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At the Confluence of Dreams
I wonder what goes through my friends’ minds when I reach out to them and ask if they are free to hop continents. Their pal from afar, politely inquiring if they have vacation days to donate to a spontaneous adventure. No less to a nation they had not given a moment’s thought until the text arrived.
Curiously, they say yes. It has happened three times during my working life. Canadian winters escaped by trotting to New Zealand, embalmed in festive cheer and soaring heat. A summer outing on trains across Hungary, Austria, and Switzerland, from burning pavements to the breezy Alps, from walking through air-conditioned museums to rolling around in a Soviet era jeep. And now we look forward to Fall hikes into the wild nowheres that dominate the Chilean terrain. To time budgeted for its companion islands, arid deserts, and stormy South.
Good friends. Few in number and anywhere from hundreds to several thousand kilometers apart, but easy to restart conversations with, sometimes years after they dropped off.
I have discussed the pull of the foreign before. It is a gravity unequally distributed amongst the group and we are the better for it. We each chase a different spark as we prepare ourselves for the journey.
The flickers of magic in new locations that one dwells on in anticipation of novel experiences. They always seem to appear when least expected, in different spots than predicted, and are sometimes not fully understood until months or years afterwards. I remember thinking that the epic scenery of Canterbury would uniquely elicit that sought feeling of awe – that within the first week on the land of the long white cloud I would capture the magic, if briefly, of travel beyond regular horizons. The region was spectacular, yet it was pleasantly the start of stumbling through a larger fantasy filled with similar highlights. I felt myself reflecting many months later on how there is a spell over that entire corner of the world. Its distinctive wildlife, volcanic landscapes, and tussle with existence in the liminal. Oceans away, a land where caves hold glow worms and hobbits alike.
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Running the Gauntlet
This post does not go much deeper than ‘I tried several spicy sauces for the novelty’.
After watching multiple episodes of the Youtube show, and knowing I would quickly consume any hot sauce in the kitchen, I decided to order the latest collection and test them out for myself. Results shared below.
The Context
I regularly consume very spicy food.
- Jalapenos, red chilis, and various store-bought hot peppers and sauces (including the stronger ones sourced from Asian markets) are a staple of my diet.
- I like spicy Asian cuisine – I have consumed the hottest achars, numbing spices, and hotpot mixes without too much issue. The phlegm may get going but I enjoy eating the dishes.
- For those who are familiar with Noodlebox – I like ordering a 4 or 5 on their spice menu. The 6 is usually too much for me to really enjoy the flavors. A bit of googling tells me their 6 is around 1,000,000 on the Scoville scale, which itself is a flawed metric.
I do not know how accurate all the spiciness measures are; no better way to confirm the heat than by trying it for myself!
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Framing Life
We tend to think of our lives as narratives. Stories with beginnings, middles, and ends. Structured by significant nodes – moments marking personal evolution – and neatly annotated by epiphanies.
These narratives are always written after they have been lived. Meaning made by looking back; a historical decipherment of triumphs and defeats, challenges met or succumbed to, opportunities seized or lost. The narratives simplify the chaos and ascribe some measure of identity to our ‘self’. Without them, we seem to be lost. We cannot make sense of ourselves, of others, of everything around us that we interact with.
Everyone is a living book, being written and spoken ceaselessly. Together, we epitomize a colossal library. Humanity’s scripture, the collapsed state of a much more inscrutable existence. The lucid interpretation abided by but not quite believed. Authorships are shared – we take the pen when we are ready or able, but we are not necessarily the ones writing our own tale.
With those tendencies in mind, let us take a look at two brief stories. The lives of P and D. From the moment they graduated high school to now, with a particular focus on their labor.
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Embracing Prevention
It has been a recurring theme this week, popping up in conversations, media consumed, and in silent moments of reflection as I have considered what meals to prepare.
The concept of prevention. Specifically, prevention of negative outcomes in personal and societal spaces.
I was on the road again this past Sunday. Somewhere just after passing Clinton, halfway between Vancouver and Prince George, my vehicle’s sound system stopped registering my iPod Touch. The 2009 device seemed to be working fine, so perhaps the connecting cable was shot. Whatever the matter, 15 years without issue is not a bad run.
With no music to listen to and 4 hours still to go, I combed the FM airwaves until I landed on the only available channel – CBC Radio. It went in and out as I weaved through the mountainous terrain, fuzzy for much of the journey. I had to re-tune several times to find the right frequency. But for the rest of the drive, my ears followed the programming as my eyes browsed the landscapes that the hosts discussed. The news programs spoke about the upcoming fire seasons. The interview podcasts featured guests who were experts in disasters, mental health, and wringing comedy from dark times. A little politics, here and there, seemingly the same polarized discourse we have been having for the last decade. It was clear that a lot of the shows were pre-taped, as the situations had changed even by then – the Sunday morning updates from BC’s Northeast and Alberta’s Fort MacMurray markedly different than the headlines being repeated.
One of the programs, “Cross Country Checkup”, ended by fielding calls from Canadians who had questions or wanted to share their thoughts on the modern mega-firescape that has gripped the nation’s summers in recent times. Some wondered why the provincial government had not banned campfires, given the predicted disaster-filled summer ahead. Most fires are human-caused, after all – the result of hot mufflers, discarded cigarettes, grass burning run amok, industrial activity. Why not prevent what we can? (Arson, it must be noted, represented a tiny percentage of the causes.) Other callers suggested preventative measures to deal with the new megafire reality; introduce large fire breaks around towns and populated areas. The idea being that these would be effective in aiding response efforts and save a lot of forested or agricultural land from eradication. The callers were also mostly fire-affected. Former evacuees; anecdote-holders whose trauma from recent events fueled their passion for the subject.
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Suitcase Diaries
Il est minuit à Tokyo, il est cinq heures au Mali
Quelle heure est-il au paradis?A couple of days ago, a decent chunk of a city was glued to their screens as their affiliated team produced a classic comeback to win a playoff game. The fifth of sixteen they will want to claim top spot in North America’s premier ice hockey league, for the time being.
I had wanted to join them but found myself exhausted. Falling asleep on the couch, I relented and headed to bed, only for my envisioned nap to turn into a night-long sleep. My energy levels can be an issue when I am away from my regular abode and routines, as I have been for the past two weeks. A combination of interrupted sleep, more arduous daily excursions, and social exuberance needed during times of increased movement.
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Last calendar year, I spent just over four months away from my apartment. (I refuse to call it my ‘home’; that designation has not yet been earned.) Living out of a few bags and transporting myself from location to location, mostly for work and a little on vacation. This year and only ten days into May, I have already racked up over two months in the same situation. Transience has been a regular theme of my life for the past eight orbits. A voluntary one, for the most part – I have enjoyed going to every corner of BC and witnessing transformative projects in person.
No complaints on my chosen path. But I was reflecting on the transitory life; a microcosm of our long existence.
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On Juries and Verdicts
In the Middle East, another brewing conflict. In South Asia, nearly a billion votes up for grabs. On the other side of this continent, a former President trying to continue his decades-long evasion of conviction. Pause. Yes, on that.
I am struggling currently to write on personal matters, which is totally fine. I do not intend for this blog to be consistently active. More irregular; inspiration cannot be forced and the time to dedicate to following each thread is a luxury. But rather than providing shallow commentary on current affairs, I prefer to point to pieces more wholly formed.
On this matter of law – it reminds me of one of my more controversial opinions, which I intend to articulate at some future date and find some good research on: that law in an ideal society is structured in such a way that it is embedded and expressed within a robust public system that ensures equity for those charged with crimes – that lawyers are to clients in a system of law as doctors are to patients in a functioning and well-supported public healthcare system. That law followed and considered is not dependent on one’s social standing or wealth, and the courts are not another mechanism for the upper classes to delay accountability, or a playground for endless corporate shenanigans. That cases follow a similar path for all, regardless of their means or marginalization. That wraparound supports and alternative functions are present to decide on matters that are more straightforward.
The controversial bit relates to private law and its unbearable drawbacks. To eliminate it entirely and introduce prejudice-minimizing procedures into court that draw on our best understanding of human psychology and power dynamics. That is right, no private practices or firms. A system built for the public by the public. And as amazingly naïve as that may sound, it is entirely possible. Justice is inherently difficult to achieve within any setup. The processes of interpreting, framing, and regulating societal norms (law) are an ongoing struggle to define. Particularly in a capitalist modality that offers incredible financial incentives for the entire judiciary to maintain the ridiculous status quo.
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Unwritten Understandings
Just a brief comment to finish the week, on social contracts encountered behind the wheel.
One of those small, highway-side towns, somewhere between Clinton and Prince George. Just a couple weeks ago, but I cannot recall exactly where. The signs change from 90 to 80, then to 60. Slow down, there may be pedestrians ahead. Keep it at 50 in case you see any kids walking on the shoulder. Stay alert.
It is a two-lane road entering the town. Leading a long line of vehicles from the oncoming direction, a giant white eighteen-wheeler. A little bit of cloud cover, but still plenty of daylight around to not require any headlights. Yet this truck driver has their lights on, and blinks them, twice, as they pass me. Alright, cop ahead.
I know flashing lights can mean a lot of things. In rural Canada, at least where I drive, it usually means watch for animals or cops. But in the past seven years of traversing BC’s vast paved network, this caution has only been shared with me when there are police around. It seems like most drivers who are members of the headlight warning brigade almost exclusively use it to warn of speed traps. I am not sure why this level of solidarity is easier stuck to than others, but I guess it is not too difficult to acknowledge the annoyance or hate towards law enforcement. Out on the road, most divisions ebb away and the ‘us vs. them’ line is drawn between those wanting to make quick time of their long journey and those who seek to slow them down. The latter to prop up their usefulness or to manage public safety – or to do one under the guise of the other – that is where the debates lie.
Sure enough, just past the gas station, there they are. Three white RCMP SUVs with those distinctive lights, colors, and reinforced front bumpers.
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They Say
I must listen to what they say, because I cannot see it myself. At least not unfiltered; a distortion of the event, a hazy retelling, is how I bear witness. Jumping into and out of meetings a continent’s breadth away as the occurrence unfolds.
They say this happens all the time. Every eighteen months, or thereabouts. But unless you have the means and the dedication, the chances of experiencing it firsthand are minimal. A gliding shadow, uninterested in our gaze, darts swiftly, sweeping across the rock we call home over peaks and troughs unreachable, or skies opaque.
They say you should watch this one. Take in the Baily Beads, signifiers of a landscape not unlike ours, its jagged irregularities enough to produce a perfect optical symphony. Or watch for the Diamond Rings, flashes of brilliance that will sandwich a long-awaited marvel.
They say that this one is special. It will deliver one of the longest interplanetary hide-and-seek games for centuries. The result of our lunar companion being further away and therefore obscuring a greater area of our solar parent. Usually we get a couple of minutes – this time it will be nearly four.
They say the stellar flares are spiking. This increased activity will be a boon for researchers on the ground, in the sky, and above the atmosphere. An opportunity unlike any other to better understand the mysteries of an unapproachable cosmic shore.
They say the anticipation is palpable. A gold circle slowly loses its luster as a species swarms to a dimming flame. The excitement increases as the shape morphs into waning crescents, hinting at the rhyming clockwork of celestial companions.
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“It’ll have to go”
This post contains spoilers for Douglas Adams’ A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. It also contains rants on a bat-and-ball game.
There is an Indian word called ‘Tamasha’, which means fun, excitement, glamor, uncertainty – all rolled into one.
– Mihir Bose
In Life, the Universe, and Everything, Douglas Adams introduces us to Krikkit, a planet surrounded by a dust cloud. Krikkiters, the planet’s inhabitants, are unaware of the cosmos. They see a perpetually black sky – no starlight piercing through, no clue of what lies behind the curtain. Krikkiters are initially portrayed as unassuming, kind humanoids going about their daily lives within a pastoral bliss. That is, until a spaceship sears a luminous path through the void, crashing onto their planet from nowhere. They look up, astonished – where did it come from?
We quickly find out that the Krikkiters are more than they seem. In unbelievably quick time, they reverse engineer the spaceship and embark on a mission. Launching into the darkness, a small crew leave the planet to discover the truth. For a while, all they see is nothingness; the remarkable fact that they are moving through what they thought was a static celestial tapestry hardly appears to be invigorating. Finally, they happen upon it. A spectacular revelation – the darkness suddenly punctuated with pinpricks of light, their number slowly growing and growing, until the entire universe lies in front of them. All the stars, galaxies, globular clusters – the ignitions of existence – laid bare within infinity itself.
But their response is unexpected: “It’ll have to go.” The Krikkiters cannot share the universe. The potential life forms residing across uncountable worlds all newly discovered enemies; a rude interruption to a way of life that must be preserved through destruction. The Krikkiters head back to their planet, resolved to a new, brutal mission, one that will result in trillions upon trillions of deaths.
It is one of the more incredible moments in a series of novels that envelopes witty hyperbole and poignant interludes with comedy, providing plenty of unsettling narratives.
The Indian Premier League, or IPL, begins today. I wish I felt inspired to write about something more important, but there is a certain gravity to this game that is inescapable.
Let me rattle off a few things about cricket, its stewards, its fans, and a tournament at the node of two eras in the sport’s history.
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Syllables of Existence
Part of my job involves supporting the development of short to long-term health plans. Part of this exercise is advising on indicators – the measurable outcomes of each activity within the plan that will define the level of its success. The indicators that we usually see work on the lengthier time scales, most monitored on an annual basis. I was reading a particular granular plan recently and it got me thinking about the calculable components of my own labor. But not in relation to monthly or yearly goals – these are easy enough to quantify in projects, reports, meetings, etc. completed. Not even in relation to weekly segments, too short a timeline sometimes when you are in and out of the office in a relationship-based role, trying your best to build something larger.
Rather, it was what I produced on a daily basis that I started to think about. My contribution through emails, calls, in meetings, documents, and online logs. My movement through spaces – my apartment, the office, another’s home, walking along the street, traversing communities – what determinate things could I define through numeric figures? How could I sum up my presence?
Of course, I was not interested in finding actual numbers that I could use to define my output. I was after something more fundamental: the meaning I brought to my work (or job, labor, occupation, call it what you will) and my life. What is it that I produce that is of particular significance to those around me? What is it that I take to my friends and family that keeps them availed?
In search of this latent value, I unearthed a soft revelation. I have a feeling it is something many of us have in common.