So, on my second day of trying to be more disciplined I almost failed. Well, technically, I am still half way to failing. After a very fun night out last night to our good friends B&D’s new house -- which, incidentally is ridiculously gorgeous -- I was a little slow getting up this morning. And since Grandma and I are going on a little camping trip for the weekend, there was a mad rush to pack up the gear and get to class in time. So, Dear Readers, today I write this brief entry from geography 112 having not done any push-ups or sit-ups. weak.
School is going well (though math still leaves my head spinning a little bit). Work starts up again next week and I have to say that I’m pretty pumped about getting back. There was some upsetting news this week when I found out that a friend and colleague of mine from Ontario has just had sexual assault (harassment?) charges brought forward against him. This is now the second person that I have worked with who apparently cant keep his hands to himself. geez.
Well, that’s all for now. I have to get back to learning about the earth. I have become that annoying guy (and I’m the only one in my class of 40 doing it) that takes notes on his laptop. It lets me keep my notes neat and tidy, keeps them in the same spot (Grandma is patient with me, but she does not like it when my papers get all over the house), and I can write to you.
hello kiddies. So, the two or three of you who might, on occasion, read this meagre little blog, might be a little surprised to see something here. Really, I have been terrible at keeping up and making regular posts. This is not so much a commentary on my relationship with the blogonet but it is indicative of a deeper and more vexing issue that I have...a complete and utter lack of discipline.
I am not very good at doing un-fun things -- especially when an alternative is at hand. I'm terrible at delaying gratification and I am very good at distracting myself. As anyone who was around me during grad school days, need I remind you of how loooooong it took me to get a stupid thesis written.
In any event, I'm trying to turn over a new leaf and this blog will be both a means of doing so and a way of recording my progress (or lack thereof). The two exercises that I will undertake to build some discipline will be a) contribute to this blog every day; b) do 100 push ups and 100 sit ups every morning (I have been getting a little softer than I'd like lately).
I have already done both of these things today. So, you should be able to check this space regularly and there will be some NEW CONTENT!!
Well, Dear Readers, it is true; Gramps is officially returning to school this September. In the interests of long-term-planning I have decided that a career change is in order. It is not that I do not like being a tennis coach -- in fact, I like it just fine, thank you -- but as I move further into grandpahood I realize the limitations of my current profession (i.e. the demands on one’s body, the lack of job security, no health or dental benefits, pensions, union, relatively low wages in BC., etc.). This move is also the result of my realizing that for me it is not the tennis that attracts me to coaching, but the opportunity to use tennis as a venue for the thing I really enjoy -- teaching.
I have some colleagues who love the game so much that they get involved in coaching as a way of staying connected to tennis; these are the people who play tennis when they are not working, watch tennis on a regular basis, and lookup results from the previous day of international competition. I have great respect for a lot of these people; to be so devoted to and interested in something is admirable. But, alas, I am not that person. I do not play tennis in my off time (I’d rather go skiing, fishing, to the beach, for a bike ride, cooking, reading, etc.) and I certainly don’t follow the results of tournaments I didn’t even know existed. But, I do love teaching people how to play tennis. That’s where the good stuff is.
So, Reader, I have decided to follow in the footsteps of my parents and grandmother. Earlier this year I asked UBC what it would take to apply to Teacher’s College; I sent my transcripts and everything. Apparently, I overspecialized in university and need to complete a lab science, Canadian history, Canadian studies and, my personal fave, a math course before I can even apply to the program. I’ll be doing two of these courses online (history of BC has begun in earnest, almost) and two in person in September.
Anyway, I’m back in school this September so that I can go to school next September, so that I can go to school as a career. Funny how things work.
The existential moment has arrived; you look at the fish, the fish looks at you. Both are very present to one another (or at least feel it feels this way to me) but not equally. I, human, have the responsibility for what happens next. With the help of a few tools, I have forced this live creature out of its home and into what must be a horribly frightening and painful reality. If there is any doubt of this it is erased as the fish flips and flops and spins desperately on your dangling line. It is trying to survive, trying not to drown in the air into which you dragged it. Nearly every time I hold a fish like this, dangling, twisting, gasping, I imagine the t-shirt I once saw (or heard bout and remember to have seen) that said “what if fish could scream”. If fish could scream, I’m not sure I could do this. The silence somehow makes it easier for me to endure -- and I mean it when I say endure, I hate this part. I start to sweat, my hands start to shake, I start to feel nauseous. There is something very real about this experience, the intensity of it I suppose, that makes my reactions a strongly visceral one. Even writing about catching a fish makes me feel a little sick to my stomach.
As you hold the dangling fish, his slimy skin glistening various shades of colour and his prickly scales and fins exposed, you soon realize that whether you like it or not, you have to do something. You are compelled not to think or to wish or to imagine but to act, and as much as you desire that this was not the case, that you could just abandon your responsibility, you know, deep down, that even the inaction to which you are inclined is an act that perpetuates suffering and that the time you take to think about such things is time that he, your fish that you are hurting is struggling more and more. You must proceed.
The first thing is to figure out whether he -- and somehow in my mind it is always a he -- is a keeper. I don’t fish for fun. It is not in the category of fun for me. I fish so I can catch dinner. And I have to figure out whether this guy is large enough to warrant his murder. After his suitability is assessed, the next question is where and how deeply your catch has been hooked? It is always a relief to me when I can see the hook in his lip. This means a (relatively) straightforward hook removal since dislodging requires that you make the hook exit the fish through the same path it entered it. When the fish has swallowed your hook and the worm/minnow/fish that you used for bait, that causes real anxiety. When you see that the fish is “gut hooked” you know that you will literally have to dig around in the fish’s mouth/stomach to get it out. The deeper the hook, the greater the chance for damaging its organs and the lesser the chance for survival.
Now comes a really tough moment for me -- one that I, before midway though this summer -- had previously in life refused to take part in; touching the fish with your bare hand.
For the last two years that I’ve come up to Kellerman’s I’ve tried to better myself and to leave having developed a new skill. Last year, for example, I learned how to boat. I took my boating safety course, I mastered the route to and from the marina and I figured out how to drive the thing. I ended the summer feeling that I not only helped other people to learn, but that I improved myself as well. This year my project also concerns the water and is motivated by my own efforts to, in the words of The Offspring, “tie my own rope”. In the summer of 2009 I’m aiming to become competent at catching and cleaning my own fish.
To some of you, dear readers, this may seem like a simple task. Go out, throw the hook in the water until le poisson (le poisson, he he he, haw, haw, haw) bites, reel it in, wait for it to die and then cook it. Well, my friends, let me tell you that it is not that easy -- at least not for me.
My first hurdle doesn’t even concern the fish. The worm. It’s all squigly and wrigly and slimy and, well, I feel bad for putting it on a hook. I have to mentally prepare just to pull it our of the styrofoam container in which he/she/it resides. Once I do get him/her/it out and into my hand, getting it fastened on the hook proves to be a special challenge. For some unknown reason, as soon as I pierce it with my “chemically sharpened” Japanese hook it writhes and twists and becomes a ball of worm meat. It’s like somehow the worm doesn’t like what I’m doing to it. This resistance makes it hard for me to initiate the second (and vital) piercing, partly because it is scrunched up but mostly because I’m squealing like the proverbial little girl (note: most of the little girls I know don’t scream as much as I do). After apologizing to the worm for the discomfort I’m causing: “don’t worry. relax. this will all be over soon” and re-focussing myself, I’m usually able to secure monsieur/madame worm. Having done so and with a quick cast (which is remarkably easy if you can hit a forehand or backhand decently) into the water he/she/it goes.
At this point, I can see why so many people like to fish. Standing there on the dock by yourself, staring meditatively into the dark water and watching -- rather feeling -- for any taps on the pole. I like this part of it very much and it is here that fishing and I are quite agreeable. It is also a time when there really is nothing else to do. You stand (or sit), you listen and you watch. I don’t think that I even think. The complexity of this moment -- the paradox between doing nothing yet having great focus and anticipation -- is something that I only realize after the fact. It is being ‘in the zone’ in exactly the same way that I have felt it in sport: heightened sensitivity, effortless focus, un-self-conscious action. It is only in writing about it that I start to notice it. Weird.
Well, eventually this serenity comes to an end. When you feel the tap-tap-tap, it is time to spring into action and to set the hook. Apparently I am weak. My first dozen or so ‘sets’ were terrible and I spent more time feeding the fish than catching them. It’s remarkable how hard to need to flick the rod into the air in order to lodge that razor sharp piece of steel into the roof of the fish’s mouth. It is here that you realize how violent an act fishing really is. You are, with real force, impaling bone and cartilage with metal.
When you do manage to hook a fish it is quite fun bringing it in. You reel, it pulls, you reel some more, you win. Your prize comes up and out of the water and onto the dock beside you. It is here that the horror truly begins...
said the bleach-blonde, iphone holding, Gucci wearing dog owner to the master of the unsuspecting victim. “but don’t worry, I don’t think he had much left” Sitting in the park is a favourite thing for me to do; preferably, as is the case today, with a few beers in the old backpack. It has been hot in Toronto recently and I cannot afford to get dehydrated.
I like sitting in the park, especially after work hours, because it produces an endless assortment of entertainment. From my spot on the bench I can simultaneously see not one but two “boot camps” going on. BC1 is taught by an astonishingly muscular black man who not only yells at his customers as though they were in basic training -- “give me more curls! 5!4!3!2!1!” but who wears a little hat with a camo pattern on it. BC2 is taught about 50 yards away, by a fit-looking -- but not ridiculously so -- white woman in her 20s. Hers looks like the camp for those who (I have no idea why) don’t like the idea of paying to have someone yell at them for an hour. BC2 woman likes to make her customers run a 5 minute circuit every once and a while and it so happens that their course goes right past me. The look on their faces -- their sweaty, somewhat uncomfortable, 20-something faces -- makes me feel bad for them. I make sure to take a deep drink of beer as they run by in an effort to make myself feel better. See the video below for an example.
Then there are the non-paying exercisers -- they usually operate on their own or with no more than one partner. While many just jog, these are also the ones who do sprints and leaps, crunches and push-ups, lunges and burpees. My enjoyment of them is derived primarily by their variety in technique and their gear. My favourite is the water bottle belt. I can hardly think of anything more uncomfortable than running with a bottle -- or several -- of liquid around my waist.
I can also see the ultimate frisbee players -- another post on them to come someday -- the dog-walkers, the tennis players and those who are just out for a walk. With the odd exception (besides the BC1 guy), everyone is white. I wonder why? While not a terribly diverse neighbourhhod, I don’t think it is this homo-G. Hmmm. Is there something about public parks that is more appealing to white people? Certainly we do a race-class analysis of this. Thoughts?
This is just a teaser; the rest of the essay is coming shortly. Life got in the way and I have a little running around to do; that, and now that I'm using a different photo album program I'm a little slow. Check back dear readers, it will be UBER!
I like the idea that photos can tell a story -- or, multiple stories. I have some time on my hands before heading up to Kellerman's again, so Im going to go and make a little photo essay. i encourage you, dear readers, to do the same and link to it. I'll be back in a bit to post. In the meantime, check this out...
well, the boat trip was special to say the least. Apparently I don't know the ins and outs of Georgian Bay as well as I hoped. 2 hours to make a 20 minute trip means there was a lot of getting lost. i felt particularly bad for Ando who just travelled three hours after a long day of work and had to spend his time holding the flashlight and peering for rocks. Anyway, we made it back safe and sound but it will be awhile before I do the in-the-dark trip again.
In other news, the tennis weekend was pretty awesome. Besides the fun of spending 12 hours on court with the same people, they also gave us pretty amazing lunch and dinner. And if you've never played "never have I ever" with fourteen 35+year-old women who are very well imbibed, well, I highly recommend it.
Needless to say, the 9am start the next morning was a little slow. Now I'm back in Toronto and making plans to visit with as many friends as possible. It's fun visiting the old neighbourhoods I once upon a time spent my days and nights in. It's funny....you don't have to be away from a city for that long to notice how much it has changed and to get a sense of its rhythms. Being a visitor in a place that once was your home feels strange.
Well, Gramps is now up at "Kellermans" and it has been great so far. Apparently we brought the good weather with us since this is the first time it has been sunny and hot in 3 weeks. This, of course, is an ideal environment if you're trying to run a tennis camp for 14 women.
Speaking of which....today was day one. Overall, very good. The trouble with these is that some people are pretty hardcore about playing/learning, others are more hardcore about socializing. If you've never seen a woman have a full on convo about her kids' private schooling while playing tennis, you should check out this camp. You need to pull those people a little in the direction you want but watch out; a little too much and they start badmouthing you all over the Bay.
Speaking of water... a friend of mine is also coming up to help this weekend but isn't getting here til after dark. The little "crash boat" with which I was planning on collecting him is not in the water yet. Luckily S came to the rescue and has leant me her beautiful 20ft Boston Whaler. Yikes! 1) I don't normally drive boats at night; 2) this is a really expensive boat. The crash boat was good mainly because, well, it's no big deal if you crash it. S said "hey, if you hit a rock, it's only a boat." but I feel a little nervous. The fact that she has 7 more on her island eases that pain a little. Well, off to watch some hockey. I leave you with some video about boating...
The last 10 days have been crazy!! Sister's wedding, family visiting, moving to a new apartment, leaving one job and going to another, and finally, now, waiting to board a plane to travel across the country for the summer.
Since not many people read this blog, I don't suppose I have too much apologizing for lack of content lately. I promise, over the next week or so I'll get back to posting. in the meantime, check this out
I'm a fan of Malcolm Gladwell. Tipping Point, Blink and Outliers are both awesome and awesomely embarrassing. I wish I could write like that. The thing about Gladwell is that he's not usually pointing out anything terribly new or fantastic; it's just that he seems to do so effortlessly. It's another example of how form matters -- and how form shapes content.
Anyway, thanks to Vicky for sending me this essay.
I had trouble sleeping last night. Actually, it was this morning around 430 when I got out of bed. It was getting light out so I figured a bike-ride in search of sunrise was in order. I'm pretty sure I live in the most beautiful city -- if not THE, certainly ONE OF THE. Enjoy.
So, I went to the beach yesterday. My face and neck have been getting some good sun lately and I decided to even out the rest of me. So, I slapped on the SPF 30 from the collarbone up and left everything else to fend for itself. Turns out that my skin is weak and that 3 hours in the sun can burn you.
This guy, Bob, wrote his PhD dissertation on his time alone on a remote island off of the Chilean coast. He called it the Solitude Project. There are pictures and videos, but the narrated slideshow is my favourite -- mainly because it takes so little effort to view and I like words with my pictures.
One of my favourite things is to see stuff happening where and when you don't expect it; a kind of resistance to the status quo, a push-back against the usual. Deleuze talks about deterritorializationand while it is not the same as his meaning, I think of these kinds of acts as a changing territory in some sense. In any event, I'm not so good at creating these moments myself but I can find them here and there and share them with you. Here are a couple recent finds (thanks to Joanna's fb page for 'flutebox').
You will find here a combination of my own pictures and text, as well as links to stuff I like. I don't imagine anyone will read this, so I'm treating it as a space for me to remember the things that I usually forget.
