Some random bits, serving to vaguely update my life.

I don’t ever talk about work, because I find talking about work boring. Also, people get d’ooced. But I’ll say that I am no longer travelling for work at all, which is fantastic, and the new department seems to think I am not a knuckle-dragging gorilla. I’ve been promoted, possibly to the chagrin of a couple of people. I’ll give them some thought and consideration (I know what it feels like), but I’m cool with it. There will always be haters.

 I desperately miss my brother’s daughter, my niece. She is now in India, and will be returning in one month to Vancouver. I can’t believe how much I miss her. She doesn’t have yet have object permanence, is still working out her motor skills, and often smells awful, but she’s managed to capture my heart. Seriously, I’ll find myself thinking about her and how much of her growing up I am missing.

 I am working towards a professional designation, the 5^th, 6^th, and 7^th letters after my name. It has sucked up all my time and I am falling behind on fitness goals. What’s worse, having no time to make proper food, my diet has gone to hell. Worst of all, I have no excuse for this, really (other than a pretty bad cold the last two weeks). This is a product of laziness and bad planning. No longer. Things will change.

 I went to Alberta Gallery of Art’s opening. What a spectacular building, and a decent collection. I am a member, and I will be spending a lot of time there, even the odd lunch hour.

 I am currently reading Nikolski by Nicholas Dickner. It is quite good, paced nicely, a quick, snappy, easy read. I am in the early going, but am terribly curious, a good sign. My interest in the book stems from Canada Reads, another reason the CBC must survive, survive, survive. This program gets people reading Canadian books. My taxes can pay for that any day.

 I am going on vacation in a little over a week, to a resort in Mexico. I have mixed feelings about it, though I will enjoy my shut down time, my time to do nothing but sit in the sun and watch my life tick away. I wonder how long before the underpaid manual labour bringing me yet another water-down drink will tickle my proletarian sympathies. I suspect two days.

Mexico is the winter escape, but our real trip will be, it looks like, in July or August, and it looks like it will be back home. A’s friend’s and family are welcoming a couple of new children, and we’ll have to fly to Vancouver to see them. I hope/suspect this will take only a few days (having spent a week of vacation in Vancouver last year, I realize it is a colossal waste of time), and we will be off down the scenic Pacific Northwest coast. I am especially keen to see the dunes of Oregon’s shores, an experience that everyone says will stay with me for the rest of my life.

 Edmonton has ceased growing on me. Plans are afoot to leave it, at least in my head. But that won’t be for a couple of years yet, friends. A couple of years yet.

Nerd? Of course.

Hi sweetness,

So, I was sitting here, working on something, and the pod started talking about those two kids that died in Millet and began speculating about the nature of evil (in their own halting, ham-fisted way). I stayed out of the conversation, even when it got into pseudo-history of this type and that type, including ignorant conversations about people who put to death their own children in order to spare them the evil that was to descend upon them.

I tried ignoring this train of thought, but then, of all things, Blood Meridian entered my mind. Specifically, the last part, the words of one of the major characters began rattling around in my mind, sending me reeling. I had to take a walk, a frown on my face, and found myself sort of lost. This, by the way, is the sign of a extremely talented writer – not only did I remember the text, its musicality, its content, but I remembered how I felt when I read those words a couple of days ago. And I grew very sad, and angry, and helpless.

After my little break, I came back to work. I set up some meetings. I started writing something, but I was still troubled.

Then D. (ed. note: my cousin, who is taking the same class I am taking) called, in all his questioning, confused, lisping glory, asking this and that about our assignment and, without me even knowing it, I forgot my troubles. I forgot what I was thinking. The phrase that was rattling in my brain lifted, and its implications floated away.

And I thought, I have to tell A. about this.

Love,

T.

Also, I often tell myself it’s my work, for better or worse. I am writing it for myself.

I was again jarred from this narcissistic position when I read this exchange from the AV Club’s interview with director-provocateur Michael Haneke:

AV Club: There are artists whose attitude is “My work is my work, and if people see it or not, I have no control over that.” But your films seem to demand a response from the audience. The way people react to them is as much a part of the film as the object itself. How important is reaching an audience to you?

Michael Haneke: If a director says he doesn’t care how many people see his films at all, I simply don’t believe him. Otherwise why would he bother to make the film? The only explanation would be that it would be an act of masturbation. I think that every creator is looking for a receptor. He’s looking for an audience. There are two parts of the equation: a creator and, necessarily, the receiver of the work. It’s the same thing for a painter who wants his paintings to be seen. However, if you betray your principles in the hopes of reaching a wider audience, then that’s as fatal as betraying your belief. Even the most elitist director or author who claims that he doesn’t care if his works are seen or not, then I have to think that he’s either a liar or a hypocrite. 

—

There was a time, I remember, that I wrote things for an audience, with the full intention of getting it “out there.” There was a moment where this ambition ceased, and I think it was because of some ridicule that was directed my way.

Also, because I didn’t think I was very good.

Both are silly reasons. Ridicule is to be expected. If I’m not good, I should get better. And writing something, and trying to write well, but never showing it to anyone is utter hypocrisy. Maybe writing for myself, and telling myself it’s only for me is, indeed, masturbation.

That sort of thing makes you go blind.

But, the very air started to freeze. We looked outside on Sunday morning, and it looked cold. Not snowy or wintry, but cold. The moisture in the air was freezing, and suspending, creating an ice fog. This is actually a thing.

 Saturday night, Edmonton was the coldest inhabited place on Earth. There were some weather stations in fucking Siberia that were colder, but people have the good sense to not actually live there. Here, we have no sense of any kind, including in our toes which, despite shoes, layers of socks, and vigorous stamping, have lost all feeling.

 The very air froze, and hung there, shimmering, brooding, and menacing me from my warm apartment window. I looked at it for a few minutes. I was afraid. It was as if Death itself was slowing, turning, revealing itself, reminding us that should we stay too long in its embrace, it would never let go.

 Why do we live in a city that features weather that could kill us in less than an hour? The general excuse/defense for living in such conditions – “Well, at least the sun is shining” – rings hollow when the loogie I spit freezes (and glints in the sunshine as it arcs in the air) before it hits the ground. I don’t care if the sun is shining, my car windows are freezing on the inside.

 “You know,” my friend ‘Art’ tells me, “even block heaters stop working after a certain temperature. The current does not run well along your extension cord, and your heater does not turn on.”

 It is so cold, even electricity was giving up. I started at Art, in disbelief, and imagined a cloud of electrons, staring out from an electrical socket, and harshly whispering “fuck it.” I imagine it putting on its bathrobe, turning up the temperature, warming up a cup of cocoa (and “correcting” it with a bit of brandy), and kicking back with the Tiger Woods issue of Us Weekly. A cold engine be damned!

 It was around about the time I wiped my nose and the resulting moisture on my finger began to steam off that I quashed any idea of living here the rest of my life. No. It won’t do. It’s not worth it. I find no smugness in telling friends who live in saner climes “Cold? You don’t know cold.”

No. It’s a mystery. A man’s at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it. You believe that?

– from Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

I felt a need to read this book again. McCarthy’s books are grim explorations of our nature, written in a hard, sparse, unforgiving language that still manages to be some of the most descriptive, haunting prose I have ever read. I do recommend reading this book, but steeling yourself against it. It is a broadside to your morals, to your inner order. But it is still somehow rewarding.

Whatever the case, I recommend a series currently running in the Edmonton Journal. It was suggested to me by A, and I’ve enjoyed the first couple of installments.

Stretching is very important. It is one of those basic, simple (and mindbogglingly tedious) things you can do that yields wonderful results. I failed at it yesterday, after some vigorous exercise. I failed to stretch soon enough and long enough after an intense, and really fun, spin class.

I’ve finally begun paying for it. I suspect the -30 temperatures didn’t help matters any.

I run again tomorrow. I will be mindful.

I thought Old Man Winter had overlooked these parts.

The weather had remained civilized late into the year, pushing into its final month. November was cold, but certainly not as cold as it could have been. But the final page on my calendar turned, and with it came the darkness of suddenly short days, and the skin-shaving cold.

Currently, it’s unbearable. A smile/frown/grimace plastered itself on my face this morning, as I hopped, turned and twisted, trying to find in motion some measure of warmth. The bus came quickly, and I gratefully boarded.

As usual, the weather stirred some forgotten feelings in me. I began to take stock.

What am I doing here? Besides my tropical blood, I grew up in a temperate (if wet) climate. I’ve had beer on sunny balconies in February. My beard had nary an icicle in it before I moved here.

But then, I take great pleasure in answering the question (why on earth did you move from there, to here?) in the following way:

“Why else would a young, relatively well-educated man move to a city of decidedly less charms?”

“Oh. What’s her name?”

A character in the book I’m reading (Netherland, by Joseph O’Neill, meh, it’s OK) has only one rule: absolutely no regrets. I have none in my decision to move here. Sure, my life is harder in many ways, but in many more it’s better. So much better that I not only have no regrets about moving here, but I celebrate it. I’ve marked the two anniversaries of my settling here in my own private way, with my little indulgence. Its passing is a definite marker, a point where I feel myself getting farther from an existence that had become difficult for me. I suppose it’s trite to say I’ve changed. But I have, in significant and important ways.

Nevermind the misty goings on of my personal development. Something else occured to me riding the bus this morning. An artifact from my hometown is my preference for light, airy, shell jackets, usually layered with Gore-Tex and fused with a water-beading surface treatment. Although perfect for the gales that lash the West Coast, this strategy is less than ideal for one of the driest climates in this country. See, when it gets cold back where I’m from, I put on a fleece before putting on a shell. I thought I would deal with the Edmonton cold by simply adding more layers.

I was wrong. And let me now declare, the difference between “wet” cold and “dry” cold becomes meaningless at around -10. After that point, it’s just plain cold.

My fondness for light shell jackets has meant a growing collection of inadequate warmth layers in my closet, and a legacy of split zippers. This year, I’ve had enough. I can no longer stuff down-filled vests and fleece jackets under my Columbia shells anymore. Besides being inadequate, I am damaging some very nice garments. I will have to enter forsaken territory.

I will have to buy a coat.

Buying a coat has turned out to be a strenuous affair. I am a big man, and finding an adequate coat is not simply a matter of finding the right size. It seems this, the final layering, is the most shape-fickle garment of all. It seems that many a coat makes me look fat.

Also, coats are expensive. I found the perfect coat last year, and it cost $1,500. I suppose I could buy those survival, puffy, down-filled Michelin Man monstrosities that look comfortable and work like a survivalist dream. But you look like an idiot. And you look fat.

I think of all this as I sit in my seat, listening to Cat Power, my body rocking to Jasper Avenue’s pot-holed message to my bones. And I know, by this time next week, I will be the owner of a thick, warmth-trapping, cozy coat. I know I will delight when A. shoulders on my coat because her little body is cold, but also, secretly, becomes it smells of me.

I won’t, however, be able to escape the idea that, no matter how silly the notion, buying a coat will seal the permanence of my stay. Shivering and hopping on the street, under layers of down, wool, fleece and one shell jacket, is a signal that I’m not cut out for this town, and it would be better if I left.

A coat will raise that question in me, make take stock in the change I took two years ago: am I here to stay?

Am I?

There is a talent to this. I had to finesse it in such a way that I did come off looking horrible and nasty, but still managing to conjure a response. Actually, I wasn’t going to do anything, but I received an email and, in turn, inspiration.

The context:  I am part of a committee that fosters “fun.” This includes getting birthday cake, helping with parties, etc. I get some attention from this, but mostly because I am one of only two men in this group of some 20 people. As such, I sometimes receive credit for things I simply didn’t do. In this instance, M_____ S_____ purchased two chocolate cakes for N_____ N_____’s birthday.

After the cake was distributed, M_____ and I received the following email:

_____________________________________________
From: N_____, N_____
Sent: Friday, November 27, 2009 3:13 PM
To: S_____, M_____; TSS
Subject: Thank-You

 Thank you guys for the awesome cakes!

M_____ complained to me about my inclusion in this email because I had nothing whatsoever to do with the procurement, shipment or distribution of the cakes. The joke, however, was too good to pass up. I responded:

_____________________________________________
From: TSS
Sent: Friday, November 27, 2009 3:23 PM
To: N_____, N_____ S_____, M_____
Subject: RE: Thank-You

 You’re most welcome, N_____, though I want to respectfully correct you on one point. 

M_____ had nothing to do with the procurement, shipment, distribution of the cake. 

Just thought you’d like to know. 

T.

The explosion that occurred after this was sent out is something I’ll leave to your imagination. But it was grand. Everything I could’ve wanted. I was greatly amused (at the unfortunate expense of my friend M_____). She responded thusly (note her Anglican roots coming out in anger):

_____________________________________________
From: S_____, M_____
Sent: Friday, November 27, 2009 3:30 PM
To: TSS ; N_____, N_____
Subject: RE: Thank-You

Also, if I may clear up a small thing:  

TSS is a rotter, a bounder, and a shameless cad.  

Just saying.

I was left with no other response but the following:

From: TSS
Sent: Friday, November 27, 2009 3:35 PM
To: N_____, N_____ S_____, M_____
Subject: RE: Thank-You

I plead guilty on all counts.

Last Saturday, A. and I decided to spend the night together, doing what we wanted to do. Because we are rapidly entering into old age, our night’s plans consisted of going to places “where we could use these coupons.”

It was a cold, crisp, dry night, and very, very dark. The prairies are falling into winter, into short days and long, freezing nights. This dictated our food choice, as we thought warm broth and noodles would warm our bellies, and our adjacent souls. We settled on Phobulous. We would finish the night with a cup of herbal or rooibos.

We did not expect much. A place that puns on the word pho in its title and menu items is, to our minds, trying to hide something. What else would explain it? But we had coupons, a buy 1, get another-type deal, and a bad bowl of pho would still be a hot bowl of pho, so off we went.

After a bit of driving and parking drama (honestly, Edmonton, it’s called city planning… you want to make your city alive and vibrant, freakin’ plan it!), we squeezed into a spot and settled into a 15 minute wait for our table.

Whenever I try a new restaurant, I like to try the staples. If they can’t get the basics right, I have a hard time trusting the more difficult items. I know, I know, pho is relatively simple, broth with noodles and protein. But getting broth right isn’t easy. Cooking the meat right isn’t easy. Getting the flavours from scratch is not easy. Do they use fresh sides? How do they make it worth my trip?

We ordered vegetarian spring rolls, full of onions, sprouts, herbs and, heavens be thanked, taro root. Our second course would be a shared papaya salad, classic Southeast Asian fare. I love this salad. At its best, is tangy, sweet, nutty, spicy and refreshing. At it’s worse, it’s a large, sloppy, sour mess.

I would finish with giant bowl of pho, made with brisket and rare skirt steak.

The room is very nice. Modern, clean, just enough tables to make it feel alive, but not crowded. I thought our table would be awkward, given that it backed into a long, high table, lined with stools. The height of the stools meant we’d have bum in our face all night.

But it wasn’t a problem. The spring rolls came really quick (we found out later that we had gotten another table’s spring rolls, ones they had been waiting on for 15 minutes), and we dug in. Like many simple, deep-fried, pocket-type pastries, spring rolls are easy to make, but very hard to make well. I am big believer in proper deep-frying. I think, if done with precision and care, deep-fried dishes are not only delicious, but they aren’t greasy. I’ll write a post about this some other time.

These spring rolls were perfect. They were delicious. Lightly flavoured with the fat they were fried in, stuffed with goodness, we ate them slowly, carefully, savouring each crunchy, oily bite. We were stunned. That it was unexpected was one thing, but these rolls were perfect.

The salad came eventually. Mandolined papaya, pickled carrots, strips of very dry, very tough jerky, peanuts, tiny bits of golden fried onions, dressed lightly in lime juice and finished with Thai basil and cilantro. Classic all around (maybe not the jerky – I thought it a questionable addition until I discovered the pleasure of moistening and chewing the hard, rubbery jerky with various liquids at my disposal, including lime juice, moisture from the vegetables, oil from the peanuts, etc), and very well done again. Cold, textured and refreshing, it is a great follow-up to the spring rolls. It has a satisfying crunch, a mingling of sour and sweet, and is just fun to eat. I’ve been meaning to add papaya salad to my home rotation, and this one is a good reminder why.

A. is a veteran traveller of South East Asia. She spent 10 months in Indochina, mostly in Vietnam, where she taught English and wrote for the ex-pat newspaper. I saw her falling back into her memories, smiling and remembering Hanoi’s busy streets, her favourite food stands, and the dainty little Vietnamese women who would polish of their gigantic bowls of pho in admirable flurry of gobbles and slurps. “I was twice their size,” she said, “but I could only finish half as much. Truly remarkable.”

It was in the middle of such musings that our (indeed, gigantic) bowls of pho arrived. With it, a second set of spring rolls, which were our actual order, but now got diverted to a table of probably disgruntled patrons. There was no mistaking it. It was pho, with all the trimmings. A delicious broth, white noodles and curls of beef throughout. A bit of rare meat lay above the surface, which I swirled in to the scalding broth so it would cook nicely. A hearty side of limes, sprouts, sarachi, and soy sauce followed, and we began our customization of our soup. I like mine to be as hot and acidic as possible, so in went the sarachi and the lime juice. I add the sprouts in shifts, so they don’t get soggy and lose their crunch.

“This is excellent,” A. muttered as she downed her chicken pho. “Delicious and authentic. This is the real deal.” I could not verify the latter assertion, but I agreed with the former. I wanted to swim in the bowl. The broth was perfect. It changed our moods. Where once were resigned to the cold, dark, howling night, we became defiant and joyous. As our bellies warmed, and with it our chests, limbs, and fingers. We smiled and laughed and marvelled at our good fortune, happy we were in this bright place, made brighter by the inky darkness outside. The food reminded us of other lands, stirring our desires and fantasies to visit them.

I couldn’t quite finish the bowl, which was better than A., who only got through about half. We slumped in our chairs, full, contemplating the rest of the night. We decided on tea and reading, which, again, given this city, was something we’d have to drive to.

No matter. I paid the bill (happily noting the Vietnamese women working in the kitchen), and we were off. The night had gotten even darker, if it was possible. We felt like it was 10 pm. It was, in fact, only 8:30. It made us tired.

Parking the car at home, we made our way over to Steeps. This little tea shop, the original in a now not-unsuccessful chain, is fine place to spend an hour reading or scribbling. We chose our tea (a lavender rooibos for me, which was not very good, and an excellent East Frisian tea for her), and settled in. She was reading John Hersey’s Hiroshima, soon to switch over to People magazine, and I was starting Evan Wright’s Generation Kill.

The night would’ve ended like this, uneventful, simple, relaxing, had it not been for the very obvious first date that was transpiring behind us. This guy had brought this girl to this slightly run-down, wooden, comfortable tea shop, scoring many points in the thoughtful/cool/interesting category. She was impressed, I think, and would have remained so if he had not begun bloviating on his personal history.

My, was he ever loud. I’ll admit to eavesdropping, but really I couldn’t help overhearing this guy go on about the troubles, tribulations and triumphs of his life. Some gems, most likely paraphrased:

“I grew up Christian. Really Christian.”

“I found myself if Bible college, and then I went to Kimberly. There I had an epiphany. I started questioning myself, my father. I’m not that way any more.”

“I love to read. I read as much as I can. I really like the new Ondaatje (which he pronounced “on-daat-ja”). Um. Also, I like Douglas Adams. Yeah. You know, A Hitchhiker’s Guide To the Galaxy? I think all of human philosophy is represented in those books.”

“I also like A Fine Balance. It’s Indian.”

“Oh, I can’t forget, Lewis Carroll’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I really enjoy those books.”

Really. You enjoyed perhaps the most famous Christian allegory of modern times, after telling this girl you spent considerable time and effort extricating yourself from Christianity. Quit while you’re ahead, tea-drinking cool dude. Quit while you’re ahead.

I smiled. I hooked my hand under A.’s knee, and found a comfortable angle in my armchair. I hope you get to do this, friend. I hope you get past your first date.