I AM THE GEEK MASTER

Y’know, or at least in the running. So here’s a little story of my past.

When I was in Grade 5 I disliked my teacher intensely. He’s one of those guys who should never have been a teacher. Anyways, during one of those parent-teacher things that happens during the middle of the school year, he was talking to my dad, saying the usual stuff about how I’m not applying myself, he knows I’m smart but just not making stuff happen, etc etc. So my dad says something along the lines of: If I can work hard, and do well for the rest of the year, my reward would be the transformer that I’ve wanted. Did I do it?

No.

But today, 20 years later, I have finally purchased the Transformer that I never had. w00t.

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Chinese Wedding

Kelly and I went to our friend Baker’s wedding on saturday. The wedding ceremony itself was fairly standard, but the reception/dinner wasn’t. Baker’s wife Cindy is Chinese, and the reception was done entirely in a chinese style. There was a 10 course meal, dancing lions, all kinds of cool stuff!

Here’s our ten course meal:

1) Appetizers, including BBQ pork and Jellyfish
2) Shark Fin Soup
3) Broccoli & Scallops
4) Honey Walnut Prawns
5)
6) Baby Bok choi and mushrooms
7) Sea Bass
8) Peking Duck and Dumplings (Mu-Shu Duck?)
9) Fried Rice
10) Cake

I’m having difficulty remembering one of the courses. It’ll come to me in time. We were lucky enough to sit with 3 great people, Jason, Felix and Pricsilla, who were gracious enough to let us know what we were eating and what the protocol was, so we didn’t look like foolish Gwai lo!.

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More Smells

This weekend I was out doing yardwork and I went into the shed to get out the lawnmower – and was hit by the smell, it took me back to being a young boy and going to my grandparents house, I would love to go into their shed and smell the warm grass-smell, walk around their small backyard and look at how neat, and organized it was. I was fascinated with my grandfather’s small workshop downstairs, how neat he kept everything, hammers hung up by the prongs, little glass jars with nails, screws and fasteners, all labled and organized. Now that they’re both gone there’s no central point in my mom’s family anymore. Their house would be the central meeting place, the point of contact for Christmas, Easter and gossip. Now there isn’t one, and I wonder what will happen in the future… this year there wasn’t any family gathering to speak of (extended family), where there has been one for dozens of years past. I can remember doing it even when I was very small.

creator..or poseur

so tonight i hung out with a couple friends and we played a little music, some guitar, some bass, whatever. and we had a little discussion (which i’ll go into more about later) that made me start thinking a bit. i’ve written some poetry (mostly bad), some essays (mostly bad), and some songs (all bad), and every time i read a really good poem, i know that i’ll never be able to have the effect on other people that that poem has on me. one of my favorite poems is titled ‘howl’ and it’s by alan ginsberg, the noted beat poet. when i read the first lines, a shiver runs through me, the imagery so perfect, every word exactly right, and when i’m done reading i always feel a little sad because i don’t really have any creative talents. i can pretend to be able to create a little here, or little there, but really i’m only a not-so-competent fake. that started me thinking even more, about what distinguishes an artist from everyone else. is it passion? is it desire? is it some unnameable longing that burns inside, and every time you write or sing or paint or sculpt you’re trying to give a name or a voice to that burning? i don’t know, and even if i did, i wouldn’t be able to find the words to describe it. back to the conversation that i was having earlier. we were listening to one of our favorite pieces of music, a piece that manages to convey so much feeling that you cannot avoid being swept up by it. it was ‘shine on you crazy diamond’ by pink floyd, and when david gilmour picks up a guitar, it becomes a more natural extention of his feeling and artistic talent than my hands or fingers or voice. i could spend hours and days learning every note, every bit of tremolo, every tiny little bit of inflection, and still, the best i would ever be is a poseur. a competant fake. i do know, however, that i can enjoy the works of others, and i will continue to do so. thanks to any and all who create, without you life would be much more dreary.

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the box

i had a box, twas given me way back when i was young

i’d open it, when oft alone, and inside there was hung

my hopes and dreams, my future plans, my talents great and small,

i showed it once, to a friend quite close, and he said “build a wall!

around your box, strong and high, let no one see inside!

put it away, i implore you now, take it now and hide

it far away from the world, where no-one else could find,

for the things you have put inside the box could be twisted most unkind

by dirty crippled others whose souls have withered tight

who take the greatest pleasure in wronging every right. “

so i put my box under the bed, and there i let it stay

i locked the box, and out of fear, i threw the key away

now all my thoughts are safe and sound, and all my dreams secure

and all my talents, great and small, and all my hopes are pure.

to further hide my secret box, i put on a cold afface

i rebuked advances, turned from love to keep my secret place

hidden down inside of me, behind my cold drawn face.

i write this on my deathbed, long and lonely years from now

i would have shared my hopes, my dreams, but i sadly knew not how

to open up my little box, to free my soul, to share

and now i die, afraid, alone, with no-one here to care.

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