Seems silly.
Life is good.
2.5.10
WR: But what they do they will do without me for I have gone to the mountain trees
So about this time last year I was in a very small, very shitty car with people I loved, driving on small shitty roads to a small shitty town with a large shitty log pile. There was euphoria and sadness and quintessential summer, you know the kind, in movies with blurry soft lenses and popsicles and sand under feet and all that. And we listened to this song and for me at least, (there we go with the Americana again), it was a fitting backdrop to all the sun and the rain and comings and goings. Two of us were starting an extremely difficult backcountry job, one of us was emigrating to France or East Africa or Kashmir or something, two of us were breaking up, all of us were kind of freewheeling at least a little bit.
I've since developed a pretty strong relationship with the Greyhound, which is good because it looks like we'll be continuing that liaison this summer, starting tomorrow, when I go plant trees again, this time alone. So see you later blog, civilization, bike lanes and butcher shops, all that, I'm out, to be resumed in a few months' time.
I've since developed a pretty strong relationship with the Greyhound, which is good because it looks like we'll be continuing that liaison this summer, starting tomorrow, when I go plant trees again, this time alone. So see you later blog, civilization, bike lanes and butcher shops, all that, I'm out, to be resumed in a few months' time.
25.4.10
W.R: In which it becomes obvious that I'm a math nerd
Right now I'm spending hours at my desk studying for my last exam, which is math, because I'm partly a math major. I've liked math all my life. Like pi. And pie. We played this song in ninth grade I think, and math is on my mind:
Related: It irks me when professors use π for anything other than the concept 3.14159. Yes, it's a greek letter, but there are others. Pick xi or something, I think it feels neglected. Also using the letter t as a variable, because with my handwriting it looks like a plus sign, so you get something like ∫t2 t t ttt tt 89 d/dt. Stop that shit.
I need to get out more.
Related: It irks me when professors use π for anything other than the concept 3.14159. Yes, it's a greek letter, but there are others. Pick xi or something, I think it feels neglected. Also using the letter t as a variable, because with my handwriting it looks like a plus sign, so you get something like ∫t2 t t ttt tt 89 d/dt. Stop that shit.
I need to get out more.
24.4.10
The Sun sets near Flagstaff
I remember rolling evening into night, having passed the plains of Kansas with their giant windmills imposing a sort of Don Quixotic view of a land otehrwise brown and flat. Flyover country at its finest. Low buildings and the American lonely road, route 66 indeed, down to northern Arizona. I had borrowed a book from my seatmate and read it, an uninspired drama mystery ending in extortion and love and of course an oozing blood trunk. And then there was nothing to do at all. I sat crosslegged watching the road, counting mile after mile and twentyfive minutes seemed so long a time to wait. Nothing but darkness and an illuminated shrub here and there and the endlessly repeating reflective strips on the side of the road, signalling towers on the horizon blinking red in the distance. And the bus rolled on in my impatience.
18.4.10
I do this for myself because I am my own fatherland, and my handkerchief is my flag.
I'm taking a break from memorizing neurotransmitters and ionic/metabolistic gates (fascinating to the many neuro/med kids in my classes, a bit distant to me) to bring you some quotes from Reinhold Messner, one of my many heroes, to remind myself that within two weeks I will be in a place that no pavement can reach. It's terrifying, and exhilarating, and stressful, and worrisome, and inviting, and I don't know what else. I guess that might describe Messner's life as well:
“Today I am amazed that my father did not forbid us to make such first ascents. At that time I had a confused picture of freedom: today the name is the only thing people know about freedom. They want to be free of laws, free of everyday cares, free of hate, free of ambition. Who knows what freedom is? No one. I often think that we mountaineers get nearest to it, this paradise on earth. Or, to put it another way: the truly free climber is one who obeys no rules. He is no high flyer, keeping up with the Joneses; no slave of others or of the summit fall line, like the directtissima men. I am sorry for them all, but especially for those who do not realize at all that rules force their way between them and the mountains.”
“I do this for myself because I am my own fatherland, and my handkerchief is my flag.”
“Over time, our only chance at safety will depend on not turning the mountains into Disneyland.”
"I am nothing more than a single narrow gasping lung, floating over the mists and summits."
"Mountains are not fair or unfair, they are just dangerous."
“Today I am amazed that my father did not forbid us to make such first ascents. At that time I had a confused picture of freedom: today the name is the only thing people know about freedom. They want to be free of laws, free of everyday cares, free of hate, free of ambition. Who knows what freedom is? No one. I often think that we mountaineers get nearest to it, this paradise on earth. Or, to put it another way: the truly free climber is one who obeys no rules. He is no high flyer, keeping up with the Joneses; no slave of others or of the summit fall line, like the directtissima men. I am sorry for them all, but especially for those who do not realize at all that rules force their way between them and the mountains.”
“I do this for myself because I am my own fatherland, and my handkerchief is my flag.”
“Over time, our only chance at safety will depend on not turning the mountains into Disneyland.”
"I am nothing more than a single narrow gasping lung, floating over the mists and summits."
"Mountains are not fair or unfair, they are just dangerous."
17.4.10
Weekend! Retrospective
Nope, no Panic at the disco here, I was too old for them by the time they came around, thankfully. But when I was a kid, I listened on tape to the adventures of a giant talking St. Bernard dog in stopmotion. The music for it is very characteristic, but I can't find any of it, so here's a short stop-motion clip of a giant St. Bernard taking a drive - a bedtime story, actually, when I was six. You can kind of hear the tune. Man, my childhood was awesome.
13.4.10
Don't let that horse eat that violin, cried Chagall's mother
Whimsy with a touch of surrealism, or potentially surrealism with a touch of whimsy.
It would be wonderful to see an edition of Master and Margarita with illustrations by Chagall - I wonder if that would be possible, or if it would violate all copyright laws known to man to put two such disparate individuals' work together.
I personally think his paintings fit in rather well with the flying through the night, masked balls at Satan's place, burning manuscripts, white flowers, talking cats thing. It was actually my immediate association. My second association is one of my favourite Ferlinghetti poems. Ferlinghetti, Bulgakov, and Chagall - strange bedfellows indeed!
Don't let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall's mother
But he
kept right on
painting
And became famous
And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth
And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin
And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across
And there were no strings
attached
It would be wonderful to see an edition of Master and Margarita with illustrations by Chagall - I wonder if that would be possible, or if it would violate all copyright laws known to man to put two such disparate individuals' work together.
I personally think his paintings fit in rather well with the flying through the night, masked balls at Satan's place, burning manuscripts, white flowers, talking cats thing. It was actually my immediate association. My second association is one of my favourite Ferlinghetti poems. Ferlinghetti, Bulgakov, and Chagall - strange bedfellows indeed!
Don't let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall's mother
But he
kept right on
painting
And became famous
And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth
And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin
And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across
And there were no strings
attached
11.4.10
Weekend Retrospective: The Bus Edition
For my summer job, I plant trees. Lots of them, little ones, big ones, all over the place. We own northern Ontario, yo. (Well, actually, the Queen does.) The thing about this job is that a lot of people hate it, including a crewboss that shared my ride to the block every day. (Incidentally, my ride to work every day was a blue short bus named the Vagiant, which was written in big letters on its front roof). His supreme hatred for planting trees was kind of a spectacle and increased exponentially throughout the season.
Northern Ontario weather is famously fickle, and we were at least 100km from the nearest place anyone took readings for, so when the weather forecast was seventeen celsius and it started snowing, no one was that shocked. As we huddled into our fleeces, started bitching at least a little because that was allowed, and played mental gymnastics with our resolve, he put on this song:
The rest of this post is dedicated to the insurmountable entity that is the planting bus. Old schoolbusses with 200000 km on them, driving where the average SUV fears to tread, always there, sometimes pushed, sometimes pulled, but always there.
Northern Ontario weather is famously fickle, and we were at least 100km from the nearest place anyone took readings for, so when the weather forecast was seventeen celsius and it started snowing, no one was that shocked. As we huddled into our fleeces, started bitching at least a little because that was allowed, and played mental gymnastics with our resolve, he put on this song:
The rest of this post is dedicated to the insurmountable entity that is the planting bus. Old schoolbusses with 200000 km on them, driving where the average SUV fears to tread, always there, sometimes pushed, sometimes pulled, but always there.
9.4.10
Trouble me tomorrow, today I have no sorrow
It's a well-known fact that I have a huge affection for various good old days Americana. I also have a huge affection for bluegrass. In honour of my friend's pretty fantastic bluegrass show last night, during which they played this song:
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