corniness on a two story wall. There's one which combines light and sound, that change in relation to a motion sensor so that "no two artistic experiences are the same." Me and Steve's experiences are remarkably similar: that was lame.

4:02-4:15 am. Just what the doctor ordered: a break! There are colorfully decorated cardboard boxes strewn about a street, and some light reading to peruse. It's in Russian, how delightful! There's even a band  that serenades us while we sit. Nearby there's free coffee. Absolutely wonderful. And then there's a large colorful exhibit displaying the faces of various sex dolls and witticisms from their owners. Charming.

4:16-4:30 am. A long walk between exhibits. It starts to rain, which makes me colder. I mentally shake my fist at Art and it's seductiveness. My spirits are soon lifted because lo and behold, the next attraction is indoors! But now we have to take off our shoes and walk through a rectangular puddle of freezing water. Suddenly there are half-submerged logs we have to traverse, something about evoking the rugged loggers of our Canadian heritage. My parents were born in Malaysia, Steve's in Hong Kong. Our lumberjack roots are sorely lacking. I openly question the wisdom of stepping barefoot in a puddle where at least 500 pairs of feet have already tread. I am promised sanitizer at the end. There is none. One final irony: there is simulated rain. It is now raining indoors, outdoors, and in my soul.

4:59- 5:15 am. We decide to check out the Bata Shoe Museum. Inside there's an exhibit where you tweet about the future, a computer analyzes the emotional tone of your tweet and prints out your message on a corresponding colored paper, and then they make paper cranes out of them. Borderline Art. Downstairs is an X-box Kinects where you can map your movements onto movable stars, becoming a mobile galaxy. Steve and I simultaneously decide to Hadukan! one another. Finally, there's a room where overweight men attempt to sell you on a revolutionary gaming system in which a headband reads your EEG brain waves. The game is called Quetzal. It is terrible. The point of it is to meditate and concentrate to open mystical walls, walk on water, and somehow win the heart of a Mayan warrior-princess and her avian companion. Not a good idea to meditate at 5 am. Also not fun, in the least.

5:09-5:48 am. Now we are driving to get to the final pieces of Art. Driving is definitely the way to see Art. We arrive at Casa Loma. There are headless mannequins with dresses and it is very dark and rainy. It is exceedingly creepy. There are some window displays and Christmas lights. Not worth the trip.

6:02-6:44 am. We drive to other supposed Art locations, only to learn that they have closed early. What?!? Nuit Blanche specifically states that Art last from 7:00 pm to sunrise the next day. We have officially outlasted Art. We feel cheated and empty. We decide to drown our sorrows in a large, hearty breakfast as the sun rises, grey and gloomy. Till next year Art; for now, 9 hours and 14 minutes later, we part as friends.

The Whitest Night

What is art? I could give you a cliched "Webster's dictionary definition" but I think I'll settle for a more personal explanation. To me, art is anything that is meant to stretch your mind a little further than you intended it to be pulled. Therefore, art succeeds inasmuch as it accomplishes this charter. The more you are filled with a sense of awe as you ponder an art piece, the more that particular work has connected with you, and the more artistic it has become. Less successful art induces a more blase response. A I've-seen-that-before-and-it's-only-mildly-interesting state. Note the inherently subjective slant to this definition, what resonates with me and is therefore art, maybe discordant to you and is thus lessened. Also, the intention to mind-bend is as important as the actual feeling. So for example, lightning in its wild, elemental fury is always awe-inspiring; however, this was not lightning's intention and hence it is less art and more natural beauty. One could argue that lightning's creator, be it Norse god or otherwise, may have had this purpose, in an effort to humble humanity. Fine. You win. I'm getting sidetracked.

So what is art? Nuit Blanche is art. To set the scene, Nuit Blanche is a Toronto-based event where for one night in early October, the entire downtown core is transformed into a giant modern art gallery. World renown artists choose a particular portion of the city--be it side alley or mall atrium--and fill that space with whatever their muse commands. Imagine MOMA on Ecstasy and you'll have a good feel for this event. For all my American friends, it is one of the best reasons to be a Torontonian. It is also, in and of itself, Art. Meant to convey a sense of wonder at all that can be accomplished with civic pride and imagination. It lasts from 7 pm until sunrise the next day. I lasted from 9:30 pm to sunrise the next day. Here is my journey.

9:30-10:00 pm. Arrive at University of Toronto. Set off excitedly in search of Art, expecting it to be everywhere. For an event with over 120 installations, Art is proving extremely elusive. Spend some time considering whether chemistry majors attempting to demonstrate different colored flames is Art. Decide that this should not be the highlight of my evening.

10-10:55 pm. Found it! After much wandering (in the wrong direction), I decide to follow the crowd and end up in Hart House, one of the major student centers at U of T. Highlights include eating crickets (salty) wrapped in seaweed, visiting a green domed bar, and watching a hilarious video broken telephone amongst Eastern European women. Lowlights included the "space ship" exhibit, which sounded cool until you realized that it was just a bunch of clear balloons suspended with string. Like a minimalist birthday party. Also, too much political activism in one spot. Felt a little preachy.

10:30 pm. Found out that I forgot my SD card in my digital camera. Also realize that there is a slight downgrade in photo quality from my digital camera to my camera phone. Like 10 Megapixels per photo downgrade. Time for some creative editing!

11:03-11:09 pm. Come across a huge panoramic video display. Kind of like a UFO landed in Queen's Park but instead of enslaving humanity, its only job is to show nonsensical scenes of people looking bored of their affluent hotel-like surroundings. Mesmerizing. There are also random signs telling you to do vaguely inspirational things. I'm not sure why I've been telling it incorrectly all this time.

11:30-11:33 pm. FIRE!!!! I don't know about you, but nothing says Art quite like huge bursts of flame. I am drawn to this exhibit like a moth to my funeral pyre. It is called the Heart Machine, not really sure how it works but people seem to be pressing colored discs, there is driving techno music, and flames are jetting out at odd angles with a terrifying whooosh. Oddly, there is a dance party in front of it, and a full service bar. My kind of heart. Too bad my poor cellphone camera is not up to the challenge.  Time to edit part 1.

For Part II, go here.

FOT6: The Circle is Complete

The dove flew straight and true, a white arrow pointing unerringly towards the Northern Star. Her small shadow passed over vast shimmering lakes, the scale of which dwarfed all but the seas which rimmed the world. She flew without rest, without pause to soothe her aching wings, nor to fill her belly with the bounty of the vineyards far below, whose bows were bent with the heavy burden of their abundant fruit. She flew past an immense outcropping of falling water, which announced its presence with a constant, thundering roar, and in whose mists water sprites danced and played amongst fleeting rainbows. Eventually, she flew farther than any dove had previously ventured, for she too sensed the urgency and the gravity of her mission. With her dying breath she alighted on an immense spire which cleaved the heavens with its towering visage. She had not died in vain, for gathered around her tiny body were a shining people, who were impressive in the variety of their appearances. Some had hair of raven-black, with eyes the shape of crescent moons and a golden pallor, others had tresses of oak-brown framing proud faces with tranquil azure eyes, still others shone ebony or caramel, and eyes gleamed multi-faceted and multi-hued. Their tongues were equally plentiful but seemed to meld with harmonic cadence in a song of deep sorrow. For all wept openly at the passing of this brave dove and at the message which she bore. That night, under the shadow of the Spire, a council was convened to determine the intertwined fates of one of their brethren and the future of the Steel Citadel.

In the throne room of the Watson-keep, the Keepers discussed their wyrd. One moon-cycle had passed since Lorilynn’s dove was sent on its foolhardy mission, and chances of their success seemed to be dwindling with the fading light of the moon’s crescent. As was his wont, Joshstor the Stoic advised continued patience and an impenetrable faith in the path of prophecy. The other three members were not so easily placated. Jenna’s nature in particular was ill-suited for awaiting the whims of fate. Her entire being vibrated with a need for action, to strike death blows against the gnome-king and his minions. Under the cover of night and shadow she stole away to his fortress, across the narrow bridge that separated Castle Watson from the King’s Keep, and the throne besieged by darkness. Her heart raced as she looked over the edge of this narrow footpath, at the deep chasm which stretched below her, a gaping maw of inky malevolence. She went recklessly, to scry what information she could on the king’s foul plans, and his knowledge of the secret fellowship forming just outside of his walls. Jenna the Tireless was swift, and easily by-passed the castle sentries on her way to the throne room. She was also cunning, as she had planned her route for all contingencies, avoiding the opulent halls in favour of hidden back passages. At last she reached the throne room, where her heart plunged with horror. Awaiting her with his royal guard was Jotnar himself, the gnome-king, laughing mirthlessly as he sprung his trap and ensnared Jenna in a net of cold steel and malicious intent.

As the sun rose, bright and full the following day, a lone figure approached from the north, casting a long shadow on the gentle rolling hills that framed the Steel Citadel. His mount was tall and proud, and christened with the noble name Cedric. He was resplendent in tunic of snow white, trousers of oak-brown, helm and cape of crimson, and proud banner emblazoned with a fiery leaf of maple, the proud emblem of his brethren. On his shield was the gilded 13 pointed star and crescent moon of House Siahen, and the name of its owner, Samric the Calm, first of his name. Although his nobility was clear in the quality of his finery, his tunic was crumpled, and his ebony hair was left unplaited, suggesting a bearing of relaxed detachment, or of recent waking from a deep slumber. Despite his appearances, this knight wielded formidable power in the form of his staff, Acer Rubrum, a weapon of considerable repute. It stood the length of a man, and was wrought of a single maple trunk, reinforced with the spirit of his ancestors and polished until it shone like virgin snow. Inlaid along its surface were the names of his lineage and the names of his brothers and sisters-in-arms who had pledged allegiance to his cause and to whom he had similarly sworn blood oaths. These signatures were more than mere adornments for when he entered the fray he would summon their collective spirits to empower his righteous might. Samric’s countenance was ever serene, and he appeared to all to be light of heart and of foot, for frequently, he would grace his halls with melodious ballads and graceful dances. So intriguing were these displays that the ladies of the court were known to swoon at what they beheld.

Upon his arrival, the hearts of the Keepers soared to new heights of hope, for despite the miniscule chances of success, despite the hardships and the trials, lo and behold, the Six were assembled and the Fellowship was founded! The circle was complete. Each of the Six surveyed their brethren with love in their hearts and courage swelling their breast, for how could a company of such fine warriors falter? Each contemplated the truth of their existence, if the Six stayed true to themselves and to each other, surely there was nothing that could not be accomplished.

From the dark heights of his usurped throne, Jotnar smiled to himself.  Under persistent persuasion, Jenna had graciously informed him of the Prophecy and its fruition. His way forward seemed clear, if togetherness was the strength of the Six, then separately they must fall...

What the curd?

First, watch this spectacle (link)

Now, read on.

My first ever experiencing of a MLE (Major League Eating) sanctioned event was difficult to describe. On the one hand there is a certain amount of admiration, perhaps admiration is too generous of a word, how about: incredulity? Confusion? Nausea? Awestruck? All of those words put together would sort of describe my general feelings towards the World Poutine Championships, held on Saturday September 24th, 2011. I'm not sure how you'd feel about numerous men (and one woman) liquifying french fries, gravy, and cheese in one hand, and washing it down with some sort of warm, red substance, "kind of like human blood," was how one friend characterized it.

The winner, and defending champ, Patrick Bertoletti, consumed just under 10 pounds (!) of poutine in 10 minutes. To put that in perspective, let me list a few other things that weigh approximately 10 pounds. A newborn human baby weighs around 7 on average. He ate a BABY and a HALF. A bowling ball weighs approximately 10 pounds. Hold up one sec. Picture a bowling ball in your mind. Feel how round it is, the glossy texture, it's comforting weight, the smell of oiled substances, the sound of 10 pins scattering with deadly force. Now imagine eating it. What's really crazy here is that this was actually an off day for him. Last year he won the competition by eating 13 pounds of poutine. WTF. Let me do a little math for you:

One New York Fries poutine is approximately half a pound, according to http://caloriecount.about.com/calories-new-york-poutine-i121729 this tasty dish has:

710 calories

58% of daily recommended fat intake

50% of daily saturated fat intake

15% of daily cholesterol intake

41% of daily sodium intake

Not really a healthy snack for sure. Let's extrapolate how much 13 POUNDS OF POUTINE is:

18460 calories (2000-2400 calories is recommended). That's 923% more than recommended.

1508% of daily fat intake

1300% of saturated fat intake

390% of cholesterol intake

1066% of sodium intake

That means it should take me nine and a quarter days to eat what he ate in 10 minutes!! Just incredible. Or perhaps ridiculous. I'll let you decide. Here are more world records of the second ranked eater in the world. Apparently he's an up and coming star:

1. 16" Pizza: 47 slices big apple pizza / 10 Minutes
2. Blueberry Pie (Hands-Free): 9.17 lbs blueberry pie / 8 minutes
3. Chicken wings: 4.1 lbs / in 8 Minutes
4. Chocolate: 1 lbs, 15.5 oz Chicago Chocolate Hearts / 7 minutes
5. Corned Beef & Cabbage: 10.63 lbs Corned Beef & Cabbage / 10 Minutes
6. Corned Beef Sandwiches: 11 8-ounce Corned Beef Sandwiches / 10 minutes
7. Date Nut Bread: 29.5 Chock full o'Nuts Date Nut Bread and Cream Cheese Sandwiches / 8 minutes
8. Doughnuts, Cream-filled: 47 Glazed and Cream-filled Doughnuts / 5 minutes^[11]
9. Grits: 21 lbs of Grits / 10 minutes^[11]
10. Ice Cream, Short form: 1.75 pounds (gallons) Brooklyn Vanilla Ice Cream / 8 minutes^[12]
11. Jalapeños, Pickled: 98 Pickled Jalapeño Peppers after 47 donuts / 5 Minutes
12. Jalapeños, Pickled: 191 Pickled Jalapeño Peppers / 6.5 Minutes
13. Jalapeños, Pickled: 263 Pickled Jalapeño Peppers / 15 Minutes
14. Key Lime Pie: 10.8 pounds Key Lime Pie / 8 minutes^[11]
15. Kolaches: 44 Cherry Kolaches / 8 Minutes^[11]
16. Oysters, Short Form: 34 dozen Acme oysters / 8 Minutes^[11]
17. Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwiches: 42 PB&J / 10 minutes^[11]
18. Posole: 9 lbs, 3 ounces Posole / 12 Minutes
19. Shoo-Fly Pie: 11.1 Pounds Shoo-Fly Pie / 8 Minutes
20. Strawberry Rhubarb Pie: 7.9 lbs Strawberry Rhubarb Pie / 8 minutes
21. Strawberry Shortcake: 15.25 lbs Strawberry Shortcake / 8 Minutes
22. Waffles: 29 Waffles (8 oz.) / 10 Minutes^[11]
23. Whole Turkey: 4 pounds, 12.8 ounces roast turkey meat / 12 minutes
24. Whole Turkey, Short Form: 6.91 lbs roast turkey meat / 8 Minutes^[11]

Next year, I think I'll train for the amateur competition. Apparently, only 2.5 pounds would net me the trophy there. That's only a third of a baby.