Fuck man, shit's crazy, you know?

In Praise of Nerd-dom

Star Trek is awesome. My dad and I have been watching a few of the old Star Trek movies; we watched the Wrath of Khan, the Search for Spock, and the Voyage Home, and now we're looking for the other ones. We also watched Generations and First Contact. AND we went to the town Vulcan, which is probably the Star Trek capital of this side of the universe, or at least Alberta. Watching them all and this trip has revived my love for this franchise. And seeing them now after not having seen them for many years has made me appreciate them that much more, and made me realise how mature of a show it was. It was well-written, and the idea behind it is something I really like. The concept of a time where humans have all united and in a way evolved morally and turned their efforts to exploring the universe and reaching out to new races is quite literally ahead of its time, and something that we should all aspire to. Yes, bold words for what started as basically fun sci-fi TV show. But Gene Rodenberry was on to something, I think. It's mostly entertainment and fantasy, but beneath the funky alien makeup, phasers and tri-corders, and best of all the cheesy special effects (well in the TV show, anyway. The movies were pretty up to par), there's something more than mere escapism. It's a vision of optimism for our planet and for all life. So make fun of it all you like; it's still not such a bad idea to boldly go where no one has gone before. And if nothing else, it's just plain fun.


On a related note, I've revived my inner nerd, and I couldn't be happier about it. I recently purchased Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, which is apparently pretty good, according to my friends, and it won the Hugo and Nebula Awards, which is a big deal in sci-fi circles. I want to get my hands on 2001: A Space Odyssey and read it before I see the movie. And this is all an effort to delve into science fiction, which is a genre I've long neglected. I've also been told by some people that Battlestar Galactica is an awesome show, so I shall have to look into that, too. I've also started buying comic books again. I recently bought issue 500 of the Uncanny X-Men, trying to get back on track (the last one I got was 461, and before that, somewhere in the 380's. I'm a bit out of the loop, you see.) I also plan on reading Spawn again, because he's just wicked. And finally, I really want to read the Watchmen graphic novel, which I've only heard good things about. A few months ago Geoff recommended I read them, and now that I see the trailer for it, I think I have to. It's a sign. It's also the only comic to have won the Hugo Award, which is pretty cool. Anyway, this is all good for the young pre-teen in me. So if nothing else, that's what this summer has given me. A renaissance of the geekiest kind.

On Memory, History, and Truth

Memory is a funny thing. When people recount something tend to exaggerate, if nothing else to make a good story of that event. I have to wonder how much of that has gone into history books. I mean, eye-witnesses are still flawed human beings and History isn't an exact science. So how flexible is history, if everything recorded is at the discretion of those who write it down? Surely a few details can be tweaked to add colour and flavour to the telling, but how much freedom should they have? How much fact can be sacrificed without sacrificing the truth? Nothing's ever going to be remembered exactly as it was. Those things will be enlarged or down-sized depending on their opinions of those things, those events, people and places of the past, and people will remember the event for the story, how it remained imprinted in their minds. In an historical battle, if books say so-and-so killed this many people, when really he only killed a couple, is it really going to matter in the long run? The point is we know who won the battle and where it got us, and we got a good story out of it too, from the worm's-eye view. So there's no problem, right? But then I think of memoir writers and autobiographies, and I think: those people couldn't have possibly remembered every detail from their past, exactly what people said and how. There's no way, unless they were thinking "I'm going to write about this 30 years from now, so I'd better pay attention". Surely they stretched the truth a little. Otherwise, only people with photographic memories can write autobiographies and memoir. At any rate, perhaps it's the memory matters more than the details.

An Ecclesiastical Rant

Why do I feel the need to defend a belief system which I don't even really believe in? Every time people make fun of or criticise Catholicism I take it personally. I mean, I am Catholic, but I openly criticise it too, so what's the big deal? Is it one of those things where you can only diss it if you're a part of it or something? Like how it's somehow only appropriate for black people to say the n-word? I don't know. I just find it strange that I still identify, at a superficial level anyway, with the Catholic faith. Even though I believe the Church is way too powerful and the Pope is not the infallible messenger of God just because some smoke came out of a chimney a certain colour, and furthermore I don't even completely believe in the basic tenets of Christianity, like the resurrection and the virgin birth and all that. And yet still, I hate it when people who don't know anything about Catholicism talk trash about it. Maybe that's it. Ignorance. It's not so much me identifying with Catholicism so much as it is people saying ignorant things. I can't tell you how many times I've gotten into arguments over whether Catholicism is a denomination of Christianity. People seem to think that only Protestant denominations count as Christianity. Christianity is by definition the religion based on the teachings and life of Jesus Christ. Period. Catholicism does fall under that definition, so how does it not count? Sure it's way more muddled with ritual and it picked up the flavours of local customs as it spread over the world, so to some it may seem almost paganistic. But what idea doesn't morph as it travels? Zen Buddhism and Tibetan Buddhism are so radically different, if you set both up beside each other you wouldn't be able to tell they are under the same religion. And yet you don't hear people saying anything different about them. The basic idea behind Catholicism is the same as Lutheranism, Protestantism, Presbyterianism, the United Church, etc. It's funny because I'm certain that there are things from these other schools of thought that I agree with more than tenets of Catholic faith as far as what I believe Christianity ought to "look like", and yet here I am, getting all riled up. Or maybe there are strands of Catholic in me yet. Who knows? Jack Kerouac of all people converted back to Catholicism in his final years. Anyway my point is....well I don't really know what my point is. I guess it's part-me wishing people would do their homework about peoples' belief systems, and part-me worrying about my identity, which is important to me, especially when there isn't an easy way to define it.

Yarn Fragments

These are two exercises I did in Writing class last year. I just thought I'd put them on here and see what you guys think. They're very very brief bits of narrative. Not even stories, really. More like snapshots. Enjoy!

1.Wrapped in her shawl, she stands out on the porch. She stands out there for almost an hour, while every now and then some brisk couple goes along the sidewalk with their dog. She hears a car go by on Maple Street—some cocky young creature speeding down like a comet in his Porsche. The faint current of downtown traffic is audible, like static in the air.
The nights are crisp, and the sky, clear and confessional. Every detail is sharp in crisp air. The constellations glitter like salt: Gemini. Taurus. The Big Dipper. She memorised them all when she was a little girl. Casseiopea. Orion. She would list them off to her parents at the dinner table, over uneaten peas and casserole. But now she can only point out a few; it was so long ago. The harder she looks, the more they appear like stars, and less like old stories. The older she got the less she looked up. But for nights like this, she would’ve forgotten the sky was there.
She remembers Cygnus, the swan. It was really Zeus in disguise, trying to deceive a girl in order get in her pants. She tries to imagine being knocked up by a constellation. The poor child would be stuck in one position for eternity, but it would be adored by everybody, her most of all. Any company would do, really. Any old swan. She had a Greek god of her own once, her own personal Apollo. But now the gods file for divorce like everybody else, and so here she is near the end of her life, twice married and childless. At her age, when the dark and confessional sky starts looking just like itself, unpopulated and endless, looking up is the most sensible thing to do. Look for a signal. To hurl a bottled message straight up, up, up through the ozone layer.


2.The three kids stormed the beach, bellowing made-up war cries. Their sprint turned into tiptoeing, as grass gave way to slippery pebbles, followed by cigarette butts buried in coarse sand. The other side of the lake hid behind an impregnable wall of rain that carried across the water, and the waves ravaged the shoreline. The wind chilled their half-naked bodies, but nothing would stop the charge of this light brigade.
Alistair led the way, followed by Eddie and then Darcy, and the waves rejected their early teen bodies. It toppled them over; Eddie lost his balance, who grabbed Alistair’s leg and dragged him down into the briny underworld, turning his war cry into a war gurgle. Darcy was still above the surface, arms akimbo. He gave a hearty laugh, imitating a brawny cartoon superhero. Soon after the other two burst up behind him and shoved him under the cold waves. His arms thrashed about like slippery fish, while Alistair and Eddie held down his head. They let him go and he shot up and tried to punch the boys.
“You almost killed me, you assholes!”
“Watch your mouth, Darcy! You should wash it out.” said Eddie, slapping the water in Darcy’s face. “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
Darcy scowled. “I don’t kiss my mom, Eddie, that’s sick.”
“‘Cause I sure kissed your mom. So did Alistair. We shared her.”
“I’ll kill you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” Darcy lunged for Eddie, who disappeared under the water and tackled him.
Darcy was the smallest of their troupe. Always catching up to them, his voice had not yet plummeted like the others, but he could make up for it in other ways. He was the most brazen, ploughing through the rain, which now flogged their faces—and he hollered the loudest war cries. A young blonde bull, he would always be challenging older, bigger kids in wrestling matches and mercy fights. It always ended in hot stinging tears for him, but he never backed down. He was a fighter, in the sense that he was always looking for a fight. In another life he would have been storming the beaches of Normandy, rather than the beaches of western Alberta in blue nylon trunks.