Fish story

I have a folder on my laptop in which I have a bunch of text files written when working offline. Some of them become eventual blog posts, but more often, I forget about them entirely until months later. This little piece was dated July 29th, 2007. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote it, but perhaps it may resonate with someone somehow.

* * *

Pacific salmon
Swimming against the current
Don't you know?
The current won't shift
Passive, patient,
Calculating the flow
Take your time
You'll have your day.

Or another's.
Du jour, the special
Catch of the day
And a sandwich, a salad, a bed of rice.

Resist the tide.
Break the waves.
Though you may
Be eaten alive.

And challenge the fears that hold you back
And go down fighting, and not as snack.

Weak Signal

I was out for dinner a few days ago with a number of my old MSA friends that I had not seen in several years. Among those present at the dinner, half of the group was now married, while the rest of us were all in various stages of transition from academia to the working life. The topic of conversation briefly moved to marriage, and the married folk among my friends insisted on offering their thoughts and feelings on what marriage means.

One offered up this analogy:

"Finding a wife ... is like finding a good cell phone plan. It takes a long time, but if you get the right one, it's ... very good."

He tried supporting his analogy with some examples, but I don't think anyone quite understood the point he was trying to make. Or maybe it was just me; marriage metaphors are just not my thing.

"I'm on a Pay-as-you-Go plan," I replied. "I don't think that would be quite ethical..."

The evening remained quite enjoyable, but the married folks eventually had to leave, unable to join the rest of us for the obligatory post-dinner Tim Hortons trip.

"Yeah, I should get back home," one said. "My wife called a few times."

One of my friends offered the following retort, which finally made sense of the absurd cell phone analogy.

"Oh, so I take it you've ran out of minutes?"

Allegorical Absurdity: Three Little Pigs

There once was a pig, who lived in the West
Amid the fields and mountains did this pig rest
Lush blades of green crowning the valley crest
A world of his own, quite different from the rest

But the elements were strong, at the winters' last thaw
The torrents coming down, from which pig could not withdraw
The pressure built with time, exposing the valleys' flaw
So he built himself a home of the sturdiest straw

'twas the finest stalk he could find, this little pig
and so danced the pig, a merry little jig!
not a strand out of place, not a single twig!
a basement for a bunker, did this pig dig!

And along came a wolf, or perhaps her twin!
Poor little pig, his hair standing on his skin!
"Little pig, little pig, let me in!"
"Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!"

And she huffed, and she puffed, and gave it her all
And though the straw may have shifted, the hut did not fall
When at last the pig saw an escape, and began to crawl
To find another valley to raise another wall

Little time he had to spare, as another wolf was near
Little pig felt exposed, out there in the clear
Little did pig know that it was that time of year
When wolves do their hunting, when pigs should disappear!

And with the help of another, he built a house of wood
"This time they'd come back harder", as any wolf would
The straw hut did well, in the valley it still stood
But a house of oak and pine would teach those wolves good.

And thus the wolf approached, to the hut of oak and pine
As the pigs stood motionless in their little shrine
The hour was near, we'd see the strength of their design!
The pigs in anticipation, thinking they'd be fine.

And thus the wolf approached, with an evilish grin!
But the house was of wood, much to her chagrin
"Little pig, little pig, let me in!"
"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

And she huffed, and she puffed, to blow the house away
But in spite of heavy puffing, the house would not sway
Annoyed and offended, the wolf was heard to say,
"No fair, I'm a wolf, not a thing of play!"

Still insecure, the pigs thought it best to move
After all, the wolves would eventually find their groove
If they wanted to remain safe, they'd have to improve
And find a solution that mother pig would approve

A third wolf came around, coming from a land far away
Where pigs resist her taunts in houses made of clay
Perhaps this wolf would see where the first two went astray
And catch the little pigs without further delay

The house of wood was strong, but was it strong enough?
Rumour had it that this new wolf was very very tough
Wood may not have lasted against her huff and her puff
To beat this latest threat, they'd need some stronger stuff!

So three pigs conspired, they had to think quick!
This wolf was no slouch, they'd need something thick.
Finally, one pig thought, "why not use some brick?"
The others applauded, "that should do the trick!"

Thus, a hut was built, of the finest mortar and stone.
And the torrents came down harder, the wind would howl and moan
The rain pelted the rooftops, the storm disconnected the phone
And along came the wolf, and this one wasn't alone.

They imagined the walls crashing down, reminiscent of Berlin!
The pigs peeked out in fear, it was about to begin...
"Little pig, little pig, let me in!"
"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"

And so she huffed, and she puffed, and she huffed again
Then blew with all her might, until her lungs were drained
The rustic house of brick was able to resist the strain
And the wolves decided it was time to end their campaign.

The first little pig remained in the house, withdrawn
Thinking the wolf threat was now completely gone
Little did pig know that the threat would respawn
As a fourth hungry wolf awaited on the lawn!

The pig heard a voice, and he called out from within,
"Who awaits on my lawn, and speaks therein?"
She said, "little pig, little pig, let me in!"
"Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!"

"But it's huffing, and puffing, and going to get cold!"
Confused, the pig decided it was time to be bold.
He cracked open the door, and lo and behold!
Was a friendly little wolf, with a teapot in hold.

"I just wanted to know," she said, "if you'd like some tea.
You already offended my sisters, one, two, and three!
And I thought it would be nice to share, if only you'd agree
We're only trying to be nice and neighbourly."

And thus it became clear, this was no deadly scheme,
All that huffing and puffing was just the call of the steam.
And now poor pig has a reputation to redeem,
Learning that wolves are not always what they seem.

[Protected] Allegorical Absurdity: The Ugly Duckling

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Allegorical Absurdity: Goldilocks

Once upon a time, a young girl named Goldilocks was prancing through the woods during a brisk fall day. Of course, she wasn't the brightest of little girls. She should have known better than to wander the woods alone, and it certainly wasn't a good idea to embark on this journey with no provisions. Lost, cold, and hungry, Goldilocks wasn't sure if she'd make it through the night. So when she stumbled upon an isolated house in the forest, her first instinct was to knock on the door and hope the owners would invite her in for dinner.

So she knocked and knocked, and yet no one would answer the door. But when she gripped the large wooden doorknob herself, she noticed that the door wasn't locked. So the little girl named Goldilocks took the liberty of inviting herself in.

The house was much bigger than she expected. Inside, she saw a beautifully decorated dinner table stretching far into the main hall, with a warm fire burning in the fireplace. The finest china, expensive silverware, and ornate napkins were neatly laid out in front of each of the dozens of chairs surrounding the table. And at every seat, there was a hearty bowl of porridge prepared for the eventual guests. What a feast the owners had prepared! What great fortune that the tired and hungry Goldilocks stumbled upon this house in the middle of the forest!

Goldilocks was hungry. There was no one home. So, without hesitation, she tasted the porridge from the first bowl.

"This porridge is too hot!" she exclaimed.

So, she tasted the porridge from the second bowl.

"This porridge is too cold," she said.

So, she tasted the third bowl of porridge.

"Ahhh, this porridge is just right," she said happily. "But perhaps just a bit too salty."

So, she glanced at the fourth bowl of porridge.

"This porridge is too dark!"

Fortunately, there was a fifth bowl. She took one hefty spoonful to her mouth.

"But this porridge is too light!"

And the sixth bowl? "This porridge is just too thick."

And the seventh was too thin.

The eighth? "Oatmeal, barley... I should really watch my carbs."

She tasted from the ninth bowl of porridge, but it tasted a bit old. The tenth bowl seemed undercooked.

And this went on. And on. And on.

* * *

The three bears had returned home. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and little Baby Bear. Not shortly afterwards. Not the same night. Not the next day. It was nearly a week later that the bears finally returned, after a disaster relief effort in a neighbouring forest kept them busy. They were, after all, very noble bears, always willing to help a soul in need.

And there she was, she of the golden locks, lying faint in the hall. Malnourished. Thin. Her face laying in a small puddle of her own drool. Her golden locks were dirty and wet. Papa bear looked upon her with shock.

"A little girl!", exclaimed Papa Bear.

"Is she alright? Is she breathing?", Mama Bear cried, as she ran to the sick child. She was still breathing, but she had clearly lost consciousness. Mama Bear brought some water, and did her best to wake up the fallen Goldilocks by giving her small sips.

"But what about all the porridge we left out for any visitors?" the baby bear lamented, as he bounced up to his little chair. "Someone's been eating my porridge, but she only ate a bite!"

With this, Goldilocks began to regain consciousness. Just a little, but she managed to squeak out two words. "Too ... salty .. " With that, she collapsed again into the arms of Mama Bear.

Papa Bear looked at Mama Bear, who in turn was affectionately looking upon the poor, hungry child. Papa Bear felt little sympathy, though. "Some people," he growled, "are just too picky."

the blurst of times

a thousand monkeys at a thousand laptops a novel does not make
for behind the words is a work of sweat, hardship and heartache
yet the monkeys tried and sweat they did, all for menial pay
but still they tried, and felt inside they'd finally have their day

most would fail, to no avail was their random typing
a broken dream, they'd yell and scream and wouldn't quit their griping
but there was success, as the monkey press made it so well known
some did their best, made it big, and now are on their own

one group punched many keys but they were gibberish at best
but those who read them came to greet them, thinking they expressed
words of sorrow, words of anger, appealing to the stressed
and the group broke off, became big stars, and went out to the west

others smashed away, an odd array, of u's and i's and t's
but some found words that appealed to nerds of dubious degrees
and thus they learned and quickly turned to their expertise
and made big bucks, in their monkey tux, doing as they please

one remained who wrote his mind, he had so much to say
of humour, heartache and all between, in a unique monkey way
and the monkey earned respect and love, and oh so much hype!
but all alone and in the light, poor monkey couldn't type.

Havelli

The Child circled around the empty rink a number of times, dragging his feet along to the cries of the Coach.

"Be like Lemieux!", the Coach cried. "Be Jagr! Be Spezza!"

The Child found some determination hearing the names of his modern heroes, kicked his skates back, and rushed towards the puck. He pushed forward and handled the puck with his stick and then focused squarely on the empty net. Pushing the puck from side to side, the Child reached the slot, and fired a shot towards the net with all the force and aggression he could muster.

He missed completely. The puck bounced off the corner, and settled in the snow along the boards.

"Go after it!" cried the coach.

The Child grabbed the puck from the corner, circled around, and fired another shot at a sharp angle. He missed completely.

The Child looked back at the Coach while skating towards the puck on the other side. With his eyes focused squarely on the Coach, he fired another shot. Again, the puck went nowhere near the net.

Dejected, the Child skated back towards the bench. The Coach frowned, but was not ready to give up hope.

"If you take a thousand shots, eventually one will hit. Just keep shooting," the Coach instructed. "You will score."

"What about the nearly thousand times I miss though? Someone else will grab it, I might hurt someone, the other team can pick it up, people will laugh at me..." The Child wasn't too keen on this strategy. Nevertheless, it had worked for the Coach before.

"Never mind about that; come, we'll take a break. Let's grab some food." The Child skated off the rink, pulled off his skates, and put on a pair of sneakers. The two walked towards the lobby, and spotted a café therein.

The Coach was also the Scout, looking for the final member of the local Womens team. The Child took a seat with the Coach in the arena café, buying a hot chocolate while the Coach ordered a sandwich.

The Child could not wipe the frown from his face, thinking back to all the shots he missed. To have been practicing this long, and not hit the net even once was something that did not sit well with him. A year earlier, he had hit a post. He still thinks back to that with mixed feelings of optimism and regret. Optimism, because it was the closest he had ever come, but the regret overpowered the optimism. He had never come any closer. The Child sat there, moping about the lost opportunities and failed attempts he was becoming accustomed to.

A young woman, a pair of skates tied over her shoulders, came to the café and sat down at the table behind the Coach and the Child. The Coach nudged the Child out of his moping, and pointed towards the young woman seated behind him. "She might be the one," the Coach whispered, gazing at the woman seated behind the Child. "She might be the right one," the Coach repeated. "I'm going to ask her."

Already, the Coach had it figured out. As a Scout, the Coach had enough experience in assembling the rest of the team, and could identify the characteristics that were needed to fill in that last gap. Yes, this woman might be the one, streaking down the left side, taking a crisp pass from the centre, pulling a tricky move around the defenceman, and putting the puck home past the goaltender. The Coach could already see it; where she would play, how she would fit in. Should she be made the captain? She's probably too young for that. But she'll be good. Maybe someday. She's probably had a very good history. It looks like she's played with some other great players; there were others who had walked into the café with her that also looked good. She definitely has the potential to be the star. She's got it all; talent, charisma, and charm. She will be front and centre on the team picture, the Coach thought.

"You can't just ask her," the Child whimpered. "What do we know about her? Nothing!"

"There's nothing wrong in asking," the Coach told the Child. "If you take a thousand shots, eventually one will hit." The Child thought back to the first several shots he had taken; statistically speaking, things did not look good.

With that, the Coach stood up from the table, and approached the woman.

"I couldn't help but notice your skates. I'm assembling a hockey team and think you might be the one I was looking for to complete it." the Coach asked.

The young woman was startled. "Oh, hockey?" she asked. "Oh, gee, that's nice of you to offer, but I don't really think I would help. I haven't played hockey before, I'm here for figure skating."

Figure skating. "Oh, I see. Well, good luck with that," said the Coach .

The Coach, slightly embarassed, apologized, and sat back down. The Child looked on, somewhat disappointed, but feeling a little smug; he refrained from saying "I told you so", but perhaps his restrained smile gave it away.

The Child later returned to the ice, with the Coach following after. The Child put on his gear, stepped on the ice, and charged towards the lone puck sitting idly at centre ice.

The Coach, rather perplexed by the episode that had just transpired, could not think of any legendary players to inspire the Child as he rushed towards the net with the puck. Inadvertently, the Coach called out to the Child, "Be Chara!"

The Child, puzzled by the reference to the Ottawa defenceman, fired the puck waywards, again failing to come anywhere near the net. He looked back at the Coach, who sat head down, muttering something incoherently.

"Be Chara, child. Be Chara."

Isti-car-a

I have recently been in the market for a car. While I'm not too knowledgeable about cars, I have been thinking for some time about what a car means to someone and how it defines a person. There are so many factors to consider, but perhaps the first thing that I began thinking about was deciding between an import or a local model. They both have their pros and cons.

I find these days that a lot of my friends have decided to go with imports. Most of the people I know who imported were highly pragmatic people, with no intention of portraying a certain image with their car. They just wanted to have a car to go from one place to another, and not have their lives defined by it. Many of them have been with their cars for some time now, and while there are the occasional problems (often because foreign cars may not be well accustomed to local roads and weather conditions), they have never complained. The cars are reliable, safe, and have their own inner beauty.

At the same time, the foreign car has certain limitations. Often, they tend to be more expensive. While the cost of materials may be cheaper, when you add in the freight and other charges, it adds up. Whenever anything goes wrong with the car, it can often be a very expensive task to get things back in shape. Also, they often have certain quirks that cannot be dealt with appropriately in North America. Sometimes the part you need can only be found back at the manufacturer abroad; that makes maintenance quite expensive. Granted, they generally need less maintenance overall.

As for North American cars, the options are much more limited. To find a good domestic car is not an easy endeavour, but it may be worth the effort in the long run. Domestic models tend to be built for the surrounding environment, thus often making them more suitable for many people. The initial purchase of these cars tend to be cheaper, informed advice is more readily available regarding their particularities, and parts are generally cheaper. If anything goes considerably wrong, you would not need to go far for service.

While the cost of parts may be cheaper, these cars tend to need maintenance more often. In many ways, they tend to be more expensive even though the initial purchase cost may be less. Sometimes these machines are built more for style and image than performance, which becomes noticeable after some time. Even then, people I know with these cars end up spending even more money on maintaining the style than on ensuring decent performance.

One friend of mine frequently urges me to go with a North American car in order to support the local market. Too often, he says, people go out and buy foreign cars and then the North American market suffers. He reminds me that people living abroad don't buy North American cars much, so if we don't support our own local economy, the entire system will suffer as a whole.

I've also received advice going the other way, that a foreign car is the best option. One friend keeps on telling me that if I went ahead and settled with a foreign car, I'd be much happier for it. He reminded me that owning a North American car would make it difficult to spend my money on things important to me, since so much would end up going into maintaining the car. I recently even visited a foreign dealership where salespeople worked very hard on convincing me of the benefits of their machines, though nothing I saw then interested me.

In my family, I've seen both. My eldest brother has settled comfortably with a North American Cavalier, while my two other brothers have foreign cars. Overall, they all seem really happy with their cars, so I guess it really just depends on one's own personality. At this point, I have no idea which option would be better for me.