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Like it says above...this is where I put my ideas, and invite yours, to hang out and do whatever. From miscellaneous and pedantic everyday observations to profound revelations into the nature of humankind, you'll find it all here. I'll try to keep it interesting. Drop me a line: thezaniac @ hot........
Friday, June 17, 2005
You Read It Here First!
I came accross this last nite, laughed out loud, and pondered our preoccupations and bed time rituals:
Mankind, manifestly imperfect, is still riding the evolutionary cycle. In the far future, if only for the sake of convenience, the genitals of both men and women will rise to where our heads are now, and our increasingly redundant noggins will sink to where our genitals once rested. This will enable young and old to lock into each other without tiresome romantic foreplay or the inevitable struggle with buttons or zippers. They will be able to 'only connect,' as Forster advised, while waiting for a traffic light to change, or lining up before the supermarket cashier, or on a synagogue bench or church pew. 'Fucking,' or the more genteel 'lovemaking,' will be known as 'a header,' as in, 'Walking down Fifth Avenue, I sniffed this fetching chick, and threw her a header.'
The flip side of this cultural refinement is that the brothel, or cat house, will yield to the library as the forbidden place where sinners meet to tryst (unzipping or lowering panties, to converse grammatically) under constant threat of colusure by the anti-literacy squad. And the new social disease will be intelligence.
Remember, you read it here first.
Mankind, manifestly imperfect, is still riding the evolutionary cycle. In the far future, if only for the sake of convenience, the genitals of both men and women will rise to where our heads are now, and our increasingly redundant noggins will sink to where our genitals once rested. This will enable young and old to lock into each other without tiresome romantic foreplay or the inevitable struggle with buttons or zippers. They will be able to 'only connect,' as Forster advised, while waiting for a traffic light to change, or lining up before the supermarket cashier, or on a synagogue bench or church pew. 'Fucking,' or the more genteel 'lovemaking,' will be known as 'a header,' as in, 'Walking down Fifth Avenue, I sniffed this fetching chick, and threw her a header.'
The flip side of this cultural refinement is that the brothel, or cat house, will yield to the library as the forbidden place where sinners meet to tryst (unzipping or lowering panties, to converse grammatically) under constant threat of colusure by the anti-literacy squad. And the new social disease will be intelligence.
Remember, you read it here first.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
End of the Road
Traveller's log, Earthdate, May 28th, 2005. Roma
I'm back in the land of mario and luigi and find myself very surprised by the shoddy state of the plumbing,more on that later.
I flew out of Sevilla yesterday morning, leaving a piece of my heart, and more, at the airport. If only I would have left the rest of my body. The flight was great - one of those cheap intereuro airlines, nearly empty, so I got to lay down accross three seats and get some much needed rest. If only such luxury had been a sign of things to come. Landed in Milan, took a bus to the train terminal and, as I do in Milan, had lunch at McDonalds - Milan is SO civilized compared to the rest of Europe, two McDonalds within walking distance of the train station AND each other...more on that when I get home, if you like. After my fine italian cuisine I hopped on the train and decided, en route, that I will never take another train in Italy ever again: they're slow, smelly, hot, uncomfortable, and very inhospitable. I don't expect special service, or even a smile, I do expect that people who work for a company try and help me get where I'm going. Thank goodness for the kindness...er...sympathy...er....pity...yeah, I'll go with pity of strangers, I may have been lost. The train arrived at Roma Termini two hours late, which in Italy, is actually fourtyfive minutes early, so I won't complain. It was dark, and all I had were directions to a campground I had scribbled down the day before. To make a long story as short as possible, I made it to the campground with the help of a lovely Romanian couple and discovered, to my horror, that far more frightening than being in a city where you cannot make yourself understood and everyone speaks Italian, is being in a locale where you CAN be understood but everyone, GASP, speaks American. That was the campsite. Its very nice, and the price is right, and so serves my purpose. My Romanian friends gave me a proscutio and bread dinner and I was off to bed, prepping for today's walk around Rome.
I started off at Prada Bag...er....Vatican city. Didn't do the vatican thing, but I did go to St Peter's. After seeing the third largerst cathedral in Sevilla a few days earlier, I figured I should refresh my memory as to how the BIG ONE stacks up. I like the Sevillan one better, it was humbler. I had a bit of trouble getting in as I was carrying a knife in my bag to help cut up my cheese and tomato sandwiches - I wonder if I'll love those sandwhiches as much tomorrow as I did today - only to discover that it is against the law to carry a knife into the vatican. I was allowed to take my satchel of vino in though. This is why I study small 'l' law, and not the big one. Now, I don't know much about Catholicism (do y'all eat oatmeal - apologies to those who just don't get the joke), but I will give that religion this, they really now how to stick to their virtues, especially the aforementioned humility. Everything in this bloody Cathedral was striving consciously to be the biggest there is. Geebus. Each Pope comissions their very own monument to themselves while their alive and gets a say in where its gonna be. This church is six bloody acres of holy goodness, and I followed along on a free tour to find out more. There's a red stone used in the church that you can see in alot of places, especially the keys of st. peter in the entrance. Now, ten cubic cm of this stone could buy my house (which means if any of it got into my sandals, I have enough to buy a car just like mine!). It was a brief tour. For some reason, shurches, no matter how gaudy, ornate, extravigant or otherwise breathtaking, just don't do it for me.
Hence, I made my way to the Roman Forum. Now we're talkin'. I walked up the steps designed by Michelangelo out into and through the forum, then around the bend to the Colloseum, all the while, coming to the realization, that when it comes to monuments and history, I'm far more interested in the human than the divine. (Again, small 'l' law). I'm far more fascinated by tales of empire, of community, of governments, of people living together and striving to do so, than by the divine hand guiding our communal lives. Don't wanna get to preachy, but God, if he's anywhere, is in your own heart and has to emanate from there outwards, not the other way around. Of course, those Romans were pretty ungodly, as I noticed walking through the gates of judea, commemorating the sacking of the temple. If it wasn't so freekin hot, I might have actually got a little hot and bothered.
It's about six o'clock my time and I need to find myself an alarm clock to make sure I don't sleep through the flight tomorrow. Then off to hang out by the Spanish steps and toss a few coins in the trevi. I simply wanted to drop one final line to all those out there following my tales, to wish you well, and to say I'll see you all very soon, where I can bore you to death with stories from here and there, like the one about meeting a seniorita in Spain and bringing her home to Canada - Besos Kerisita, Mi mariposa española. If I'm not mistaken, my brother picked up a case of Vino from the vinyard we stayed on, so we can all meet at Piazza del Roth to regale and take in the (hopefully) good weather.
Arrivaderci all,
and please keep in touch,
Z.
Traveller's log, Earthdate, May 28th, 2005. Roma
I'm back in the land of mario and luigi and find myself very surprised by the shoddy state of the plumbing,more on that later.
I flew out of Sevilla yesterday morning, leaving a piece of my heart, and more, at the airport. If only I would have left the rest of my body. The flight was great - one of those cheap intereuro airlines, nearly empty, so I got to lay down accross three seats and get some much needed rest. If only such luxury had been a sign of things to come. Landed in Milan, took a bus to the train terminal and, as I do in Milan, had lunch at McDonalds - Milan is SO civilized compared to the rest of Europe, two McDonalds within walking distance of the train station AND each other...more on that when I get home, if you like. After my fine italian cuisine I hopped on the train and decided, en route, that I will never take another train in Italy ever again: they're slow, smelly, hot, uncomfortable, and very inhospitable. I don't expect special service, or even a smile, I do expect that people who work for a company try and help me get where I'm going. Thank goodness for the kindness...er...sympathy...er....pity...yeah, I'll go with pity of strangers, I may have been lost. The train arrived at Roma Termini two hours late, which in Italy, is actually fourtyfive minutes early, so I won't complain. It was dark, and all I had were directions to a campground I had scribbled down the day before. To make a long story as short as possible, I made it to the campground with the help of a lovely Romanian couple and discovered, to my horror, that far more frightening than being in a city where you cannot make yourself understood and everyone speaks Italian, is being in a locale where you CAN be understood but everyone, GASP, speaks American. That was the campsite. Its very nice, and the price is right, and so serves my purpose. My Romanian friends gave me a proscutio and bread dinner and I was off to bed, prepping for today's walk around Rome.
I started off at Prada Bag...er....Vatican city. Didn't do the vatican thing, but I did go to St Peter's. After seeing the third largerst cathedral in Sevilla a few days earlier, I figured I should refresh my memory as to how the BIG ONE stacks up. I like the Sevillan one better, it was humbler. I had a bit of trouble getting in as I was carrying a knife in my bag to help cut up my cheese and tomato sandwiches - I wonder if I'll love those sandwhiches as much tomorrow as I did today - only to discover that it is against the law to carry a knife into the vatican. I was allowed to take my satchel of vino in though. This is why I study small 'l' law, and not the big one. Now, I don't know much about Catholicism (do y'all eat oatmeal - apologies to those who just don't get the joke), but I will give that religion this, they really now how to stick to their virtues, especially the aforementioned humility. Everything in this bloody Cathedral was striving consciously to be the biggest there is. Geebus. Each Pope comissions their very own monument to themselves while their alive and gets a say in where its gonna be. This church is six bloody acres of holy goodness, and I followed along on a free tour to find out more. There's a red stone used in the church that you can see in alot of places, especially the keys of st. peter in the entrance. Now, ten cubic cm of this stone could buy my house (which means if any of it got into my sandals, I have enough to buy a car just like mine!). It was a brief tour. For some reason, shurches, no matter how gaudy, ornate, extravigant or otherwise breathtaking, just don't do it for me.
Hence, I made my way to the Roman Forum. Now we're talkin'. I walked up the steps designed by Michelangelo out into and through the forum, then around the bend to the Colloseum, all the while, coming to the realization, that when it comes to monuments and history, I'm far more interested in the human than the divine. (Again, small 'l' law). I'm far more fascinated by tales of empire, of community, of governments, of people living together and striving to do so, than by the divine hand guiding our communal lives. Don't wanna get to preachy, but God, if he's anywhere, is in your own heart and has to emanate from there outwards, not the other way around. Of course, those Romans were pretty ungodly, as I noticed walking through the gates of judea, commemorating the sacking of the temple. If it wasn't so freekin hot, I might have actually got a little hot and bothered.
It's about six o'clock my time and I need to find myself an alarm clock to make sure I don't sleep through the flight tomorrow. Then off to hang out by the Spanish steps and toss a few coins in the trevi. I simply wanted to drop one final line to all those out there following my tales, to wish you well, and to say I'll see you all very soon, where I can bore you to death with stories from here and there, like the one about meeting a seniorita in Spain and bringing her home to Canada - Besos Kerisita, Mi mariposa española. If I'm not mistaken, my brother picked up a case of Vino from the vinyard we stayed on, so we can all meet at Piazza del Roth to regale and take in the (hopefully) good weather.
Arrivaderci all,
and please keep in touch,
Z.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Lost in the Lilacs
Another quick update, and this one may not be novel length. (Might not).
So I ended up meeting my friend (Keri) in San Sebastian, after hoping the midnite train from Paris. I think I told you all about my adventure there and my breakfast at Notre Dame with Francois, a french photographer who prefers the frenetic pace, drive, ambition and sky scrapers of North America. I think Sebastian the crab said it best under the sea: the sea weed is always greener. I´d give all that up for the slower pace of paris, or the even slower pace of San Sebastian.
Ker and I hiked up one of the two mountains and watched the sun set in three parts: first, it hovered above a hallow of clouds, icing them with light, then, the sun sank into the clouds, leaving the sky above blue, and the space between the clouds and the sea a dazzling pink, and finally, at about ten, the sun sank into the sea. Ker said it looked like never never land, and y´know, it does. It reminds me of the bay where Hook´s ship is anchored, around which streches a beach, and just beyond, tapas bars where we munched on a variety of appetizers (mostly codd, odd).
The next moring we scooted off to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim (the one designed by Gehry). Wow, what a building. I´ve never been in a museum where the art is meant to compliment the architecture. Having lunch on the bridge outside, you notice how the entire concept of the museum as a public space - a tower errected to incorporate an ugly old bridge into the grand scheme - really effects the eye and character of a city.
Seville. Wow. First off, I didn´t know whether or not I would make it here, but I´m here, and I´m ecstatic. I didn´t think there would have been another city out there (outside of Florence, and even more, Paris) that could be so instantly captivating; what a city to fall in love with, and in. The large streets are lined with lilacs and orange trees fifteen feet high, and the smaller streets, single lanes, are bookended by homes and fronts no more than three stories high which Keri says seems to hug you as you walk. I agree. While Ker was at work I walked around and got lost...reallly lost, then found my way to the Catherdral - the third larges in the world; it made Notre Dame look like a whiny little bitch. I kid, of course, J´aime notre dame. The cathedral was massive though, and from the top of the thirty or so story tower, I caught glimpse of the bull fighting ring, and the entire city scape. Breath taking. Inside, at the main point of the catherdral there was a, well, a wall, with thirty or so gold and wood engravings of many colors depicting scenes from the new testament. Very impressive. It just goes to show you what a little religious zeal, popular support and heaps of money can do; you can build a cathedral, or even start a war for oil...wow.
Gonna keep it short for now. Thanks to all who are keeping me up to date in T.O. Good luck to my fellow law school chronies on our impending marks, and congrats to those of you (present company EZcluded) who made the moot team - I woudn´t want to be a part of any team that would have me as a member anyways.
Hasta luego all,
Z.
Another quick update, and this one may not be novel length. (Might not).
So I ended up meeting my friend (Keri) in San Sebastian, after hoping the midnite train from Paris. I think I told you all about my adventure there and my breakfast at Notre Dame with Francois, a french photographer who prefers the frenetic pace, drive, ambition and sky scrapers of North America. I think Sebastian the crab said it best under the sea: the sea weed is always greener. I´d give all that up for the slower pace of paris, or the even slower pace of San Sebastian.
Ker and I hiked up one of the two mountains and watched the sun set in three parts: first, it hovered above a hallow of clouds, icing them with light, then, the sun sank into the clouds, leaving the sky above blue, and the space between the clouds and the sea a dazzling pink, and finally, at about ten, the sun sank into the sea. Ker said it looked like never never land, and y´know, it does. It reminds me of the bay where Hook´s ship is anchored, around which streches a beach, and just beyond, tapas bars where we munched on a variety of appetizers (mostly codd, odd).
The next moring we scooted off to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim (the one designed by Gehry). Wow, what a building. I´ve never been in a museum where the art is meant to compliment the architecture. Having lunch on the bridge outside, you notice how the entire concept of the museum as a public space - a tower errected to incorporate an ugly old bridge into the grand scheme - really effects the eye and character of a city.
Seville. Wow. First off, I didn´t know whether or not I would make it here, but I´m here, and I´m ecstatic. I didn´t think there would have been another city out there (outside of Florence, and even more, Paris) that could be so instantly captivating; what a city to fall in love with, and in. The large streets are lined with lilacs and orange trees fifteen feet high, and the smaller streets, single lanes, are bookended by homes and fronts no more than three stories high which Keri says seems to hug you as you walk. I agree. While Ker was at work I walked around and got lost...reallly lost, then found my way to the Catherdral - the third larges in the world; it made Notre Dame look like a whiny little bitch. I kid, of course, J´aime notre dame. The cathedral was massive though, and from the top of the thirty or so story tower, I caught glimpse of the bull fighting ring, and the entire city scape. Breath taking. Inside, at the main point of the catherdral there was a, well, a wall, with thirty or so gold and wood engravings of many colors depicting scenes from the new testament. Very impressive. It just goes to show you what a little religious zeal, popular support and heaps of money can do; you can build a cathedral, or even start a war for oil...wow.
Gonna keep it short for now. Thanks to all who are keeping me up to date in T.O. Good luck to my fellow law school chronies on our impending marks, and congrats to those of you (present company EZcluded) who made the moot team - I woudn´t want to be a part of any team that would have me as a member anyways.
Hasta luego all,
Z.
Friday, May 20, 2005
One word people. Gimmelwald (www.gimmelwald.com). Go there. The pictures don't do it justice.
I made my way to the top of the mountain in the thickest fog. I'm talking, can't see your hand in front of your face kind of fog. I convinced myself i was walking through the clouds, which made me feel better. Now the hostel I stayed at was ear poppingly high up in the mountains, and, wouldn't you know it, I showed up and was greeted by a heap of Canuckistanis (Canadians). A gaggle from toronto, a few from parts unkwnown, a nice couple from Newfoundland - I asked, they are aware of the jokes we tell...they don't mind - and lastly, the hostel owner who came to Gimmelwald from Interlakken via Vancouver. Having never been to BC, I can only assume that the people at the top of the mountain who told me Switzerland was like BC are a bunch of damn dirty liars. That is of course, until I make my way to BC to prove my assumption.
Words don't really convey what this place was like. Pictures might have done it, but alas, my camera is in pieces and I couldn't snap too many. Here's the reader's digest version of the story:
Wake up after the foggy night. Open my eyes. Sun rising over mountains. Fastforward past breakfast and the morning constitutional. Book another night. Meet up with the Toronto crew outside: Jon and Mike - inside bastards who hiked five hours from Interlakken to Gimmelwald (I took a train, a bus, and a cable car), and Dave - solo traveller, great guy, Lewis to my Clark (Hey guys, welcome to the list). So, we decide to take a hike up the mountain. Go up to the next town. Takes forty minutes. I'm panting, thinking I wont live to take another step. Old people with no bags or water walk past us making fun of me. Dave encourages me, and implicitly encourages himself; when I turn back, he turns back, and those other couple of canucks trek to the top. Along the way, I see a cable in a mountain side and assume it's meant for climbing, because, really, what else could it be for. I shoot up, thinking its a shortcut. Dave follows and goes past me to the rock face above. I follow Dave. We end up pretty well stranded at the top of a hill too steep to go down. And then, the camera, the camera. As I was about to pull myself up to the next level of Mount Stupidmore, I toss my plastic bag with lunch and, yes, my camera. It doesn't quite make it. Granola goes flying one way, the camera goes another, I go for both, get none, and we two watch my camera fall: 'keep an eye on it, we'll get it...it's not so farit's just a little airborn, it's still good, it's still good....maybe it'll stop when it hits that...nope, guess not...'. Dave wanted to laugh. So did I. We did, later. At that momment we had to figure out a way up and then down off this hill. We made it, and I'm not gonna lie, it involved alot of goat shit. Taking that as an omen to turn back, we did, found my camera (and I only hope the memory card is still good), and had a lunch of bread, cheeze, olives and vino on the hillside. The night was spent drinking (or for my part, trying to drink) the Swiss equivilent of Dave's brand beer, playing Euker and being surly to the rambunctious Americans at the table to our right.
So I made it down the mountain alive yesterday. It was tough to leave, but onwards and upwards. Took the night train to Paris, arrived at about 7. I think French train stations are the only ones in the world that, no matter how grimey, smell like fresh baked pastries. Of course, the pleasant aroma is somewhat diminished by the infamous body odour of les francophones, mais, c'est la vie. Just a quick stopover here to remember what the city looks like; looks the same as last time, except alot of the monuments are adorned with 'Paris 2012'. Tres tacky. Tried to exhaust myself, zoomin around taking in all the sights, retracing some of the footsteps I took about four years ago - it's very strange stepping back into a picture you took long ago in what seems a different world, knowing you stood on the exact same bridge with the very same sunset view of Notre Dame - then zoomed over to the Champs de Mars and wrote, people watched and had a wine and cheeze lunch, all in hopes of tuckering myself out for tonights train to Spain.
I'm off to have another fabulous travellers dinner (more cheeze, more bread, more fruit, more wine) somewhere between the Sorbonne and the Pantheon. As alaways, I'm excited for what tomorrow brings, and thankful for what today has brought...or at least I'd like to think I am. Hope this letter finds you all feeling the same way.
Z.
I made my way to the top of the mountain in the thickest fog. I'm talking, can't see your hand in front of your face kind of fog. I convinced myself i was walking through the clouds, which made me feel better. Now the hostel I stayed at was ear poppingly high up in the mountains, and, wouldn't you know it, I showed up and was greeted by a heap of Canuckistanis (Canadians). A gaggle from toronto, a few from parts unkwnown, a nice couple from Newfoundland - I asked, they are aware of the jokes we tell...they don't mind - and lastly, the hostel owner who came to Gimmelwald from Interlakken via Vancouver. Having never been to BC, I can only assume that the people at the top of the mountain who told me Switzerland was like BC are a bunch of damn dirty liars. That is of course, until I make my way to BC to prove my assumption.
Words don't really convey what this place was like. Pictures might have done it, but alas, my camera is in pieces and I couldn't snap too many. Here's the reader's digest version of the story:
Wake up after the foggy night. Open my eyes. Sun rising over mountains. Fastforward past breakfast and the morning constitutional. Book another night. Meet up with the Toronto crew outside: Jon and Mike - inside bastards who hiked five hours from Interlakken to Gimmelwald (I took a train, a bus, and a cable car), and Dave - solo traveller, great guy, Lewis to my Clark (Hey guys, welcome to the list). So, we decide to take a hike up the mountain. Go up to the next town. Takes forty minutes. I'm panting, thinking I wont live to take another step. Old people with no bags or water walk past us making fun of me. Dave encourages me, and implicitly encourages himself; when I turn back, he turns back, and those other couple of canucks trek to the top. Along the way, I see a cable in a mountain side and assume it's meant for climbing, because, really, what else could it be for. I shoot up, thinking its a shortcut. Dave follows and goes past me to the rock face above. I follow Dave. We end up pretty well stranded at the top of a hill too steep to go down. And then, the camera, the camera. As I was about to pull myself up to the next level of Mount Stupidmore, I toss my plastic bag with lunch and, yes, my camera. It doesn't quite make it. Granola goes flying one way, the camera goes another, I go for both, get none, and we two watch my camera fall: 'keep an eye on it, we'll get it...it's not so far
So I made it down the mountain alive yesterday. It was tough to leave, but onwards and upwards. Took the night train to Paris, arrived at about 7. I think French train stations are the only ones in the world that, no matter how grimey, smell like fresh baked pastries. Of course, the pleasant aroma is somewhat diminished by the infamous body odour of les francophones, mais, c'est la vie. Just a quick stopover here to remember what the city looks like; looks the same as last time, except alot of the monuments are adorned with 'Paris 2012'. Tres tacky. Tried to exhaust myself, zoomin around taking in all the sights, retracing some of the footsteps I took about four years ago - it's very strange stepping back into a picture you took long ago in what seems a different world, knowing you stood on the exact same bridge with the very same sunset view of Notre Dame - then zoomed over to the Champs de Mars and wrote, people watched and had a wine and cheeze lunch, all in hopes of tuckering myself out for tonights train to Spain.
I'm off to have another fabulous travellers dinner (more cheeze, more bread, more fruit, more wine) somewhere between the Sorbonne and the Pantheon. As alaways, I'm excited for what tomorrow brings, and thankful for what today has brought...or at least I'd like to think I am. Hope this letter finds you all feeling the same way.
Z.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
All set for another injection of anecdotal observations, ruminations and imaginative ejaculations...I thought so.
Late One Night on the Cruise:
I was wandering around the ship, trying to find a place to curl up with my book (was finishing Graham Greene’s ‘Monsignior Quixote’ at the time), when I marveled at how meticulous the midnite cleaning crew was. Wiping down each slot machine, vaccumming in all the crooks and crannies, doing the dirty work…err, cleaning work, while everyone was asleep. Interestingly, after speaking to some of them, I found out most of them are from Peru. Interesting place to end up. I was going to call them cleaning gnomes, when I was fortunate enough to have witnessed something very interesting that changed my mind. It must have been four in the morning, and the cleaning crew had put on their own music. As I was lying there unseen, one of them was belting out ‘Self Esteem’ by the offspring at the top of his lungs. I conclude, gnomes don’t rock out to Offspring, and enjoyed my Peruvian friend continue his nocturnal alt rock recital.
Tuscany
:\r\n\r\nI think I said it before, so I won’t say it again…breathtaking; the hills were the perfect preamble to the Swiss Alps.\r\n \r\nThose interested in where I stayed: \r\n\r\n\r\n‘And after a glimpse…over the top…the rest of the world becomes a gift shop…’\r\nMore and more it seems that Europe is one grand tourist attraction; everz store selling the same wares, and every city littered with the same ethnic minorities, all toting around garbage bags filled with bobbles made of balloons filled with flour, googly eyes and three short pieces of yarn, all scattering as soon as the police make their rounds. I don’t mean to sound cynical, and I don’t think I am, just observant in my own way.\r\n \r\nThinking about it, I look back to the time when each country in the EU was once home to fierce nationalism and each country possessing a language, currency, character and identity that was uniquely their own. All that seems to remain today is the language, as the talk over here is all about ratifying the new EU constitution. (Stuff I would be otherwise interested in if a) the news wasn’t in Italian or German and b) I wasn’t far more preoccupied with walking around making random observations). But, back to the language. I was in San Gimignano (",1]
);
//-->
:
I think I said it before, so I won’t say it again…breathtaking; the hills were the perfect preamble to the Swiss Alps.
Those interested in where I stayed:
‘And after a glimpse…over the top…the rest of the world becomes a gift shop…’
More and more it seems that Europe is one grand tourist attraction; everz store selling the same wares, and every city littered with the same ethnic minorities, all toting around garbage bags filled with bobbles made of balloons filled with flour, googly eyes and three short pieces of yarn, all scattering as soon as the police make their rounds. I don’t mean to sound cynical, and I don’t think I am, just observant in my own way.
Thinking about it, I look back to the time when each country in the EU was once home to fierce nationalism and each country possessing a language, currency, character and identity that was uniquely their own. All that seems to remain today is the language, as the talk over here is all about ratifying the new EU constitution. (Stuff I would be otherwise interested in if a) the news wasn’t in Italian or German and b) I wasn’t far more preoccupied with walking around making random observations). But, back to the language. I was in San Gimignano (
http://www.blogger.com/) with my family. We were parking the car. As we were paying, an Italian gentleman asked \r\nmy mother, in Italian, how much it was. She did her best to answer him, which, unfortunately, wasn’t good enough. I then watched this man struggle for the next five to seven minutes trying to find someone in the surrounding area who spoke Italian and who could help him out. He found Dutch, French, Japanese, English, New York, the whole multinational mosaic…but no Italian. I remind you, as I reminded myself, I was IN Italy *I wanted to add an exclamation point, but the Swiss, being so subtle I suppose, don’t seem to have one on the key board. \r\n \r\nOn a side note, the day before we took the three hour drive to Venice. Mom did it in 2 and a half, but more than made up for it on our return, which took four or so - we got lost. Nowhere else I have been has made the giftshop/amusement park ambience of Europe more apparent than in Venice. They say Venice is the easiest city to get lost in: the winding walkways and bridges along the canals and waterways, some leading to a dead end, others in circles. The truth is, it would be far easier to navigate if not for the endless row of identical stores hawking the same bloody masks – you know the ones: the tragicomedy one, or \r\nthe bird man long nose one. If these stores were any more distinct from one another, the task may not have been so arduous. \r\n \r\nAlas, we finally made our way to San Marco. The look on my mothers face was worth all the money spent getting here. Of course, it better be, its her money…",1]
);
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http://www.sangimignano.com/sghomei.htm) with my family. We were parking the car. As we were paying, an Italian gentleman asked my mother, in Italian, how much it was. She did her best to answer him, which, unfortunately, wasn’t good enough. I then watched this man struggle for the next five to seven minutes trying to find someone in the surrounding area who spoke Italian and who could help him out. He found Dutch, French, Japanese, English, New York, the whole multinational mosaic…but no Italian. I remind you, as I reminded myself, I was IN Italy *I wanted to add an exclamation point, but the Swiss, being so subtle I suppose, don’t seem to have one on the key board.
On a side note, the day before we took the three hour drive to Venice. Mom did it in 2 and a half, but more than made up for it on our return, which took four or so - we got lost. Nowhere else I have been has made the giftshop/amusement park ambience of Europe more apparent than in Venice. They say Venice is the easiest city to get lost in: the winding walkways and bridges along the canals and waterways, some leading to a dead end, others in circles. The truth is, it would be far easier to navigate if not for the endless row of identical stores hawking the same bloody masks – you know the ones: the tragicomedy one, or the bird man long nose one. If these stores were any more distinct from one another, the task may not have been so arduous.
Alas, we finally made our way to San Marco. The look on my mothers face was worth all the money spent getting here. Of course, it better be, its her money…
\r\n \r\nSan Marco was as beautiful and, given my irrational fear of pigeons, as horrifying as I remember it. I watched from afar as my sister put bird seed in her hands and hair and looked more like that crazy bird lady from Home Alone 2 – apologies for the arcane popcultural reference – as I prayed silently that they poop in her hair. They didn’t, just clawed up her skin real bad. And she ran back to us smiling. Some people. \r\n \r\nPerhaps the most hyper real moment occurred in Piazza San Marco. Walking into the piazza, remembering how once upon a time the remains of San Marco were smuggled into Venice to give it some clout and credibility on the world stage, I turned to look at the alleyway that led us there only to find a billboard of the Eiffel tower, a scale replica standing right next to the Church. Surreal. Its seems as if the major cities in Europe are all part of the same play all day pass and this grand amusement park. \r\n \r\nI started thinking about how Europe was once the cradle and engine of civilization, and now it seems to me a hyper real façade or stage upon which history repeats itself five times daily as lookiloos pass by, snapping photos of all those places they dun seen on the tv. Again, not cynical, just observant. It seems that the history of this continent, the implications and reverberations still felt today – the invisible ground of our ‘new world’ –has become a place for dramatic recreation. \r\n \r\n",1]
);
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San Marco was as beautiful and, given my irrational fear of pigeons, as horrifying as I remember it. I watched from afar as my sister put bird seed in her hands and hair and looked more like that crazy bird lady from Home Alone 2 – apologies for the arcane popcultural reference – as I prayed silently that they poop in her hair. They didn’t, just clawed up her skin real bad. And she ran back to us smiling. Some people.
Perhaps the most hyper real moment occurred in Piazza San Marco. Walking into the piazza, remembering how once upon a time the remains of San Marco were smuggled into Venice to give it some clout and credibility on the world stage, I turned to look at the alleyway that led us there only to find a billboard of the Eiffel tower, a scale replica standing right next to the Church. Surreal. Its seems as if the major cities in Europe are all part of the same play all day pass and this grand amusement park.
I started thinking about how Europe was once the cradle and engine of civilization, and now it seems to me a hyper real façade or stage upon which history repeats itself five times daily as lookiloos pass by, snapping photos of all those places they dun seen on the tv. Again, not cynical, just observant. It seems that the history of this continent, the implications and reverberations still felt today – the invisible ground of our ‘new world’ –has become a place for dramatic recreation.
You Guys Wanna See a Dead Body…\r\n\r\nSo, with these thoughts swirling through my head, and a morning spent in SanGimignano, the family and I made our way to Sienna. Magical beautiful city, with a piazza in the center far more serene and far less congested than Florence or Venice, but one that took me for a loop. After having an espresso – my third, or fourth of the day…who keeps count – we made our way to the Duomo at twilight. It was there that, if not for my overly conservative mother, I had the near chance to live out my life long dream to lewdly defile a collection of corpses. \r\n \r\nLet me explain. \r\n \r\nIt turns out Dino De Laurentis is shooting a pic in Sienna with Tim Roth about the Plague, and we just happened to walk onto the set. You have to see the pictures to believe it, but outside the Duomo were the dead, wrapped in rotting cloth, lined side by side, parents next to their children. At either side of the stairs leading up the church’s entrane were lumber piles being prepared to be set aflame, presumably, to burn the dead. To the side of the church, a pile of corpses and a wood filled with more. Friars and clergy men dressed all in black with hoods marching, and all the while, the glare from the overhead lights setting the scene for the director blaring down creating a surreal artificial sense to the whole scene. All the world’s a stage indeed. Are we merely players? Spectators? Lookiloos? Consumers? (The last one seems most prescient, and ominous). ",1]
);
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You Guys Wanna See a Dead Body…
So, with these thoughts swirling through my head, and a morning spent in SanGimignano, the family and I made our way to Sienna. Magical beautiful city, with a piazza in the center far more serene and far less congested than Florence or Venice, but one that took me for a loop. After having an espresso – my third, or fourth of the day…who keeps count – we made our way to the Duomo at twilight. It was there that, if not for my overly conservative mother, I had the near chance to live out my life long dream to lewdly defile a collection of corpses.
Let me explain.
It turns out Dino De Laurentis is shooting a pic in Sienna with Tim Roth about the Plague, and we just happened to walk onto the set. You have to see the pictures to believe it, but outside the Duomo were the dead, wrapped in rotting cloth, lined side by side, parents next to their children. At either side of the stairs leading up the church’s entrane were lumber piles being prepared to be set aflame, presumably, to burn the dead. To the side of the church, a pile of corpses and a wood filled with more. Friars and clergy men dressed all in black with hoods marching, and all the while, the glare from the overhead lights setting the scene for the director blaring down creating a surreal artificial sense to the whole scene. All the world’s a stage indeed. Are we merely players? Spectators? Lookiloos? Consumers? (The last one seems most prescient, and ominous).
\r\n \r\nWith that, I was ready to get out of Italy and on to Paris to catch a Jack Johnson concert. Alas, escaping Italy was harder than expected, as the folk at the Florence metro were far from helpful. Didn’t make it to Paris, didn’t see the show, didn’t even get to leave that day. Had to wait until Sunday to make my trip to…\r\n \r\nSwitzerland\r\n\r\nAs I said, the folk in Italy were far from helpful, and they sent me to Geneva in order to get to Interlakken. (Look at a map, it just doesn’t make sense…but I needed to get going). I ended up in Geneva at a quarter past midnite, walking the streets alone, astonished at how well my French had served me, especially while conversing with transients and underage drunks on their way to the peep show. None of them were much help, and I ended up holing up in an overpriced hotel, which was really nothing more than a single bed with walls around it…and a shower, a blessed wonderful shower. Then off to Luzern, and to Interlakken. \r\n \r\nA few thoughts I wrote out on the train:\r\n \r\nIt’s raining. \r\n",1]
);
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With that, I was ready to get out of Italy and on to Paris to catch a Jack Johnson concert. Alas, escaping Italy was harder than expected, as the folk at the Florence metro were far from helpful. Didn’t make it to Paris, didn’t see the show, didn’t even get to leave that day. Had to wait until Sunday to make my trip to…
Switzerland
As I said, the folk in Italy were far from helpful, and they sent me to Geneva in order to get to Interlakken. (Look at a map, it just doesn’t make sense…but I needed to get going). I ended up in Geneva at a quarter past midnite, walking the streets alone, astonished at how well my French had served me, especially while conversing with transients and underage drunks on their way to the peep show. None of them were much help, and I ended up holing up in an overpriced hotel, which was really nothing more than a single bed with walls around it…and a shower, a blessed wonderful shower. Then off to Luzern, and to Interlakken.
A few thoughts I wrote out on the train:
It’s raining.
the hills. Simply awesome. On the more or less flattened pastures stretched out at the foot of the mountain, I see small wooden homes with no visible method of ingress or egress, as though the homes were as natural and organic a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. I wonder who lives there, and what their world looks like. On the mountainside, interspersed among the green, a waterfall cascades in two parts, the topmost a brilliant white wall backed by a stony rock face, whooshing towards an unseen pool, continuing meteres to the side and down the mountain in a smaller waterfall, a little brother. \r\n \r\nWhat strikes me most is the way the clouds just hover amongst the trees and amidst the scattered homes., loitering, as if they had no where else to go. I can see rain fall from the clouds, and the clear sky above. Their shape, the clouds, seem to suggest that some invisible hand is stretched out and is slowly and delicately pulling cotton from an invisible reservoir somewhere in the treetops. ",1]
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I’ve never looked down on rain clouds before. Except for when I fly above the clouds in a plain, I’ve never been so close to a cloud before. I feel like I could touch them. The lady by the open window is snapping pictures of the passing scene. I hope she has a panoramic camera. Even if she does, I don’t think it will do any justice. No matter how wide you stretch the horizontal axis of your lens, nothing captures the depth of what is whizzing by. Immediately outside the window, cattle grazing, the foreground to a deep green valley that rises again, steep, nearly straight up on the distant side into a mountain of green. If Tuscany’s hills, littered with greenery no more than waist high, seemed overwhelming, the Swiss mountains and the mature trees looming large at the bottom and at points at the top that aren’t snow capped, simply dwarf the hills. Simply awesome. On the more or less flattened pastures stretched out at the foot of the mountain, I see small wooden homes with no visible method of ingress or egress, as though the homes were as natural and organic a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. I wonder who lives there, and what their world looks like. On the mountainside, interspersed among the green, a waterfall cascades in two parts, the topmost a brilliant white wall backed by a stony rock face, whooshing towards an unseen pool, continuing meteres to the side and down the mountain in a smaller waterfall, a little brother.
What strikes me most is the way the clouds just hover amongst the trees and amidst the scattered homes., loitering, as if they had no where else to go. I can see rain fall from the clouds, and the clear sky above. Their shape, the clouds, seem to suggest that some invisible hand is stretched out and is slowly and delicately pulling cotton from an invisible reservoir somewhere in the treetops.
\r\n \r\nThank You and Adieu\r\n\r\nThanks for being there. I must say, these emails make me feel like a sort of roving reporter. I love sharing my thoughts with everyone back home, or elsewhere, and love having a record of where I’ve been and what I’ve done. It’s also a great creative break from writing facta or having a moot (mock appeal) argument laughed out of mock court for being too creative or off the wall. A world without law (schools) is possible, and its beautiful. \r\n \r\nI’m off to Gimmelwald tomorrow, then Paris, then meeting a really good friend in Spain on Sunday. I’ll keep you up to date….\r\n \r\nZ.\r\n\r\n",0]
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D(["ce"]);
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Thank You and Adieu
Thanks for being there. I must say, these emails make me feel like a sort of roving reporter. I love sharing my thoughts with everyone back home, or elsewhere, and love having a record of where I’ve been and what I’ve done. It’s also a great creative break from writing facta or having a moot (mock appeal) argument laughed out of mock court for being too creative or off the wall. A world without law (schools) is possible, and its beautiful.
I’m off to Gimmelwald tomorrow, then Paris, then meeting a really good friend in Spain on Sunday. I’ll keep you up to date….
Late One Night on the Cruise:
I was wandering around the ship, trying to find a place to curl up with my book (was finishing Graham Greene’s ‘Monsignior Quixote’ at the time), when I marveled at how meticulous the midnite cleaning crew was. Wiping down each slot machine, vaccumming in all the crooks and crannies, doing the dirty work…err, cleaning work, while everyone was asleep. Interestingly, after speaking to some of them, I found out most of them are from Peru. Interesting place to end up. I was going to call them cleaning gnomes, when I was fortunate enough to have witnessed something very interesting that changed my mind. It must have been four in the morning, and the cleaning crew had put on their own music. As I was lying there unseen, one of them was belting out ‘Self Esteem’ by the offspring at the top of his lungs. I conclude, gnomes don’t rock out to Offspring, and enjoyed my Peruvian friend continue his nocturnal alt rock recital.
Tuscany
:\r\n\r\nI think I said it before, so I won’t say it again…breathtaking; the hills were the perfect preamble to the Swiss Alps.\r\n \r\nThose interested in where I stayed: \r\n\r\n\r\n‘And after a glimpse…over the top…the rest of the world becomes a gift shop…’\r\nMore and more it seems that Europe is one grand tourist attraction; everz store selling the same wares, and every city littered with the same ethnic minorities, all toting around garbage bags filled with bobbles made of balloons filled with flour, googly eyes and three short pieces of yarn, all scattering as soon as the police make their rounds. I don’t mean to sound cynical, and I don’t think I am, just observant in my own way.\r\n \r\nThinking about it, I look back to the time when each country in the EU was once home to fierce nationalism and each country possessing a language, currency, character and identity that was uniquely their own. All that seems to remain today is the language, as the talk over here is all about ratifying the new EU constitution. (Stuff I would be otherwise interested in if a) the news wasn’t in Italian or German and b) I wasn’t far more preoccupied with walking around making random observations). But, back to the language. I was in San Gimignano (",1]
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:
I think I said it before, so I won’t say it again…breathtaking; the hills were the perfect preamble to the Swiss Alps.
Those interested in where I stayed:
‘And after a glimpse…over the top…the rest of the world becomes a gift shop…’
More and more it seems that Europe is one grand tourist attraction; everz store selling the same wares, and every city littered with the same ethnic minorities, all toting around garbage bags filled with bobbles made of balloons filled with flour, googly eyes and three short pieces of yarn, all scattering as soon as the police make their rounds. I don’t mean to sound cynical, and I don’t think I am, just observant in my own way.
Thinking about it, I look back to the time when each country in the EU was once home to fierce nationalism and each country possessing a language, currency, character and identity that was uniquely their own. All that seems to remain today is the language, as the talk over here is all about ratifying the new EU constitution. (Stuff I would be otherwise interested in if a) the news wasn’t in Italian or German and b) I wasn’t far more preoccupied with walking around making random observations). But, back to the language. I was in San Gimignano (
http://www.blogger.com/) with my family. We were parking the car. As we were paying, an Italian gentleman asked \r\nmy mother, in Italian, how much it was. She did her best to answer him, which, unfortunately, wasn’t good enough. I then watched this man struggle for the next five to seven minutes trying to find someone in the surrounding area who spoke Italian and who could help him out. He found Dutch, French, Japanese, English, New York, the whole multinational mosaic…but no Italian. I remind you, as I reminded myself, I was IN Italy *I wanted to add an exclamation point, but the Swiss, being so subtle I suppose, don’t seem to have one on the key board. \r\n \r\nOn a side note, the day before we took the three hour drive to Venice. Mom did it in 2 and a half, but more than made up for it on our return, which took four or so - we got lost. Nowhere else I have been has made the giftshop/amusement park ambience of Europe more apparent than in Venice. They say Venice is the easiest city to get lost in: the winding walkways and bridges along the canals and waterways, some leading to a dead end, others in circles. The truth is, it would be far easier to navigate if not for the endless row of identical stores hawking the same bloody masks – you know the ones: the tragicomedy one, or \r\nthe bird man long nose one. If these stores were any more distinct from one another, the task may not have been so arduous. \r\n \r\nAlas, we finally made our way to San Marco. The look on my mothers face was worth all the money spent getting here. Of course, it better be, its her money…",1]
);
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http://www.sangimignano.com/sghomei.htm) with my family. We were parking the car. As we were paying, an Italian gentleman asked my mother, in Italian, how much it was. She did her best to answer him, which, unfortunately, wasn’t good enough. I then watched this man struggle for the next five to seven minutes trying to find someone in the surrounding area who spoke Italian and who could help him out. He found Dutch, French, Japanese, English, New York, the whole multinational mosaic…but no Italian. I remind you, as I reminded myself, I was IN Italy *I wanted to add an exclamation point, but the Swiss, being so subtle I suppose, don’t seem to have one on the key board.
On a side note, the day before we took the three hour drive to Venice. Mom did it in 2 and a half, but more than made up for it on our return, which took four or so - we got lost. Nowhere else I have been has made the giftshop/amusement park ambience of Europe more apparent than in Venice. They say Venice is the easiest city to get lost in: the winding walkways and bridges along the canals and waterways, some leading to a dead end, others in circles. The truth is, it would be far easier to navigate if not for the endless row of identical stores hawking the same bloody masks – you know the ones: the tragicomedy one, or the bird man long nose one. If these stores were any more distinct from one another, the task may not have been so arduous.
Alas, we finally made our way to San Marco. The look on my mothers face was worth all the money spent getting here. Of course, it better be, its her money…
\r\n \r\nSan Marco was as beautiful and, given my irrational fear of pigeons, as horrifying as I remember it. I watched from afar as my sister put bird seed in her hands and hair and looked more like that crazy bird lady from Home Alone 2 – apologies for the arcane popcultural reference – as I prayed silently that they poop in her hair. They didn’t, just clawed up her skin real bad. And she ran back to us smiling. Some people. \r\n \r\nPerhaps the most hyper real moment occurred in Piazza San Marco. Walking into the piazza, remembering how once upon a time the remains of San Marco were smuggled into Venice to give it some clout and credibility on the world stage, I turned to look at the alleyway that led us there only to find a billboard of the Eiffel tower, a scale replica standing right next to the Church. Surreal. Its seems as if the major cities in Europe are all part of the same play all day pass and this grand amusement park. \r\n \r\nI started thinking about how Europe was once the cradle and engine of civilization, and now it seems to me a hyper real façade or stage upon which history repeats itself five times daily as lookiloos pass by, snapping photos of all those places they dun seen on the tv. Again, not cynical, just observant. It seems that the history of this continent, the implications and reverberations still felt today – the invisible ground of our ‘new world’ –has become a place for dramatic recreation. \r\n \r\n",1]
);
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San Marco was as beautiful and, given my irrational fear of pigeons, as horrifying as I remember it. I watched from afar as my sister put bird seed in her hands and hair and looked more like that crazy bird lady from Home Alone 2 – apologies for the arcane popcultural reference – as I prayed silently that they poop in her hair. They didn’t, just clawed up her skin real bad. And she ran back to us smiling. Some people.
Perhaps the most hyper real moment occurred in Piazza San Marco. Walking into the piazza, remembering how once upon a time the remains of San Marco were smuggled into Venice to give it some clout and credibility on the world stage, I turned to look at the alleyway that led us there only to find a billboard of the Eiffel tower, a scale replica standing right next to the Church. Surreal. Its seems as if the major cities in Europe are all part of the same play all day pass and this grand amusement park.
I started thinking about how Europe was once the cradle and engine of civilization, and now it seems to me a hyper real façade or stage upon which history repeats itself five times daily as lookiloos pass by, snapping photos of all those places they dun seen on the tv. Again, not cynical, just observant. It seems that the history of this continent, the implications and reverberations still felt today – the invisible ground of our ‘new world’ –has become a place for dramatic recreation.
You Guys Wanna See a Dead Body…\r\n\r\nSo, with these thoughts swirling through my head, and a morning spent in SanGimignano, the family and I made our way to Sienna. Magical beautiful city, with a piazza in the center far more serene and far less congested than Florence or Venice, but one that took me for a loop. After having an espresso – my third, or fourth of the day…who keeps count – we made our way to the Duomo at twilight. It was there that, if not for my overly conservative mother, I had the near chance to live out my life long dream to lewdly defile a collection of corpses. \r\n \r\nLet me explain. \r\n \r\nIt turns out Dino De Laurentis is shooting a pic in Sienna with Tim Roth about the Plague, and we just happened to walk onto the set. You have to see the pictures to believe it, but outside the Duomo were the dead, wrapped in rotting cloth, lined side by side, parents next to their children. At either side of the stairs leading up the church’s entrane were lumber piles being prepared to be set aflame, presumably, to burn the dead. To the side of the church, a pile of corpses and a wood filled with more. Friars and clergy men dressed all in black with hoods marching, and all the while, the glare from the overhead lights setting the scene for the director blaring down creating a surreal artificial sense to the whole scene. All the world’s a stage indeed. Are we merely players? Spectators? Lookiloos? Consumers? (The last one seems most prescient, and ominous). ",1]
);
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You Guys Wanna See a Dead Body…
So, with these thoughts swirling through my head, and a morning spent in SanGimignano, the family and I made our way to Sienna. Magical beautiful city, with a piazza in the center far more serene and far less congested than Florence or Venice, but one that took me for a loop. After having an espresso – my third, or fourth of the day…who keeps count – we made our way to the Duomo at twilight. It was there that, if not for my overly conservative mother, I had the near chance to live out my life long dream to lewdly defile a collection of corpses.
Let me explain.
It turns out Dino De Laurentis is shooting a pic in Sienna with Tim Roth about the Plague, and we just happened to walk onto the set. You have to see the pictures to believe it, but outside the Duomo were the dead, wrapped in rotting cloth, lined side by side, parents next to their children. At either side of the stairs leading up the church’s entrane were lumber piles being prepared to be set aflame, presumably, to burn the dead. To the side of the church, a pile of corpses and a wood filled with more. Friars and clergy men dressed all in black with hoods marching, and all the while, the glare from the overhead lights setting the scene for the director blaring down creating a surreal artificial sense to the whole scene. All the world’s a stage indeed. Are we merely players? Spectators? Lookiloos? Consumers? (The last one seems most prescient, and ominous).
\r\n \r\nWith that, I was ready to get out of Italy and on to Paris to catch a Jack Johnson concert. Alas, escaping Italy was harder than expected, as the folk at the Florence metro were far from helpful. Didn’t make it to Paris, didn’t see the show, didn’t even get to leave that day. Had to wait until Sunday to make my trip to…\r\n \r\nSwitzerland\r\n\r\nAs I said, the folk in Italy were far from helpful, and they sent me to Geneva in order to get to Interlakken. (Look at a map, it just doesn’t make sense…but I needed to get going). I ended up in Geneva at a quarter past midnite, walking the streets alone, astonished at how well my French had served me, especially while conversing with transients and underage drunks on their way to the peep show. None of them were much help, and I ended up holing up in an overpriced hotel, which was really nothing more than a single bed with walls around it…and a shower, a blessed wonderful shower. Then off to Luzern, and to Interlakken. \r\n \r\nA few thoughts I wrote out on the train:\r\n \r\nIt’s raining. \r\n",1]
);
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With that, I was ready to get out of Italy and on to Paris to catch a Jack Johnson concert. Alas, escaping Italy was harder than expected, as the folk at the Florence metro were far from helpful. Didn’t make it to Paris, didn’t see the show, didn’t even get to leave that day. Had to wait until Sunday to make my trip to…
Switzerland
As I said, the folk in Italy were far from helpful, and they sent me to Geneva in order to get to Interlakken. (Look at a map, it just doesn’t make sense…but I needed to get going). I ended up in Geneva at a quarter past midnite, walking the streets alone, astonished at how well my French had served me, especially while conversing with transients and underage drunks on their way to the peep show. None of them were much help, and I ended up holing up in an overpriced hotel, which was really nothing more than a single bed with walls around it…and a shower, a blessed wonderful shower. Then off to Luzern, and to Interlakken.
A few thoughts I wrote out on the train:
It’s raining.
the hills. Simply awesome. On the more or less flattened pastures stretched out at the foot of the mountain, I see small wooden homes with no visible method of ingress or egress, as though the homes were as natural and organic a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. I wonder who lives there, and what their world looks like. On the mountainside, interspersed among the green, a waterfall cascades in two parts, the topmost a brilliant white wall backed by a stony rock face, whooshing towards an unseen pool, continuing meteres to the side and down the mountain in a smaller waterfall, a little brother. \r\n \r\nWhat strikes me most is the way the clouds just hover amongst the trees and amidst the scattered homes., loitering, as if they had no where else to go. I can see rain fall from the clouds, and the clear sky above. Their shape, the clouds, seem to suggest that some invisible hand is stretched out and is slowly and delicately pulling cotton from an invisible reservoir somewhere in the treetops. ",1]
);
//-->
I’ve never looked down on rain clouds before. Except for when I fly above the clouds in a plain, I’ve never been so close to a cloud before. I feel like I could touch them. The lady by the open window is snapping pictures of the passing scene. I hope she has a panoramic camera. Even if she does, I don’t think it will do any justice. No matter how wide you stretch the horizontal axis of your lens, nothing captures the depth of what is whizzing by. Immediately outside the window, cattle grazing, the foreground to a deep green valley that rises again, steep, nearly straight up on the distant side into a mountain of green. If Tuscany’s hills, littered with greenery no more than waist high, seemed overwhelming, the Swiss mountains and the mature trees looming large at the bottom and at points at the top that aren’t snow capped, simply dwarf the hills. Simply awesome. On the more or less flattened pastures stretched out at the foot of the mountain, I see small wooden homes with no visible method of ingress or egress, as though the homes were as natural and organic a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. I wonder who lives there, and what their world looks like. On the mountainside, interspersed among the green, a waterfall cascades in two parts, the topmost a brilliant white wall backed by a stony rock face, whooshing towards an unseen pool, continuing meteres to the side and down the mountain in a smaller waterfall, a little brother.
What strikes me most is the way the clouds just hover amongst the trees and amidst the scattered homes., loitering, as if they had no where else to go. I can see rain fall from the clouds, and the clear sky above. Their shape, the clouds, seem to suggest that some invisible hand is stretched out and is slowly and delicately pulling cotton from an invisible reservoir somewhere in the treetops.
\r\n \r\nThank You and Adieu\r\n\r\nThanks for being there. I must say, these emails make me feel like a sort of roving reporter. I love sharing my thoughts with everyone back home, or elsewhere, and love having a record of where I’ve been and what I’ve done. It’s also a great creative break from writing facta or having a moot (mock appeal) argument laughed out of mock court for being too creative or off the wall. A world without law (schools) is possible, and its beautiful. \r\n \r\nI’m off to Gimmelwald tomorrow, then Paris, then meeting a really good friend in Spain on Sunday. I’ll keep you up to date….\r\n \r\nZ.\r\n\r\n",0]
);
D(["ce"]);
//-->
Thank You and Adieu
Thanks for being there. I must say, these emails make me feel like a sort of roving reporter. I love sharing my thoughts with everyone back home, or elsewhere, and love having a record of where I’ve been and what I’ve done. It’s also a great creative break from writing facta or having a moot (mock appeal) argument laughed out of mock court for being too creative or off the wall. A world without law (schools) is possible, and its beautiful.
I’m off to Gimmelwald tomorrow, then Paris, then meeting a really good friend in Spain on Sunday. I’ll keep you up to date….
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Wash Your Face and Drive Me To Firenzie
Hello, how are you doing today, I hope this finds you feeling happy. So glad our paths crossed this time today...
So I am in Firenzie (Florence for the uninitiated). The cruise is over and it is an absolute pleasure to be staying somewhere where all four of us are not packed like sardines. I say I am in Florence, and I am, but the four of us are staying way up in the Tuscan hills at a vinyard called Castiglinochio. A description escapes words - vile contemptuous words - but I can give it a go, just for you. Last night my brother and I sat outside our two bedroom appartment at a stone table, bookended by olive trees, indluging ourselves with a 2 Euro bottle of red made on the premises and staring out past the small stone wall that careens accross the hillside out into vast green hills as, to steal the cliche, far as the eye can see, and beyond. The colors and textures seem to blend into each other as one hue of green and form of foliage seamlessly gives way to another. We lift our glasses and reprimand ourselves for being slightly upset that there is no tv on the farm (we are only human, and the NBA playoffs are under way).
The drive from Venice to Tuscany was interesting, to say the least. We rented a Nissan Micra. It is about as big as it sounds (all I can hear is Ned Flanders: It wont go any faster...its a GEO!). My sister and I were packed in the back with luggage on both sides of us, and on our lap and my guitar lying up over the top. Snug. The first hour was uncomfortable and rather bland, nothing much to see. But once we came into Tuscany... see above..there really are no words. I remember reading a lecture by Hugh Kenner called the Elsewhere Community, where he spoke of the historical treks taken long ago by travellers from England accross Europe to Rome and Greece. He spoke of elsewhere as a place you go to in order to return home once more and transform both your perception of that place, and that place in actuality. All I could think about driving along the tuscan highway was how that two minute stretch along the Don Valley (The one that starts right where the bridge somewhere around Bloor), will never be as pretty as I used to think it was. That said, I will always think of the Tuscan hills, of elsewhere, everytime I make the commute into the city.
Oh the city. Some of you thought I was being a little cynical in my last email, bemoaning what we have made of ourselves. Not so, just making a few observations. Here is another. Sadly, it seems most of Europe is become increasingly puritanical (much like our beloved toronto). I was speaking to the owner of a leather shop yesterday who told me that there is NO SMOKING inside any buildings in Italy, bars, clubs, and, alas, internet cafes included - sound familliar. One of the joys I remember from last time I was here was smoking, everywhere. Cest la vie I suppose, seems the world is overly concerned form my health and welfare, so, thanks world, tahtks a whole heap.
Flroence is a beautiful city, one of those cities where you simply have your breath stolen away from you as you turn a corner. Yesterday, after walking through the outside of the Uffizi, Justni and I went wandering and looking for the Duomo - the most breathtakingly beautiful building I have ever seen. As we were wandering, wondering whether we were walking towards it or away, I took a step out on to the street, looked left, then right, then saw it. The only thing more rewarding than having your breath taken away, is having it doen by surprise. Speaknig of surprises, yesterday morning, my sister and I, while walking acrross the street, on a green light, which presumably means we had the right to cross and could reasonably expect to cross safely, were hit by a seventy year old Italian man on a Vespa scooter going full speed. Luckily, the man hit my sister first, who then hit me, as we both fell into the rain, mud and trees. (thos who don't know mandee, she's big enough to sustain the impact far better than I). Thankfully, we were all okay, beter than okay, I suppose, because we were able to walk away, laugh about it, and now have quite the story to tell.
Only a few minutes left for me here, so I will say goodbye for now. I must say though, before leaving, half the fun of travelling, is sharing tales with those back home, and hearing news from friends and loved ones. How IS everyone doing? Has anyone at school got their grades yet? Anyone falling in love? Anyone doing anything of note? Gosh, I hope so.
Happy trails to you all, until we meet again,
Z.
Hello, how are you doing today, I hope this finds you feeling happy. So glad our paths crossed this time today...
So I am in Firenzie (Florence for the uninitiated). The cruise is over and it is an absolute pleasure to be staying somewhere where all four of us are not packed like sardines. I say I am in Florence, and I am, but the four of us are staying way up in the Tuscan hills at a vinyard called Castiglinochio. A description escapes words - vile contemptuous words - but I can give it a go, just for you. Last night my brother and I sat outside our two bedroom appartment at a stone table, bookended by olive trees, indluging ourselves with a 2 Euro bottle of red made on the premises and staring out past the small stone wall that careens accross the hillside out into vast green hills as, to steal the cliche, far as the eye can see, and beyond. The colors and textures seem to blend into each other as one hue of green and form of foliage seamlessly gives way to another. We lift our glasses and reprimand ourselves for being slightly upset that there is no tv on the farm (we are only human, and the NBA playoffs are under way).
The drive from Venice to Tuscany was interesting, to say the least. We rented a Nissan Micra. It is about as big as it sounds (all I can hear is Ned Flanders: It wont go any faster...its a GEO!). My sister and I were packed in the back with luggage on both sides of us, and on our lap and my guitar lying up over the top. Snug. The first hour was uncomfortable and rather bland, nothing much to see. But once we came into Tuscany... see above..there really are no words. I remember reading a lecture by Hugh Kenner called the Elsewhere Community, where he spoke of the historical treks taken long ago by travellers from England accross Europe to Rome and Greece. He spoke of elsewhere as a place you go to in order to return home once more and transform both your perception of that place, and that place in actuality. All I could think about driving along the tuscan highway was how that two minute stretch along the Don Valley (The one that starts right where the bridge somewhere around Bloor), will never be as pretty as I used to think it was. That said, I will always think of the Tuscan hills, of elsewhere, everytime I make the commute into the city.
Oh the city. Some of you thought I was being a little cynical in my last email, bemoaning what we have made of ourselves. Not so, just making a few observations. Here is another. Sadly, it seems most of Europe is become increasingly puritanical (much like our beloved toronto). I was speaking to the owner of a leather shop yesterday who told me that there is NO SMOKING inside any buildings in Italy, bars, clubs, and, alas, internet cafes included - sound familliar. One of the joys I remember from last time I was here was smoking, everywhere. Cest la vie I suppose, seems the world is overly concerned form my health and welfare, so, thanks world, tahtks a whole heap.
Flroence is a beautiful city, one of those cities where you simply have your breath stolen away from you as you turn a corner. Yesterday, after walking through the outside of the Uffizi, Justni and I went wandering and looking for the Duomo - the most breathtakingly beautiful building I have ever seen. As we were wandering, wondering whether we were walking towards it or away, I took a step out on to the street, looked left, then right, then saw it. The only thing more rewarding than having your breath taken away, is having it doen by surprise. Speaknig of surprises, yesterday morning, my sister and I, while walking acrross the street, on a green light, which presumably means we had the right to cross and could reasonably expect to cross safely, were hit by a seventy year old Italian man on a Vespa scooter going full speed. Luckily, the man hit my sister first, who then hit me, as we both fell into the rain, mud and trees. (thos who don't know mandee, she's big enough to sustain the impact far better than I). Thankfully, we were all okay, beter than okay, I suppose, because we were able to walk away, laugh about it, and now have quite the story to tell.
Only a few minutes left for me here, so I will say goodbye for now. I must say though, before leaving, half the fun of travelling, is sharing tales with those back home, and hearing news from friends and loved ones. How IS everyone doing? Has anyone at school got their grades yet? Anyone falling in love? Anyone doing anything of note? Gosh, I hope so.
Happy trails to you all, until we meet again,
Z.
Friday, May 06, 2005
'Going where the climate suits my clothes...Going down to Rhodes...'
Hi all. Just got back from Rhodes, can't find my way to dreamland just yet - it's 3 am and I'm overpaying to use the internet here, but for some reason, I'm always compelled to send emails when away, for you readers, as much as for me, so here's another, starting with some thoughts I had this morning upon our arrival in Rhodes, Greece.
I think Jack Nicholson said it worst in 'A Few Good Men': we live in a world with walls (and those walls need to be protected by men with guns. Who's gonna do it...you?!!). While the metaphor was military and made Jack's point clear (crystal), I think it was off base in todays wild wired world. Sitting on deck, looking ahosre at the ancient city, scanning the coast line, the castle brick walls circumscribing the city, I watch the ships just outside the city walls ranging in size from the hulking mass I'm sitting on to smaller scooners and sailboats. Streets criss cross outside the walls and are granted free access to the city through arched gateways. We live in a world of cities without walls, in a world of infinite gateways, both real and metaphorical. At the outermost tip of the city, at the end of the castled coastline, sits what appears to me to be a watchtower. It can't be more than five or six stories high (and no taller than this boat), and need not be, naturally, as the Aegean (I think it's the Aegean) horizon is really all the eye can see. I'm reminded, if reminded is the right word, of a time before planes, trains, and automobiles, or a world in which electricity has yet to break down walls, a slower time, when our ideas of time and space were grounded in immediacy, in the present surroundings and nothing more, when all along the watchtower, princes kept their views. Watchtowers served their purpose as citizens and soldiers stood guard, stood lookout for the seafaring armies and merchants. Today, radar has obsolesced the watchtower, making it a relic rarely to be reconstructed. Radar allows a small cabal of specialitsts to sit in a room of flashing lights and whirling doo-dads that stand in place for the world out there, for what may or may not be approaching. The world out there is an electric representation of itself in there, in the radar room, a flashing blip on the screen, pure information.
My mother noted to me how the city seems to seamlessly blend the old and the new. I lokoed for the 'new', but couldn't seem to find it. Perhaps because, though thet city is scattered with buildings and, as I would discover later, rows upon rows of tourist shops rivalling any shouk or market I've ever seen, the steel spires and skycrapers characteristic of a modern city are conspicuous in their absence. That siad, the stark contrast between brick castle walls and the city it circumscribes draws attention to the treasures of antiquity. These walls which protected the city in the past - the very idea of awall protecting our cities, is grounded in the past - lead me to reflect on things that were, but will never again be. What becomes of a community with out walls? What becomes of the soul in a world witohout walls? Does it scatter and shatter into a million fragments, or doe it expand and envelop the borderless world? Does the soul long for the safety and security of the ancient walls, or revel in the freedom of an expansive expanding world? Such thoughts lead me to think of Jerusalem and the time spent last year in the first and last walled city - our archetype. What becomes of the Jerusalem within when a world without walls seems imminent and self-evident.
Okay, enough heavy heady stuff. On to what we did in Rhodes. My brother and I spent the morning walking around, admiring the coasters and posters with various greek gods debauching each other. He bought his friend a wonderful pair of coasters depicting various scenes - my favorite being the double penetration of aphrodite. We saw castles, museums, took some pictures, and ultimately, ended where all our day trips do, drinking beer on the street. (Neither of us can get over how blessed a life is where one is free to smoke a cigarette and drink a beer on the street without being seen as a derelict or delinquint - oh puritanical toronto, you have so much to learn!). We rejoined the family for lunch, enjoying the freshest feta and greek salads since last night's meal. We pestered my sister endlessly with the shells of the shrimp, heads and all, that came with my pizza. Evidently, she's a little grossed out if someone rips out shrimp eyeballs and flicks them at her from the end of the fork - some people. Admittetly, I may have gone a bit too far, but I blame the lunch beers. Justin and I left mom and sis after lunch to go back to the boat for our daily siesta - another European practice sorely missed in Go-Go-Goronto.
Which brings me to the present momment, sitting in a kitschy little internet portal on board the ship, swaying to the motion of the ocean, wishing there were more English speaking girls and boys on this ship so as to cure these lonely late nite walks. It's about quarter to four, and I suppose I should go to bed. Of course, tomorrow is a day spent at sea, which, at this point in the cruise - and pardon me for sounding spoiled - means a day of relative boredom. Wake up, eat breakfast, read on deck, tan, have second breakfast, lie back down, maybe play some basketball, go eat elevensies (yes, we eat like hobits on board), lather, rinse and repeat, so maybe tomorrow I'll just skip first breakfast. It was worth it, getting to talk to all of you out there.
Thanks for reading all the way to the end, those of you who didn't. And to hell with the rest of you - I have no qualms saying that, because there's no way you made it this far.
Hope all is well wherever you are, and, where ever you are, that the weather suits your clothes.
Z.
Hi all. Just got back from Rhodes, can't find my way to dreamland just yet - it's 3 am and I'm overpaying to use the internet here, but for some reason, I'm always compelled to send emails when away, for you readers, as much as for me, so here's another, starting with some thoughts I had this morning upon our arrival in Rhodes, Greece.
I think Jack Nicholson said it worst in 'A Few Good Men': we live in a world with walls (and those walls need to be protected by men with guns. Who's gonna do it...you?!!). While the metaphor was military and made Jack's point clear (crystal), I think it was off base in todays wild wired world. Sitting on deck, looking ahosre at the ancient city, scanning the coast line, the castle brick walls circumscribing the city, I watch the ships just outside the city walls ranging in size from the hulking mass I'm sitting on to smaller scooners and sailboats. Streets criss cross outside the walls and are granted free access to the city through arched gateways. We live in a world of cities without walls, in a world of infinite gateways, both real and metaphorical. At the outermost tip of the city, at the end of the castled coastline, sits what appears to me to be a watchtower. It can't be more than five or six stories high (and no taller than this boat), and need not be, naturally, as the Aegean (I think it's the Aegean) horizon is really all the eye can see. I'm reminded, if reminded is the right word, of a time before planes, trains, and automobiles, or a world in which electricity has yet to break down walls, a slower time, when our ideas of time and space were grounded in immediacy, in the present surroundings and nothing more, when all along the watchtower, princes kept their views. Watchtowers served their purpose as citizens and soldiers stood guard, stood lookout for the seafaring armies and merchants. Today, radar has obsolesced the watchtower, making it a relic rarely to be reconstructed. Radar allows a small cabal of specialitsts to sit in a room of flashing lights and whirling doo-dads that stand in place for the world out there, for what may or may not be approaching. The world out there is an electric representation of itself in there, in the radar room, a flashing blip on the screen, pure information.
My mother noted to me how the city seems to seamlessly blend the old and the new. I lokoed for the 'new', but couldn't seem to find it. Perhaps because, though thet city is scattered with buildings and, as I would discover later, rows upon rows of tourist shops rivalling any shouk or market I've ever seen, the steel spires and skycrapers characteristic of a modern city are conspicuous in their absence. That siad, the stark contrast between brick castle walls and the city it circumscribes draws attention to the treasures of antiquity. These walls which protected the city in the past - the very idea of awall protecting our cities, is grounded in the past - lead me to reflect on things that were, but will never again be. What becomes of a community with out walls? What becomes of the soul in a world witohout walls? Does it scatter and shatter into a million fragments, or doe it expand and envelop the borderless world? Does the soul long for the safety and security of the ancient walls, or revel in the freedom of an expansive expanding world? Such thoughts lead me to think of Jerusalem and the time spent last year in the first and last walled city - our archetype. What becomes of the Jerusalem within when a world without walls seems imminent and self-evident.
Okay, enough heavy heady stuff. On to what we did in Rhodes. My brother and I spent the morning walking around, admiring the coasters and posters with various greek gods debauching each other. He bought his friend a wonderful pair of coasters depicting various scenes - my favorite being the double penetration of aphrodite. We saw castles, museums, took some pictures, and ultimately, ended where all our day trips do, drinking beer on the street. (Neither of us can get over how blessed a life is where one is free to smoke a cigarette and drink a beer on the street without being seen as a derelict or delinquint - oh puritanical toronto, you have so much to learn!). We rejoined the family for lunch, enjoying the freshest feta and greek salads since last night's meal. We pestered my sister endlessly with the shells of the shrimp, heads and all, that came with my pizza. Evidently, she's a little grossed out if someone rips out shrimp eyeballs and flicks them at her from the end of the fork - some people. Admittetly, I may have gone a bit too far, but I blame the lunch beers. Justin and I left mom and sis after lunch to go back to the boat for our daily siesta - another European practice sorely missed in Go-Go-Goronto.
Which brings me to the present momment, sitting in a kitschy little internet portal on board the ship, swaying to the motion of the ocean, wishing there were more English speaking girls and boys on this ship so as to cure these lonely late nite walks. It's about quarter to four, and I suppose I should go to bed. Of course, tomorrow is a day spent at sea, which, at this point in the cruise - and pardon me for sounding spoiled - means a day of relative boredom. Wake up, eat breakfast, read on deck, tan, have second breakfast, lie back down, maybe play some basketball, go eat elevensies (yes, we eat like hobits on board), lather, rinse and repeat, so maybe tomorrow I'll just skip first breakfast. It was worth it, getting to talk to all of you out there.
Thanks for reading all the way to the end, those of you who didn't. And to hell with the rest of you - I have no qualms saying that, because there's no way you made it this far.
Hope all is well wherever you are, and, where ever you are, that the weather suits your clothes.
Z.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Ciao
Hi all, After five fantastic days and five thousand and one slow steps up a steep Santorini mountain side, I find myself staring once again at the screen of a computer terminal. Strange how we can come so far, only to find such familliar things - the hotmail interface follows me around the world. Thank goodness for that, because now I can briefly recount our adventures while I sit, smoking, drinking iced coffee and gazing out the second floor window at the scooters and mopeds whizzing by below. We flew into Venice last sunday. Now, I've been to Venice before, but there is something absolutely breathtaking about seeing it from above. I remember getting lost in the alleys last time, taking bridges accross canals that lead to dead ends, retracing my steps only to find myself somewhere I had never been before. Such was the initial allure of Venezia. But seeing it from above, from the bird's eye view if you will, taking in the entire island, as well as the three smaller ones, the city seemed to have a coherence and unity that completely escaped my imagination the first time. I suppose a change in point of view really does lead to a total reevaluation of initial perceptions. That, and flying over the italian and swiss alps prior to touching down in Venice really prepped me and mine for an otherworldly sort of experience. Now, we didn't have time to wander the streets, seeing as there was only a few momments before we needed to board the ship, but as we set sail (setting sail seems an inappropriate piece of nomenclature here - there are no sails, only a hulking engine room and giant smoke stacks, but I digress). As we set sail, I was able to view Venice from the water. Equally breathtaking. I can't wait till we make our way back there on Sunday. I lied. I can wait. I have two minutes left to finish off this email before jumping off to Mykanos, then tomorrow, off to Rhodes, ending Saturday in Dubrovnik Croatia, which I really look forward to. On the boat, we've been greeted with the mixed blessing of being in the English speaking minority. Now, I had hoped my functional French would help bridge the gap, but it seems everyone speaks Italian, solo italiano. C'est la vie. So, insular though we might seem, the family and I are having a wonderful time. Mom, Justin and I won just under 300 Euro last nite at the Black Jack table as Mandee sat watching - nothing makes mom scream louder than a black jack (so we've got a sort of reputation as of now). Two minutes and counting, so I better say so long for now if I want to be able to send this off. I hope all is well with everyone out there wherever you are. You're all in my thoughts. Take care of yourselves, and each other. Happy trails, to you, until we meet again. Z.
Hi all, After five fantastic days and five thousand and one slow steps up a steep Santorini mountain side, I find myself staring once again at the screen of a computer terminal. Strange how we can come so far, only to find such familliar things - the hotmail interface follows me around the world. Thank goodness for that, because now I can briefly recount our adventures while I sit, smoking, drinking iced coffee and gazing out the second floor window at the scooters and mopeds whizzing by below. We flew into Venice last sunday. Now, I've been to Venice before, but there is something absolutely breathtaking about seeing it from above. I remember getting lost in the alleys last time, taking bridges accross canals that lead to dead ends, retracing my steps only to find myself somewhere I had never been before. Such was the initial allure of Venezia. But seeing it from above, from the bird's eye view if you will, taking in the entire island, as well as the three smaller ones, the city seemed to have a coherence and unity that completely escaped my imagination the first time. I suppose a change in point of view really does lead to a total reevaluation of initial perceptions. That, and flying over the italian and swiss alps prior to touching down in Venice really prepped me and mine for an otherworldly sort of experience. Now, we didn't have time to wander the streets, seeing as there was only a few momments before we needed to board the ship, but as we set sail (setting sail seems an inappropriate piece of nomenclature here - there are no sails, only a hulking engine room and giant smoke stacks, but I digress). As we set sail, I was able to view Venice from the water. Equally breathtaking. I can't wait till we make our way back there on Sunday. I lied. I can wait. I have two minutes left to finish off this email before jumping off to Mykanos, then tomorrow, off to Rhodes, ending Saturday in Dubrovnik Croatia, which I really look forward to. On the boat, we've been greeted with the mixed blessing of being in the English speaking minority. Now, I had hoped my functional French would help bridge the gap, but it seems everyone speaks Italian, solo italiano. C'est la vie. So, insular though we might seem, the family and I are having a wonderful time. Mom, Justin and I won just under 300 Euro last nite at the Black Jack table as Mandee sat watching - nothing makes mom scream louder than a black jack (so we've got a sort of reputation as of now). Two minutes and counting, so I better say so long for now if I want to be able to send this off. I hope all is well with everyone out there wherever you are. You're all in my thoughts. Take care of yourselves, and each other. Happy trails, to you, until we meet again. Z.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Arrivaderci...
Hello to one and all,
To some it's been a long time since we spoke, to others, not long enough. I jest of course. That said, in looking back upon the last year and the people in my life, I feel like I've got a goldilocks syndrome; I've seen some of you too much, others, not nearly enough, and some of you, are just right (you know who you are my wondeful little baby bears!).
This is just a quick note for those in the know and those left slightly out of the loop. I leave in about half an hour for Italy for a two week vacation with the family, followed by two weeks of solo trekking before making the trip back to T.O.. So, in that light, I just wanted to wish everyone out there a great summer, great weather, health, happiness, and, well, whatever else your collective hearts desire. I'll send mail, I'll send pictures - half the fun of going away is telling friends and those important to you where you've been.
Time is running short, but once more, for good luck, everyone, wherever you are and whatever you're doing, enjoy yourselves, play safe, and wear sun screen.
Ciao,
Z.
Hello to one and all,
To some it's been a long time since we spoke, to others, not long enough. I jest of course. That said, in looking back upon the last year and the people in my life, I feel like I've got a goldilocks syndrome; I've seen some of you too much, others, not nearly enough, and some of you, are just right (you know who you are my wondeful little baby bears!).
This is just a quick note for those in the know and those left slightly out of the loop. I leave in about half an hour for Italy for a two week vacation with the family, followed by two weeks of solo trekking before making the trip back to T.O.. So, in that light, I just wanted to wish everyone out there a great summer, great weather, health, happiness, and, well, whatever else your collective hearts desire. I'll send mail, I'll send pictures - half the fun of going away is telling friends and those important to you where you've been.
Time is running short, but once more, for good luck, everyone, wherever you are and whatever you're doing, enjoy yourselves, play safe, and wear sun screen.
Ciao,
Z.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
'Non-non-non-non-Heinous....' (Bill S. Preston Esq.: Wyld Stallions)
'It is crucial to use exact language because language is the medium through which law finds expression and language is an outward sign of our legal reasoning. Trial judges should continue to use the current language of "a contributing cause [of death] that is not trivial or insignificant" for all homicide offences'.
The above quote struck me as quite interesting, and reminded me that a semantic distinctions may lead to substantially different decisions, especially when you're dealing with lawyers. (I'm reminded of Hamlet and the Gravedigger's exchange. 'We must speak equivically). It's interesting to remember that underneath all this legal mumbo jumbo and beneath the bureacracy, we really live in a world built upon words and if we're not careful how we use them, the castle may some day all fall down.
The above quote is from R. v. Nette, which articulates a new standard for causation to be communicated to the jury in a murder trial. The majority says we can do away with the latin 'beyond the de minimus' range, to simply say a significant cause of death. Funny, this is semantic distinction, something those who speak latin, I imagine, do not truly appreciate, the language being very equivical. As such, I disagree with the majority, as I'm wont to do, and agree with the following:
There is a meaningful difference between "a contributing cause [of death] that is not trivial or insignificant" and a "significant contributing cause". The suggested change in terminology drastically changes the substance of the causation test and ignores the reason for using a double negative. A "significant contributing cause" standard calls for a more direct causal relationship than the "not insignificant" or "not trivial" test, thus raising the threshold of causation for culpable homicide from where it currently stands. The word "significant" implies an elevated contribution and is not equivalent to "not insignificant".
Alas, back to reading.
Z.
Okay...one more before I go:
"Moreover, it is worth emphasizing that language is the medium through which the law finds expression. As P. M. Tiersma, an American law professor and author, duly points out in Legal Language (1999), at p. 1:
Our law is a law of words. Although there are several major sources of law in the Anglo-American tradition, all consist of words. Morality or custom may be embedded in human behavior, but law -- virtually by definition -- comes into being through language. Thus, the legal profession focuses intensely on the words that constitute the law, whether in the form of statutes, regulations, or judicial opinions..
This last one ties in nicely with the paper I'll have written by the time I graduate.
'It is crucial to use exact language because language is the medium through which law finds expression and language is an outward sign of our legal reasoning. Trial judges should continue to use the current language of "a contributing cause [of death] that is not trivial or insignificant" for all homicide offences'.
The above quote struck me as quite interesting, and reminded me that a semantic distinctions may lead to substantially different decisions, especially when you're dealing with lawyers. (I'm reminded of Hamlet and the Gravedigger's exchange. 'We must speak equivically). It's interesting to remember that underneath all this legal mumbo jumbo and beneath the bureacracy, we really live in a world built upon words and if we're not careful how we use them, the castle may some day all fall down.
The above quote is from R. v. Nette, which articulates a new standard for causation to be communicated to the jury in a murder trial. The majority says we can do away with the latin 'beyond the de minimus' range, to simply say a significant cause of death. Funny, this is semantic distinction, something those who speak latin, I imagine, do not truly appreciate, the language being very equivical. As such, I disagree with the majority, as I'm wont to do, and agree with the following:
There is a meaningful difference between "a contributing cause [of death] that is not trivial or insignificant" and a "significant contributing cause". The suggested change in terminology drastically changes the substance of the causation test and ignores the reason for using a double negative. A "significant contributing cause" standard calls for a more direct causal relationship than the "not insignificant" or "not trivial" test, thus raising the threshold of causation for culpable homicide from where it currently stands. The word "significant" implies an elevated contribution and is not equivalent to "not insignificant".
Alas, back to reading.
Z.
Okay...one more before I go:
"Moreover, it is worth emphasizing that language is the medium through which the law finds expression. As P. M. Tiersma, an American law professor and author, duly points out in Legal Language (1999), at p. 1:
Our law is a law of words. Although there are several major sources of law in the Anglo-American tradition, all consist of words. Morality or custom may be embedded in human behavior, but law -- virtually by definition -- comes into being through language. Thus, the legal profession focuses intensely on the words that constitute the law, whether in the form of statutes, regulations, or judicial opinions..
This last one ties in nicely with the paper I'll have written by the time I graduate.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Synthesis
Okay, that last post was, more or less, my attempt to empty my mind droppings into the nearest receptical. I think I'm ready to post an outline of my paper:
'In the begging there was the law, and the law was with Gawd, and the law was Good, and the law was Gawd...'
Alot has happened since then.
In what folows, I will attempt to outline the stablizing and progressinve role of 'law' from feudal society to the present. The crux or backbone of our investigation is the notion that the decentralizing force of all forms of 'liberalism', has broken the 'Great Chain of Being', though if we listen carefully, we may still here them rattling.
Our first topic is the shift from oral to visual society as it relates to constituionalism which, in conjunction with the proliferation of literacy led to the evolution of the private self.
From there we turn to the notion of the private self and the judicial rationalization of a distinction between public and private law. My hope is to demonstrate that we do not draw the line between the two, we are the line.
Finally, we shall stand before the Court, to whom, it is my contention we have collectively abrogated our reason, Standing before the ultimate literary critic, the judge, we will see how every act of interpretation is in itself an act of judicial activism.
... So...not bad eh...now all I have to do is write the bloody thing.
Okay, that last post was, more or less, my attempt to empty my mind droppings into the nearest receptical. I think I'm ready to post an outline of my paper:
'In the begging there was the law, and the law was with Gawd, and the law was Good, and the law was Gawd...'
Alot has happened since then.
In what folows, I will attempt to outline the stablizing and progressinve role of 'law' from feudal society to the present. The crux or backbone of our investigation is the notion that the decentralizing force of all forms of 'liberalism', has broken the 'Great Chain of Being', though if we listen carefully, we may still here them rattling.
Our first topic is the shift from oral to visual society as it relates to constituionalism which, in conjunction with the proliferation of literacy led to the evolution of the private self.
From there we turn to the notion of the private self and the judicial rationalization of a distinction between public and private law. My hope is to demonstrate that we do not draw the line between the two, we are the line.
Finally, we shall stand before the Court, to whom, it is my contention we have collectively abrogated our reason, Standing before the ultimate literary critic, the judge, we will see how every act of interpretation is in itself an act of judicial activism.
... So...not bad eh...now all I have to do is write the bloody thing.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
The Center Cannot Hold
'In the beginning, there was the law, and the law was good, and the law was with Gawd, and the law was Gawd...'
Leave it to the Zaniac to take a simple take home exam about Canadian public law , and turn it into another monumental undertaking. Asked to write three separate thousand word essays on various topics relating to public law, I've decided to be a uniter and not a divider. Three seperate essays cry out for some unity, and unity's what I'm gonna give em, even if it kills me.
The title of this piece here, taken from John 1:1, a passage in the bible, the 'meaning' of which perpetually recreates itself in my own imagination. In the beginning... boy, things were so simple in the beginning, weren't they?
I got to thinking about the great chain of being, the idea that everything is in its place. The legitimacy and authority of 'law' traveled down a channel, from Gawd's throne to the King and on down the line. I keep thinking of a world without lawyers, I keep thinking of the day where the only law there was was the King's law, where there were no distinctions, no divisions between church/state, private interest or public interest, individual or citizen; everyone was a subject of the King, and hence a subject of Gawd, and that was that. Something happened along the way that fractured that rather holistic way of looking at things. Instead of accepting things as they are, people decided they had to consent to be governed. This led me quite naturally to think about the idea of the rule of law, at which point I realized I was getting ahead of myself, or falling behind, I'm not quite sure.
Basically, the rule of law and all the political, social and even spiritual implications of the doctrine breaks the chain of being. (Though I did have this very interesting, insight: those chains are still rattling if you care to listen).
Gawd is dead, the King is dead, but the law lives on.
I keep getting hung up on the shift from feudal society to whatever one says comes next. From a McLuhanite sort of perspective, I look to see what's going on in the gaps between all these seemingly discordant and unrelated historical happenings, and trying to figure out how they all come together. The Guttenberg press and the proliferation of literacy as it relates to the Reformation, as it relates to a shift to constitutionalism and constitutional monarchies, as it relates to the notion of the individual and McLuhan's theory that literacy itself fractures the individual, giving him a private point of view, creating a 'private' and a 'public' split in consciousness where there was none before, as this relates to liberal legalism, or legal liberalism, or what have you, and the progression away from the notion of a common good or common interest and the proliferation of the need to preserve private interests, as it relates to the development of the marketplace, which, over time, confers upon corporations, who are nothing more than legal entities, or pieces of paper, the status of person, and the implications of that. Further, the implications of writing things down and fixing their meaning in the first place. In peering into the abyss of history I like to think we're a part of, I never can make sense of anything, only notice relationships and intervals where things make sense and come together, only by virtue of them being apart.
Aaaargh!
So, none of the above makes for a particularly good paper, and definitely not a final exam worth 100%, but fuck it. I'd rather write something ambitious or nothing at all!
One question asks me to respond to a recent speech given by Chief Justice McLachlin, in which she says: the charge of judicial activism - a charge that has been leveled with increasing frequency as judges are asked to tackle controversial social and moral issues is misconceived: "Only the Constitution can tell us what is legitimate...The reality in Canada is that our Constitution confers certain power on unelected bodies, notably the court. To start from the assumption that any exercise of governance power than than by elected official is illegitimate, is to ignore the reality of our democracy as defined by our Constitution".
See how central the constitution has become, it has replaced the King as the Supreme Law, and, one could argue, has replaced Gawd (with the provision that you are still free to worship or not worship the deity of your choice, so long as you do so lawfully and don't infringe another's right to do so as well). My charge then, or rather, my response, to McLachlin is that her answer is quite shrewd, but skirts the issue; according to the constitution, judges are supposed to be judicial activists - they do not make decisions based on their private interest, they deliver decisions that are reasonable, or, to use a more apt terms, judicious, or so they are expected to do. Every decision by every judge is an act (of reason, and of writing, as it were, as each decision is written down for further reference - my oh my the proliferation of paper we pass around since writing the constitution). Judges read what parliament writes, interprets it and gives force to it, backed up by a giant bureaucracy. They're not elected! Wel, that's not their fault is it? That's how it works, that's in the constitution, and only the constitution tells us what's legitimate.
Now, I could ask the King what the law was and what it meant, and he could tell me, provided I was insolent enough to ask that when invited to court. Now, we go to a different kind of court and ask a different authority what the law is, and they consult the constitution and the common law and they come up with an answer, of sorts. It's not for them to change the locus of legitimacy, only enforce what we ask them to. In the present day, however, I believe we ask them to replace our reason.
In returning to the idea of the great Chain, there are three central classifications to make. Regarding Law, I suppose you have Gawd/King followed by those who were close to the Law (Clergymen, Judges, Courtiers, Nobles, and the entire mechanism that enforced the law) and subjects. In the other corner, there was the internal kingdom, the kingdom of the mind which operated much the same way. At the top was the light of reason, implanted there by the light of Gawd, which in turn governed the will or our ability to act (thus we are to act reasonably) and finally, below, the passions, which must be subdued, controlled and generally kept in line. In. Now, my main thesis (for this question anyhow) is that the Court and Judges have a constitutional mandate to exercise reason on behalf of the populace. To take it even further, I would say that the Court is our Reason, Legislation (and the legislature) is our Will - and this constitutes the public law, and infringement on private rights (whatever those are!) are closely guarded against by the Courts themselves, and of course, the passions, the people, the private sphere, the market, the trends, fashion, fancy, basically, everything that is not the government or the court, is the passions. Now, it's no longer a hierarchy, there's no order. Try though we might to impose order on it, we can't, and we've done this to ourselves. Sure feudal society was shitty, but at least you knew who you were accountable to and who was accountable to you; everything in it's place. Instead, we've loosed anarchy upon the world and don't quite know how to clean it up. We've shifted the burden to the courts to do the job for us, we have abrogated our reason.
*That's it, I'm done for now. If I folow through on the plan to keep spitting out my thoughts every night until they take on some form, then hopefully, there'll be more tomorrow, and hopefully, it'll make a little more sense.
Until then, or later,
Z.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Culture and Anarchy at 2 am
I saw something very interesting late last night. Add a little emphasis to the word late. I was watching a little TV, which I don't do too often. When I do, I like to think I'm not just killing time and brain cells, but exercising some sort of critical faculties. Sometimes though, boy, sometimes, it pays to just sit there and veg.
I was thinking about how commercials tell you a lot about culture. Granted, by the time something is featured in a commercial, it is already a significant part in our culture. Poker, for instance, has always been popular, but has experienced something of a resurgence over the last year. Poker and the internet, a relatively new inevitability, has taken it to a new level. Seeing commercials for online poker on television though, for me, signals its transformation from a sort of fringe phenomenon into a mainstream activity.
It wasn't a poker commercial that got me thinking though, that's just a thought I've been bouncing around. I laughed out loud (and cried ever so softly), as I was lost in the interval between two commercials. Someone once said that the intervals are where the action is; it's all well and good to read the lines, but the context comes out when you're in between them. This interval, or gap, was one I fell right into though.
Commercial one: A woman walks out of a bathroom stall. Then a man walks out of the same stall, zipping his fly. The tag line: Real people, Explicit chat. It was one of those 'Ashley Madison', responsible adults have the right (and, they may suggest, the duty) to go out and fuck.
The second commercial was for diapers.
Diapers...
I'll leave it at that.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
No Posts, No Problem!
What are you doing here? I figured there weren't many out there who still checked in on the ol zaniac. It has been some time since my last post, and I'm presently pondering whether or not this post will ever be read, or remains merely a posterity's preservation of one of those moments where I just felt compelled to carpe blogum and simply 'give ideas a place to hang out'.
For better or worse - a judgement I reserve until a later date - I am knee deep in a new discipline. Three weeks in to law school and I have yet to have an entire week of classes. Though this past week was a mere three days of classes, I am happy to see it come to an end. I recieved note on Friday that I was not accepted as a junior editor of the University's Law Journal. Reconciling myself to trite truisms, I came to see that when one door closes, you are left all alone, not having to worry about cleaning up after any unruly or uninvited house guests. Blessings in disguise turning frowns upside down and all that. Feeling as though I was uniquely qualified, or at the least, adequately qualified to be one of twenty junior staffers, the ol' ego took a bruising. After some mild second guessing and asking the inevitable 'what the hell am I doing here?' I sought to rekindle my spirits. I craved safety and security, I yearned for the warm blanket of literary studies, the cozy quilt encompassing all things canonical. Of course, the pressures of being a student persuaded me to foresake a return to 'my old stomping grounds', as it were, I went the interdisciplinary route and checked myself out a book: Ian Wards "Shakespeare and the Legal Imagination".
The title's three key concepts (Shakespeare, Law, and the Imagination) sufficiently served to seduce me into taking this pretty young thing home with me. In an unprecedented move (!) I found myself immersed in secondary sources as opposed to the assigned readings. What follows are some thoughts and excerpts from the past few days reading.
The book investigates the notion of the imagined political community and the narrative/textual aspects of the political imaginatin, its aspiration (and apparitions), constitutions, and its concomitant mode of thought, constitutionalism. Here's my synthesis of what my eyes have come accross so far.
Positivism, which lay at the hard ot liberal political idelogy, is a reliance upon the laws as created and dictated by man. The locus of authority, as pointed out first by Machiavelli and ironed out over time by liberal political theorists, rests in the sovereign. The sovereign, which can be an individual leader/dictator, or something as ephemeral as 'the general will', is first of all an idea that later finds embodiment in some form the significance contributes greatly to our political communities and sense of reality. The main thrust of the opening pages observes that since the Henrician reformation our political imagination has been put to the text, so to speak.
On the English constitution:
(it was) a body of law that defined the
commonwealth...it was not just a legal document...(but) an imaginary document
which described the imagined political morality of a crusading nation, and did
so in terms of an ancient past of imagined glories'.
It wasn't until the scepticism engendered by events of later decades that theorists (Locke) turned to more immediately tangible constitutional documents, within which the ephemeral images of the mythical community could be fixed in terms of real political rights.
Fresh out of a course on McLuhan, the preceding passages led me to suggest that the shift towards text echoes the shift from oral to visual culture, or the imposition of what McLuhan calls the visual bias of the bookmen. At some point we needed to 'outer' our political morality and our idea of the commonwealth. The recourse taken was to articulate and enshrine in the form of a constitution the unspoken mythical values we gesture towards when we utter such words as 'life, liberty, and good government'. A constitution, which replaces a tyrranical yet human sovereign with a tangible set of abstractions or 'rights'. I use the word enshrine and I feel the choice of diction to be apt, for though viewed as malleable, a constitution is in reality, the headstone of conversations between communities of 'right'; most of the public's political imagination, save for members of parliament, judges, or the increasingly dwindling number of citizens in the truest sense of the word, may be functionally embalmed and placed on a shelf. Constitutions are the empirical evidence we refer to when wondering about the workings of the world we share. While this is a pragmatic approach, and while my thoughts on the matter are still immature to say the least, I have a certain sense of melancholy in thinking that our imaginations, both individual and, perhaps more saddening, our collective/political imaginations have been stagnated by a reliance upon texts. Constitutions are illusions, and i wouldn't be so disillusioned if people would open up to such a possibility forcing our response and engagement to the sacred documents were necessarily one of openly imaginative interpretation. I'm sure there are those who do responsd in such a way, but watching irresponsible and patently unreasonable NGOs such as the NRA base their legitimacy solely uopn their sacred second ammendment, I wonder what will become of us.
What are you doing here? I figured there weren't many out there who still checked in on the ol zaniac. It has been some time since my last post, and I'm presently pondering whether or not this post will ever be read, or remains merely a posterity's preservation of one of those moments where I just felt compelled to carpe blogum and simply 'give ideas a place to hang out'.
For better or worse - a judgement I reserve until a later date - I am knee deep in a new discipline. Three weeks in to law school and I have yet to have an entire week of classes. Though this past week was a mere three days of classes, I am happy to see it come to an end. I recieved note on Friday that I was not accepted as a junior editor of the University's Law Journal. Reconciling myself to trite truisms, I came to see that when one door closes, you are left all alone, not having to worry about cleaning up after any unruly or uninvited house guests. Blessings in disguise turning frowns upside down and all that. Feeling as though I was uniquely qualified, or at the least, adequately qualified to be one of twenty junior staffers, the ol' ego took a bruising. After some mild second guessing and asking the inevitable 'what the hell am I doing here?' I sought to rekindle my spirits. I craved safety and security, I yearned for the warm blanket of literary studies, the cozy quilt encompassing all things canonical. Of course, the pressures of being a student persuaded me to foresake a return to 'my old stomping grounds', as it were, I went the interdisciplinary route and checked myself out a book: Ian Wards "Shakespeare and the Legal Imagination".
The title's three key concepts (Shakespeare, Law, and the Imagination) sufficiently served to seduce me into taking this pretty young thing home with me. In an unprecedented move (!) I found myself immersed in secondary sources as opposed to the assigned readings. What follows are some thoughts and excerpts from the past few days reading.
The book investigates the notion of the imagined political community and the narrative/textual aspects of the political imaginatin, its aspiration (and apparitions), constitutions, and its concomitant mode of thought, constitutionalism. Here's my synthesis of what my eyes have come accross so far.
Positivism, which lay at the hard ot liberal political idelogy, is a reliance upon the laws as created and dictated by man. The locus of authority, as pointed out first by Machiavelli and ironed out over time by liberal political theorists, rests in the sovereign. The sovereign, which can be an individual leader/dictator, or something as ephemeral as 'the general will', is first of all an idea that later finds embodiment in some form the significance contributes greatly to our political communities and sense of reality. The main thrust of the opening pages observes that since the Henrician reformation our political imagination has been put to the text, so to speak.
On the English constitution:
(it was) a body of law that defined the
commonwealth...it was not just a legal document...(but) an imaginary document
which described the imagined political morality of a crusading nation, and did
so in terms of an ancient past of imagined glories'.
It wasn't until the scepticism engendered by events of later decades that theorists (Locke) turned to more immediately tangible constitutional documents, within which the ephemeral images of the mythical community could be fixed in terms of real political rights.
Fresh out of a course on McLuhan, the preceding passages led me to suggest that the shift towards text echoes the shift from oral to visual culture, or the imposition of what McLuhan calls the visual bias of the bookmen. At some point we needed to 'outer' our political morality and our idea of the commonwealth. The recourse taken was to articulate and enshrine in the form of a constitution the unspoken mythical values we gesture towards when we utter such words as 'life, liberty, and good government'. A constitution, which replaces a tyrranical yet human sovereign with a tangible set of abstractions or 'rights'. I use the word enshrine and I feel the choice of diction to be apt, for though viewed as malleable, a constitution is in reality, the headstone of conversations between communities of 'right'; most of the public's political imagination, save for members of parliament, judges, or the increasingly dwindling number of citizens in the truest sense of the word, may be functionally embalmed and placed on a shelf. Constitutions are the empirical evidence we refer to when wondering about the workings of the world we share. While this is a pragmatic approach, and while my thoughts on the matter are still immature to say the least, I have a certain sense of melancholy in thinking that our imaginations, both individual and, perhaps more saddening, our collective/political imaginations have been stagnated by a reliance upon texts. Constitutions are illusions, and i wouldn't be so disillusioned if people would open up to such a possibility forcing our response and engagement to the sacred documents were necessarily one of openly imaginative interpretation. I'm sure there are those who do responsd in such a way, but watching irresponsible and patently unreasonable NGOs such as the NRA base their legitimacy solely uopn their sacred second ammendment, I wonder what will become of us.
Stay tuned, I supopse, and we'll find out together.
Z.
Thanks for stopping by.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Throw Another Fag on the Fire
I was sitting with a few friends the other day and we were talking about the phenomenon, which may simply be a North American thing, to call things 'gay', when they are neither homosexual, or happy, when this little linguistic bobble popped into my head:
It's a pity, really,
I haven't felt gay
Since the day the word queer
Ceased being weird.
Shhhh....
A friend of mine really liked this picture, I wondered if you would too. Her name is Fatma, and she makes one mean anklet.
A friend of mine really liked this picture, I wondered if you would too. Her name is Fatma, and she makes one mean anklet.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Since I've already crossed from one country into another (and another continent, just barely - I never even realized that Egypt is in Africa...that's four down, one to go) I figured another country would be gravy. So, as a precaution, here is my final email before going to Jordan. (Please forward it to the canadian embassy).
After having found Nemo the other day (he's much less talkative in person) , as well as a blue spotted sting ray, a crocodile fish, and the most spectacular coral walls I've ever seen (which doesn't say much, seeing as they were also the first...but I'm told they are some of the best) I am not a certified open water diver liscensed and trained to descend 18m below sea level. - Incidentally, if anyone is interested in sponsoring an expedition to 30m or below, advanced open water courses begin at 110 euro, and the western union in Dahab is open 24 hours. Even better, is anyone interested in investing in Zane's Dahab Dive Shop and Erotic Massage Studio; here's an opportunity to get on board on the first floor - Suffice to say, diving has been amazing, as has dahab, and if time and money were to permit, I would spend alot more time here, on the surface and on land (this coming from a guy who was affraid of the ocean, and fish!). If I didn't people to do and places to see back home, I could definately live the life of a dive master, or even a student, who, after paying for the course, get's to dive FOR FREE: wake up and hang out paces from the water with your dive buddies, meet interesting and attractive tourists from around the world, some of whom are experienced divers, some, like yours truly (though I don't claim to be interestng, or attractive...though I am desperate for praise and reassurance...) with little or no experience. You meet these guys, you take them diving, you make a new friend, and at night, you either go on a diving safari to some other point of interest, hike up mt. sinai with some beduins, go on a camel safari, play guitar on the beach, fall asleep in a good book and/or hammock, or go get shit faced, gyrate your hips at the local 'club', a boat shaped building spinning the lousiest music in Dahab from dusk till dawn, then wake up the next morning and do it all again! I'm gonna be one of the few Dive Masters with an LLB .
But enough about diving, and amazing weather, and all other manner of things that would depress the hell out of anyone currently living through what I'm told is a rather shitty and unseasonably cold summer in Toronto. On to more exciting things that I am doing and you're not - listen, if you wanted to read an email about you (which I do) I suggest you write one yourself, this one is mine...
I met a guy named Jon who's a freelance travel journalist (another job I've added to the list - Zane Roth LLB, freelance travel journalst, dive master, and erotic masseur), and he told me I have to see Petra, at which point, he whipped out his lap top and showed me Petra...
So yeah... I have to go see Petra...it's a whole city carved into a mountain - you may remember it from such films as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. As fate would have it, as it often conspires to make things that are meant to be, be, I met a few french guys at the dive center who are going on Tuesday, the day I was planning on leaving...pending any massive influxes of cash/investments in Zane's Dive School etc..., so I'm gonna tag along and pratique mon francais. Should be fun.
So that's that for me...tomorrow I dive again with a friend I made who works at another dive shop (he's only charging me five euro for rentals, which is awesome!), playing some backgammon with my friend sarwat, and then, off to Jordan. I should be back in Israel by the weekend, and back home before you know it.
So, until then, and once again, hope everyone everywhere is having a great time, staying healthy, and all that...
Yours in Africa,
Z.
So I just noticed the last three paragraphs started with 'so'. So what! So you wanna make something of it!?!
After having found Nemo the other day (he's much less talkative in person) , as well as a blue spotted sting ray, a crocodile fish, and the most spectacular coral walls I've ever seen (which doesn't say much, seeing as they were also the first...but I'm told they are some of the best) I am not a certified open water diver liscensed and trained to descend 18m below sea level. - Incidentally, if anyone is interested in sponsoring an expedition to 30m or below, advanced open water courses begin at 110 euro, and the western union in Dahab is open 24 hours. Even better, is anyone interested in investing in Zane's Dahab Dive Shop and Erotic Massage Studio; here's an opportunity to get on board on the first floor - Suffice to say, diving has been amazing, as has dahab, and if time and money were to permit, I would spend alot more time here, on the surface and on land (this coming from a guy who was affraid of the ocean, and fish!). If I didn't people to do and places to see back home, I could definately live the life of a dive master, or even a student, who, after paying for the course, get's to dive FOR FREE: wake up and hang out paces from the water with your dive buddies, meet interesting and attractive tourists from around the world, some of whom are experienced divers, some, like yours truly (though I don't claim to be interestng, or attractive...though I am desperate for praise and reassurance...) with little or no experience. You meet these guys, you take them diving, you make a new friend, and at night, you either go on a diving safari to some other point of interest, hike up mt. sinai with some beduins, go on a camel safari, play guitar on the beach, fall asleep in a good book and/or hammock, or go get shit faced, gyrate your hips at the local 'club', a boat shaped building spinning the lousiest music in Dahab from dusk till dawn, then wake up the next morning and do it all again! I'm gonna be one of the few Dive Masters with an LLB .
But enough about diving, and amazing weather, and all other manner of things that would depress the hell out of anyone currently living through what I'm told is a rather shitty and unseasonably cold summer in Toronto. On to more exciting things that I am doing and you're not - listen, if you wanted to read an email about you (which I do) I suggest you write one yourself, this one is mine...
I met a guy named Jon who's a freelance travel journalist (another job I've added to the list - Zane Roth LLB, freelance travel journalst, dive master, and erotic masseur), and he told me I have to see Petra, at which point, he whipped out his lap top and showed me Petra...
So yeah... I have to go see Petra...it's a whole city carved into a mountain - you may remember it from such films as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. As fate would have it, as it often conspires to make things that are meant to be, be, I met a few french guys at the dive center who are going on Tuesday, the day I was planning on leaving...pending any massive influxes of cash/investments in Zane's Dive School etc..., so I'm gonna tag along and pratique mon francais. Should be fun.
So that's that for me...tomorrow I dive again with a friend I made who works at another dive shop (he's only charging me five euro for rentals, which is awesome!), playing some backgammon with my friend sarwat, and then, off to Jordan. I should be back in Israel by the weekend, and back home before you know it.
So, until then, and once again, hope everyone everywhere is having a great time, staying healthy, and all that...
Yours in Africa,
Z.
So I just noticed the last three paragraphs started with 'so'. So what! So you wanna make something of it!?!
Saturday, August 07, 2004
A friend of mine once began an email like this, and i just couldn't resist:
Mass email in
5
4
3
2
1
...
Hi everyone...(don't worry, i don't expect a response...though if you all shouted real loud at a specific time, I might here you. Alas...I'll sleep soundly thinking that, we might be wishing on the same bright star - somewhere, out, there...)
So I'm in Dahab right now, a small town somewhere in the Sinai dessert, though looking around, you'd hardly be able to tell. For those of you who've been, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and for those of you that haven't, think of it as a little capitalistic shangrila by the sea. It is worlds different from my previous sinai experience, sleeping in a little hut on pristine white sands seconds from the seashore.
After saying goodbye to my cousins, I hung out with Matt in Jerusalem and met him later on in Tel Aviv. We hooked up with my friends from the Sinai and had a good time. After hemming and hawing as to whether or not I should go to Dahab, and with whom, I decided to just do it, and not a minute to soon. En route I stopped off in Beer Sheeva, the Israeli equivilent of Thornhill. I met a friend from birthrite, she took me out with her cousins and their friends to some pub that blasted Brian Adams music and an assortment of other 'classic' tunes. I overpaid for beer, smoked too many cigarettes, and went back to one of the friend's houses for the traditional Thornhill night cap, accompanied by a rollickingly unfunny episode of saturday night life hosted by the one and honly, Xtina - the only thing that differed from times in Thornhill is that the company wasn't nearly as entertaining, and the tv had hebrew subtitles.
So, after spending about a week there that one night, I high tailed it to Dahab solo. Met an interesting motley crue of Israelis en route, bunked with five of them my first nite, and then quickly said Shalom. Though it should have been obvious from the get go, travelling solo ROCKS - and I'm totally glad to be rid of the Israelis..good guys, but they didn't stop bitching from the second we got here. That, and hospitatlity here is extended far further (sans Israelis) when I tell them my name is Zane (which is an arabic name) and explain to them that my mother's roots trace back to ancient Egypt, while my father, sometimes, is a leftwing Israeli jew settled in Toronto. I didn't start telling people this until today of course, which led to a shop owner inviting me in for tea and teaching me a whole new way to play backgammon - note, there was nothing wrong with the original, but, when you're an egyptian/jew travelling through the sinai, do as the sinaiese do.
Where was I. Ah yes, Dahab. Littered with Egyptians who have been here for anywhere from a few weeks to a few generations, the city, as they call it, tightly nestles the red sea, a few back stokes accross the water from Saudi Arabia. A walk along the town's main strip/beach boardwalk, reveals to the tourist a world of shops, all selling relatively the same thing, and an assortment of seaside restaurants, all serving relatively the same food, decorated in what can only be described as what hollywood believes jamaica should look like. Everyone here is your friend, just as everyone here wants you to shop in their store and eat in their restaurant. But, as a friend said, once you get past the incessant invitations to spend money, you learn that the people who live here offer a unique look into east/west values and relations. Do away with the buyer seller dynamic, and you can (and I have) have some very interesting and enlightening conversations with these folk. Really, it's been a very refreshing antidote to the political rhetoric and right wing rabble rousing I experienced on birthrite. That, and, to my surprise, these folk are far more friendly and warm than most of the Israelis...of course, that could just be the nature of the town...but I don't know.
Typing away at one of the many internet portals here, all complete with DSL, refreshments, and the whole nine, I'm thinking about my day today:
Woke up in a little shack on the roof of the camp I'm staying at I went down to one of the aforementioned restaurants, had a cup of coffee and read a little Kundera and had a pleasant conversation with my waiter. Met up with this nice couple from Germany and Holland who are staying at my camp and we reviewed our answers for today's test; we're taking a scuba certification course. After that, went and finished a few hours of theory, had a big relaxing lunch, and took the plunge for my first open water dive. Having trained in a confined area for the past two days, I was sure I was ready. I am sure, I was wrong. I had countless problems with my vest (which regulates your buoyancy) and couldn't get the hang of swimming with flippers, so, this little polish dive master was dragging my bloated carcass from magnificently colorful to coral to coral. The view was amazing. My skill level, however, is a whole nother story...which brings me to tomorrow. Tomorrow's dive is at 12. We're going to a shipwreck (how cool is that!) Right now, I'm exhausted - maybe got a little nitrogyn narcosis (I heard a story of about a diver who god so loopy under water, he took out his regulater and tried to resusitate a fish cuz he thought it was funny. For this evening, I think I'll just turn in...the beauty about Dahab is, I can really sleep anywhere (though I often opt for my room), the restauranters let you crash out right after your meal and let you stay there till sunrise, which I just might do.
As this is, for a change, getting long, I'll stop here. In the next few days I'm going to make my way to Petra in Jordan (hopefully) on the way back to Israel.
I'll see you all really soon, and hope to hear from you sooner.
Thank you for reading all the way to the bottom.
End transmission
A picture of me!
Mass email in
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Hi everyone...(don't worry, i don't expect a response...though if you all shouted real loud at a specific time, I might here you. Alas...I'll sleep soundly thinking that, we might be wishing on the same bright star - somewhere, out, there...)
So I'm in Dahab right now, a small town somewhere in the Sinai dessert, though looking around, you'd hardly be able to tell. For those of you who've been, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and for those of you that haven't, think of it as a little capitalistic shangrila by the sea. It is worlds different from my previous sinai experience, sleeping in a little hut on pristine white sands seconds from the seashore.
After saying goodbye to my cousins, I hung out with Matt in Jerusalem and met him later on in Tel Aviv. We hooked up with my friends from the Sinai and had a good time. After hemming and hawing as to whether or not I should go to Dahab, and with whom, I decided to just do it, and not a minute to soon. En route I stopped off in Beer Sheeva, the Israeli equivilent of Thornhill. I met a friend from birthrite, she took me out with her cousins and their friends to some pub that blasted Brian Adams music and an assortment of other 'classic' tunes. I overpaid for beer, smoked too many cigarettes, and went back to one of the friend's houses for the traditional Thornhill night cap, accompanied by a rollickingly unfunny episode of saturday night life hosted by the one and honly, Xtina - the only thing that differed from times in Thornhill is that the company wasn't nearly as entertaining, and the tv had hebrew subtitles.
So, after spending about a week there that one night, I high tailed it to Dahab solo. Met an interesting motley crue of Israelis en route, bunked with five of them my first nite, and then quickly said Shalom. Though it should have been obvious from the get go, travelling solo ROCKS - and I'm totally glad to be rid of the Israelis..good guys, but they didn't stop bitching from the second we got here. That, and hospitatlity here is extended far further (sans Israelis) when I tell them my name is Zane (which is an arabic name) and explain to them that my mother's roots trace back to ancient Egypt, while my father, sometimes, is a leftwing Israeli jew settled in Toronto. I didn't start telling people this until today of course, which led to a shop owner inviting me in for tea and teaching me a whole new way to play backgammon - note, there was nothing wrong with the original, but, when you're an egyptian/jew travelling through the sinai, do as the sinaiese do.
Where was I. Ah yes, Dahab. Littered with Egyptians who have been here for anywhere from a few weeks to a few generations, the city, as they call it, tightly nestles the red sea, a few back stokes accross the water from Saudi Arabia. A walk along the town's main strip/beach boardwalk, reveals to the tourist a world of shops, all selling relatively the same thing, and an assortment of seaside restaurants, all serving relatively the same food, decorated in what can only be described as what hollywood believes jamaica should look like. Everyone here is your friend, just as everyone here wants you to shop in their store and eat in their restaurant. But, as a friend said, once you get past the incessant invitations to spend money, you learn that the people who live here offer a unique look into east/west values and relations. Do away with the buyer seller dynamic, and you can (and I have) have some very interesting and enlightening conversations with these folk. Really, it's been a very refreshing antidote to the political rhetoric and right wing rabble rousing I experienced on birthrite. That, and, to my surprise, these folk are far more friendly and warm than most of the Israelis...of course, that could just be the nature of the town...but I don't know.
Typing away at one of the many internet portals here, all complete with DSL, refreshments, and the whole nine, I'm thinking about my day today:
Woke up in a little shack on the roof of the camp I'm staying at I went down to one of the aforementioned restaurants, had a cup of coffee and read a little Kundera and had a pleasant conversation with my waiter. Met up with this nice couple from Germany and Holland who are staying at my camp and we reviewed our answers for today's test; we're taking a scuba certification course. After that, went and finished a few hours of theory, had a big relaxing lunch, and took the plunge for my first open water dive. Having trained in a confined area for the past two days, I was sure I was ready. I am sure, I was wrong. I had countless problems with my vest (which regulates your buoyancy) and couldn't get the hang of swimming with flippers, so, this little polish dive master was dragging my bloated carcass from magnificently colorful to coral to coral. The view was amazing. My skill level, however, is a whole nother story...which brings me to tomorrow. Tomorrow's dive is at 12. We're going to a shipwreck (how cool is that!) Right now, I'm exhausted - maybe got a little nitrogyn narcosis (I heard a story of about a diver who god so loopy under water, he took out his regulater and tried to resusitate a fish cuz he thought it was funny. For this evening, I think I'll just turn in...the beauty about Dahab is, I can really sleep anywhere (though I often opt for my room), the restauranters let you crash out right after your meal and let you stay there till sunrise, which I just might do.
As this is, for a change, getting long, I'll stop here. In the next few days I'm going to make my way to Petra in Jordan (hopefully) on the way back to Israel.
I'll see you all really soon, and hope to hear from you sooner.
Thank you for reading all the way to the bottom.
End transmission
A picture of me!
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Greetings From the Big J
Hi all,
A quick update from your friendly neighbourhood world traveller. But, before that, a special thanks to all of you who responded to the last update - kind words from home are comforting and warm the heart (so keep em coming!).
After leaving Tel Aviv last week I arrived at my cousin's place just outside the old city. It's a magical little dwelling a stones throw of the beaten path - you would have to see it to believe it, and if my camera weren't giving me troubles, you all would. Around the corner from his place is the Shook - traditional israeli market - where the smell of freshly baked pastries tantalizes the senses. To describe the scene is nearly impossible, so I'll simply say it's everything you'd expect from an Israeli market, and more. (Again, pictures will help). My little cousins are a delight (like, 70% of the time) and being with family has been a blessing. Friday was my big cherry poppin day, so to speak. I woke up early and Yaakov (big cousin) and I rode bikes to the old city where we went to the Kotel (Western Wall - apologies to those who are uttering to themselves: DUH!) where I put on Tfillin for the first time and said a little prayer. This more than made up for the shabby first visit I had with the Oranim folk. After that we scooted home, did a little pre shabbes shook shopping, and started getting ready for Shabbat. Before evening services Yaakov and I went to the Mivah - traditional jewish bath house - where I did the dunk, submerging myself in the cleansing waters along with a boatload of my bearded brethering. After that, off to services at mayanot's synagogue, complete with dancing, chanting and over al good times. Oh, almost forgot, thursday night was the yiskur (anniversary of the passing) of the Aryzal, a real big rabbi (one of the five biggest of all time, Moses included), so Yaakov had some friends over for a Febreggin (I hope that's the right word). What it was was basically an excuse to sit around, drink, and tell tales about the Ary - everytime we spoke his name, it seems we had to make a l'chaim - so I encourage y'all to do the same. But I digress...back to friday. After services, we went home, had a nice shabbes meal after which I passed out cold. Woke up early Saturday morning and went to services which were, to say the least, not as exciting as the night before's. I was bored to tears and nearly fell asleep until a Gandalf looking rebbi called me up to the torah for an alliyah (something I haven't done in almost ten years). It was something special, and just seeing how happy Yaakov was to have me there was reward in and of itself. Then, things turned ugly. I got violently ill and spent the rest of the day drifting in and out of consciousness, and the bath room. Yaakov's doctor said it was sun stroke from the day before, and I believe him, though it may have been G-d's way of making sure I don't break shabbes.
Which brings us to today. Still a little groggy - my head feels like it's swimming and my brain rattling around in my head, but, nonetheless, feeling about a thousand times better. Yaakov and the fam leave for Toronto on Wed and I have NO idea what I'm gonig to do with the rest of my time here. I've decided that, for now, learning Torah is just too much for me in such a small period of time - I'll be studying secular law in Septermber, and if that doesn't do it for me, perhaps I'll make a trip back here to the mysterious world of diving Law. As for the learning Hebrew thing, after looking into it, it seems as though that too is not meant to be. Ulpans ask for alot of money and alot of time, neither of which are at my disposal - c'est la vie. So, as it stands, as I said to my brother not long ago, it looks like I'm on vacation - life's a bitch ain't it. I'm off to try and find a travel agent to see where the deals are, maybe make my way to Egypt, Turkey, or Greece - who knows. (Again, life is a bitch, ain't it). But in all seriousness, I hope that all of you, whereever you are and what ever you are doing this summer, that you are happy, healthy , and enjoying yourself.
All my love,
Z.
Hi all,
A quick update from your friendly neighbourhood world traveller. But, before that, a special thanks to all of you who responded to the last update - kind words from home are comforting and warm the heart (so keep em coming!).
After leaving Tel Aviv last week I arrived at my cousin's place just outside the old city. It's a magical little dwelling a stones throw of the beaten path - you would have to see it to believe it, and if my camera weren't giving me troubles, you all would. Around the corner from his place is the Shook - traditional israeli market - where the smell of freshly baked pastries tantalizes the senses. To describe the scene is nearly impossible, so I'll simply say it's everything you'd expect from an Israeli market, and more. (Again, pictures will help). My little cousins are a delight (like, 70% of the time) and being with family has been a blessing. Friday was my big cherry poppin day, so to speak. I woke up early and Yaakov (big cousin) and I rode bikes to the old city where we went to the Kotel (Western Wall - apologies to those who are uttering to themselves: DUH!) where I put on Tfillin for the first time and said a little prayer. This more than made up for the shabby first visit I had with the Oranim folk. After that we scooted home, did a little pre shabbes shook shopping, and started getting ready for Shabbat. Before evening services Yaakov and I went to the Mivah - traditional jewish bath house - where I did the dunk, submerging myself in the cleansing waters along with a boatload of my bearded brethering. After that, off to services at mayanot's synagogue, complete with dancing, chanting and over al good times. Oh, almost forgot, thursday night was the yiskur (anniversary of the passing) of the Aryzal, a real big rabbi (one of the five biggest of all time, Moses included), so Yaakov had some friends over for a Febreggin (I hope that's the right word). What it was was basically an excuse to sit around, drink, and tell tales about the Ary - everytime we spoke his name, it seems we had to make a l'chaim - so I encourage y'all to do the same. But I digress...back to friday. After services, we went home, had a nice shabbes meal after which I passed out cold. Woke up early Saturday morning and went to services which were, to say the least, not as exciting as the night before's. I was bored to tears and nearly fell asleep until a Gandalf looking rebbi called me up to the torah for an alliyah (something I haven't done in almost ten years). It was something special, and just seeing how happy Yaakov was to have me there was reward in and of itself. Then, things turned ugly. I got violently ill and spent the rest of the day drifting in and out of consciousness, and the bath room. Yaakov's doctor said it was sun stroke from the day before, and I believe him, though it may have been G-d's way of making sure I don't break shabbes.
Which brings us to today. Still a little groggy - my head feels like it's swimming and my brain rattling around in my head, but, nonetheless, feeling about a thousand times better. Yaakov and the fam leave for Toronto on Wed and I have NO idea what I'm gonig to do with the rest of my time here. I've decided that, for now, learning Torah is just too much for me in such a small period of time - I'll be studying secular law in Septermber, and if that doesn't do it for me, perhaps I'll make a trip back here to the mysterious world of diving Law. As for the learning Hebrew thing, after looking into it, it seems as though that too is not meant to be. Ulpans ask for alot of money and alot of time, neither of which are at my disposal - c'est la vie. So, as it stands, as I said to my brother not long ago, it looks like I'm on vacation - life's a bitch ain't it. I'm off to try and find a travel agent to see where the deals are, maybe make my way to Egypt, Turkey, or Greece - who knows. (Again, life is a bitch, ain't it). But in all seriousness, I hope that all of you, whereever you are and what ever you are doing this summer, that you are happy, healthy , and enjoying yourself.
All my love,
Z.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Update from Israel:
Hello one and all,
my it's been a while hasn't it. I've been away from home - or as the birthrite folk and organizers of the ten day Israel experience would say, I've been at my real home - for about two weeks now and, though I would love to find the words to describe how incredible the people the land is, how amazing the people are, and tell all of you how moved I am just to be here, I am still, after two weeks, relatively speechless. I will, however, try and fill you in, briefly, on what I've done so far. For those in the know, I came here with some old friends, and also happened to meet some old friends who were already here along the way. So, for the purposes of this email, old friends will be mentioned by name, so as to not seem to redundant to those who know these folks. New friends, naturally, will be introduced sporadically along the way.
Let me begin by relaying something a good friend of mine once said about me. As always, he was more insightful than I could hope to be on my best day. He characterized me as a person with a ravenous appetite for learning all things - he was right, and Israel is a place that, from the very beginning, overwhelmed me with opportunities and experience.
After arriving in Tel Aviv after a noon time departure and a ten hour flight, sans sleep, we were whisked away to hooooly mount zion, and then into the old city. The combination of no sleep, shitty breakfast, and oppresive heat but me in a rather ornery mood. This was compounded by the fact that slightly more than a handful of folks on my trip were 18 year old punks who had no interest in learning a damn thing (note to birthrite, up the age minimum to twenty, please!). As I approached the wall (kotel) I was completely overwhelmed - there I stood at the holiest site in all of judaism in a city where the three major religions converge. As I walked towards the wall, tears welling up somewhere behind my eyes, preparing to make their exodus from my heart to down my cheeks to eretz (the land) Israel, some punk kid said some punk thing, and totally threw off my groove. After that I was quickly approached by rabbis asking me to put on tfilling, and the spiritual aspect/experience was lost. Of course, being told before going to the wall, 'okay, you have half an hour...actually, you really only need twenty minutes...' also sort of threw me off. So, Laurent and I, stood by the wall, and, though neither of us spoke to each other, or even looked at each other, we discussed after wards our inability to touch it - I refused to do it, knowing I could come back, spend a day, and do it on my terms, not rushed on a tour bus full of cranky tired adolescents.
So that was day one. We retired to our hotel, which was very nice, where I was met by Kiesel and Alex, where we quickly whipped out my guitar and bottle of Capt. Morgan's Malibu rum and had a regular thornhill style jamboree. The next day, we were whisked back to Tel Aviv, where I am writing this email from right now. Kiesel actually snuck up behind me and Laurent in Jerusalem while we were buying pizza. We then bumped into Joey Wilson and his girlfriend - no matter where you go, I suppose, there's no running away from home...and that's a good thing.
In the morning, we went to Independence hall, the hall where Ben Gurion declared Israel's independence. We heard an incredible speaker tell us all about the history of Israel's independence, which was something special for me since I was reading Leon Uris' Exodus at the time. When independence was declared, there was a symphony in the hall, which was too small, so they were place upstairs out of site. At the end of Ben Gurion's speech, the Isreali national anthem was rang through the hall and the streets. The experience was recreated for us, and, again, the water works turned on. (If I owned the electrical company too, I'd be a rich man.)
We didn't stay in Tel Aviv though, that wasn't until much later - I can't say whether the scheduling for the trip was amazing, or half arsed, but either way, we did and say ALOT.
To be brief and skip over the next few days we went on a water hike, rafted down the jordan, stayed on a kibbutz, spoke with a 78 year old south african zionist who emigrated to israel during the war for independence and started a kibbutz right on the border of Jordan and Israel. Interesting side note for those who know and those who don't. Israel was fully founded by the blood sweat and tears of kibbutzniks - small agriculturalists. Fleeing persecution and pogroms as far back as the early 1800's jew from around the world made a pilgrimage to Israel and, slowly, but surely, irrigated the land, taught themselves how to farm, and transformed a veritable dessert into an oasis. The role of the kibbutz in the struggle for statehood, the south african explained, was such that the borders of israel could be constructed by connected the 'dots' or kibbutzim scattered accross the israeli frontier. Not only did these folk have to farm, they had to fight like hell to keep marauders and bandits from destroying their communities. As time passed, kibbutzim were strategically created on the frontier and staffed by well trained soldiers and farmers in order to provide a buffer zone between the less militant communities. Very interesting stuff, and I'm sure some of you are totally intrigued, while others, no doubt, are wondering when this bloody email will end.
Not yet.
After all that, and more, I'm sure, we made our way back to Tel Aviv for a few nights where we were joined by Israeli soldiers who joined our trip for the remainder. It was at this point that I was introduced to the subtle and cynical Israeli sense of humor thanks to my new friend Ariel:
Random young punk: So, Ariel, what do you do in the army?
Ariel: You watch CNN right? I am personally responsible for raping Palestinian women, and killing their children.
(Deathly silence, save for the sound of my laughter...once I heard the silence though, I questioned whether or not I got the joke... I did, others didn't....)
Kiesel and Andy joined me again in Tel Aviv and we partied the night away. Kiesel joined our trip for a while, slept in Laurent's room, and weezed two free meals from the birthrite folk. The next nite, after a horrifying night at a birthrite bender (horrifying for me only, and my delicate moral senisbilities) Andy and Heli met me at the hotel and we stayed up all night talking about this and that...mostly about G-d, but, I won't bore any of you with the details....it was, suffice to say, an incredible night.
After Tel Aviv, we took off for a beduin encampment, slept under the stars and in the morning hiked up Mossada. Gorgeious, from what I remember, but in earnest, I was too busy trying to find a shady place to pass the fuck out - one sleeps very little on birthrite, very little.
After that adventure, we were off to Eilat in the south, which is sort of like the Cancun of Tel Aviv. Mike (new friend) and I, having discovered while in tiberias buying a bottle of vodka, that the convenience store owners offer you cups, right there and then, took it upon ourselves to sit outside the mall on a patio and mix ourselves some drinks, a liberty canadians don't have, and, perhaps, don't deserve, but that's left up for debate. We spent the rest of the night chatting with new friends Paul and Nicole from South Africa and the next day, began winding down our trip.
This email's getting long already, and there's alot to do and say, so to be brief, and to wrap up the birthrite portion of the trip, I'll slip into point form.
- Went back to the hotel we stayed at the first nite.
- Found out someone on the other trip proposed at the beduin tents and was getting married
- Attended wedding and played guitar for the bride and groom
- Tied one on as it was our last nite, which was perhaps a bit irresponsible seeing as the next morning we were going to Yad Vashem, the holocaust memorial site (which, despite a mild hangover and shitty breakfast, was very moving...i'll go back).
All in all, the birthrite experience was a privelage for which I am very thankful. Ideological (NOT Rreligious, surprisingly) manipulation aside, the trip truly opened my eyes to many, many miracles, not the least of which is the very land I am standing on. They say every seven steps you take in israel is a mitzvah, and I believe it. This is a land built upon dreams, crated by miracles, and sustained by will and determination. (There was a terrorist attack not two blocks from the hotel we stayed at in Tel Aviv - you learn to live far more intensely here, and, not to freak anyone at home out, I feel the need to tell you all, firstly, not to worry about me, what ever will be, will be, and secondly, that I love ou all, very, very much.
Had enough? No? Good, cuz there's more. After dropping off the poor suckers who had to fly back to Toronto at the airport, myself and four new friends - the aforementioned paul and nicole, Dan and WAYNE, went to meet a friend of paul's in Tel Aviv and then hauled ass down to eilat to cross the border into ... Egypt.
Well, not really egypt, Sinai. Eleven of us in all, all strangers to me no less than ten days earlier, and half of them people I had just met at the bus station, went to stay at a small Beduin camp. I 'lived' in a small shack called a hoosha not five steps from the dead sea, right across from Saudi arabia. I slept on the beach each nite, and watched the sun rise over the water. There was something incredibly magical about reading the tempest in the twilite in a land far far away from civilizatoin. (Don't forget to ask me about the Beduin hostpiatlity).
We stayed for four nights and, upon returning to Tel Aviv, Dan and I shacked up with 'Fast' Eddy El Camino and his wife, Kaipka (new friend form the sinai). I wish I could send a picture, but since i can't, I'll describe my relationship to the man- ever see the episode of Seinfeld where George develops the non-sexual man crush on Dan Cortez? Bingo. Eddies the coolest guy, with the coolest hair, the coolest tattoos and the coolest stories to tell...the coolest - gosh , I'm gushing. But seriously, a great guy, and so too were all the people we met along the way. I met a guy from New York who's 39, is part of the 'Jewish Renewal' and travels the world lecturing and doing peace work in places like albania and bosnia. We'll meet again in Jerusalem shortly, I hope. Spent the last few nights in Tel Aviv chilling with Heli on the beach, playing guitar till the wee hours of the night, and making fun of jewish ashkenazi accents. I just said good bye to her this morning as she's off to see her mum. Me, I'm going out for dinner with some friends now, and then, in the morning, off to Jerusalem to buy a black hat and grow my beard.
No. In all honesty, I don't know what I'll do in Jerusalem. I'll be staying with my cousin until he leaves for toronto, and will probably take a few classes that interest me. Those who were worried that I would be 'brainwashed' or 'go religious', I'm sorry to say that you never took the time to really talk to me about such things, and your worries are ill founded. I am here looking for religion, to be sure, but I am not here to 'join a cult' or find a purpose for my life. I have a purpose, I just want to let this little light of mine shine.
As an aside, i was taling to heli last nite, and we spoke about the fact that we never really get to know ourselves until we give to others (incidentally, the root of the hebrew word for love is 'to give'), as if the light that shines from within us must be refelcted back on us, as if everyone else were a mirror. what's more, and this is the cool part, though I don't know if I'm able to articulate it as well as we intuited it, the next step is to remove oneself from the equation ever so slightly, and to see that the light itself, you, and me, are mirrors as well, and when you see that the light from withing, whether it be your soul, or god, or whatever, becomes increasingly luminescent, as if we can see it reflected in everyone we come into contact with.
So, I'm off to let this little lite of mine shine, shine, shine. One thing I am certain I want to, nay, need to learn, is Hebrew. So I'll see if I can do that somewhere.
So there you have it folks, better late than never, an update from the zaniac, sent with love from halfway round the world. I'd love to hear from all of you, so mail me, or call me (incoming calls are free, for me anyways). For those interested, my filght home leaves Israel late late late on August 23, so I should be home the morning of the 24 if anyone wants to meet me at the airport and check out my bodacious tan (and thick long beard, and nice black hat) - probably not, but who knows)
But, orderly to end where I begun,Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
- The Player King
Our indiscretion sometime serves us well,
When our deep plots do fail; and that should teach us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
- The Dane Himself
Shalom one and all,
much love,
Z.
to see pics from my trip, go here: http://israelfree.com/group_photographs.asp?tourid=317
to but tickets to the toronto film festival (always thinking of being the social lubricator), do a google search, ya lazy bastards!
Hello one and all,
my it's been a while hasn't it. I've been away from home - or as the birthrite folk and organizers of the ten day Israel experience would say, I've been at my real home - for about two weeks now and, though I would love to find the words to describe how incredible the people the land is, how amazing the people are, and tell all of you how moved I am just to be here, I am still, after two weeks, relatively speechless. I will, however, try and fill you in, briefly, on what I've done so far. For those in the know, I came here with some old friends, and also happened to meet some old friends who were already here along the way. So, for the purposes of this email, old friends will be mentioned by name, so as to not seem to redundant to those who know these folks. New friends, naturally, will be introduced sporadically along the way.
Let me begin by relaying something a good friend of mine once said about me. As always, he was more insightful than I could hope to be on my best day. He characterized me as a person with a ravenous appetite for learning all things - he was right, and Israel is a place that, from the very beginning, overwhelmed me with opportunities and experience.
After arriving in Tel Aviv after a noon time departure and a ten hour flight, sans sleep, we were whisked away to hooooly mount zion, and then into the old city. The combination of no sleep, shitty breakfast, and oppresive heat but me in a rather ornery mood. This was compounded by the fact that slightly more than a handful of folks on my trip were 18 year old punks who had no interest in learning a damn thing (note to birthrite, up the age minimum to twenty, please!). As I approached the wall (kotel) I was completely overwhelmed - there I stood at the holiest site in all of judaism in a city where the three major religions converge. As I walked towards the wall, tears welling up somewhere behind my eyes, preparing to make their exodus from my heart to down my cheeks to eretz (the land) Israel, some punk kid said some punk thing, and totally threw off my groove. After that I was quickly approached by rabbis asking me to put on tfilling, and the spiritual aspect/experience was lost. Of course, being told before going to the wall, 'okay, you have half an hour...actually, you really only need twenty minutes...' also sort of threw me off. So, Laurent and I, stood by the wall, and, though neither of us spoke to each other, or even looked at each other, we discussed after wards our inability to touch it - I refused to do it, knowing I could come back, spend a day, and do it on my terms, not rushed on a tour bus full of cranky tired adolescents.
So that was day one. We retired to our hotel, which was very nice, where I was met by Kiesel and Alex, where we quickly whipped out my guitar and bottle of Capt. Morgan's Malibu rum and had a regular thornhill style jamboree. The next day, we were whisked back to Tel Aviv, where I am writing this email from right now. Kiesel actually snuck up behind me and Laurent in Jerusalem while we were buying pizza. We then bumped into Joey Wilson and his girlfriend - no matter where you go, I suppose, there's no running away from home...and that's a good thing.
In the morning, we went to Independence hall, the hall where Ben Gurion declared Israel's independence. We heard an incredible speaker tell us all about the history of Israel's independence, which was something special for me since I was reading Leon Uris' Exodus at the time. When independence was declared, there was a symphony in the hall, which was too small, so they were place upstairs out of site. At the end of Ben Gurion's speech, the Isreali national anthem was rang through the hall and the streets. The experience was recreated for us, and, again, the water works turned on. (If I owned the electrical company too, I'd be a rich man.)
We didn't stay in Tel Aviv though, that wasn't until much later - I can't say whether the scheduling for the trip was amazing, or half arsed, but either way, we did and say ALOT.
To be brief and skip over the next few days we went on a water hike, rafted down the jordan, stayed on a kibbutz, spoke with a 78 year old south african zionist who emigrated to israel during the war for independence and started a kibbutz right on the border of Jordan and Israel. Interesting side note for those who know and those who don't. Israel was fully founded by the blood sweat and tears of kibbutzniks - small agriculturalists. Fleeing persecution and pogroms as far back as the early 1800's jew from around the world made a pilgrimage to Israel and, slowly, but surely, irrigated the land, taught themselves how to farm, and transformed a veritable dessert into an oasis. The role of the kibbutz in the struggle for statehood, the south african explained, was such that the borders of israel could be constructed by connected the 'dots' or kibbutzim scattered accross the israeli frontier. Not only did these folk have to farm, they had to fight like hell to keep marauders and bandits from destroying their communities. As time passed, kibbutzim were strategically created on the frontier and staffed by well trained soldiers and farmers in order to provide a buffer zone between the less militant communities. Very interesting stuff, and I'm sure some of you are totally intrigued, while others, no doubt, are wondering when this bloody email will end.
Not yet.
After all that, and more, I'm sure, we made our way back to Tel Aviv for a few nights where we were joined by Israeli soldiers who joined our trip for the remainder. It was at this point that I was introduced to the subtle and cynical Israeli sense of humor thanks to my new friend Ariel:
Random young punk: So, Ariel, what do you do in the army?
Ariel: You watch CNN right? I am personally responsible for raping Palestinian women, and killing their children.
(Deathly silence, save for the sound of my laughter...once I heard the silence though, I questioned whether or not I got the joke... I did, others didn't....)
Kiesel and Andy joined me again in Tel Aviv and we partied the night away. Kiesel joined our trip for a while, slept in Laurent's room, and weezed two free meals from the birthrite folk. The next nite, after a horrifying night at a birthrite bender (horrifying for me only, and my delicate moral senisbilities) Andy and Heli met me at the hotel and we stayed up all night talking about this and that...mostly about G-d, but, I won't bore any of you with the details....it was, suffice to say, an incredible night.
After Tel Aviv, we took off for a beduin encampment, slept under the stars and in the morning hiked up Mossada. Gorgeious, from what I remember, but in earnest, I was too busy trying to find a shady place to pass the fuck out - one sleeps very little on birthrite, very little.
After that adventure, we were off to Eilat in the south, which is sort of like the Cancun of Tel Aviv. Mike (new friend) and I, having discovered while in tiberias buying a bottle of vodka, that the convenience store owners offer you cups, right there and then, took it upon ourselves to sit outside the mall on a patio and mix ourselves some drinks, a liberty canadians don't have, and, perhaps, don't deserve, but that's left up for debate. We spent the rest of the night chatting with new friends Paul and Nicole from South Africa and the next day, began winding down our trip.
This email's getting long already, and there's alot to do and say, so to be brief, and to wrap up the birthrite portion of the trip, I'll slip into point form.
- Went back to the hotel we stayed at the first nite.
- Found out someone on the other trip proposed at the beduin tents and was getting married
- Attended wedding and played guitar for the bride and groom
- Tied one on as it was our last nite, which was perhaps a bit irresponsible seeing as the next morning we were going to Yad Vashem, the holocaust memorial site (which, despite a mild hangover and shitty breakfast, was very moving...i'll go back).
All in all, the birthrite experience was a privelage for which I am very thankful. Ideological (NOT Rreligious, surprisingly) manipulation aside, the trip truly opened my eyes to many, many miracles, not the least of which is the very land I am standing on. They say every seven steps you take in israel is a mitzvah, and I believe it. This is a land built upon dreams, crated by miracles, and sustained by will and determination. (There was a terrorist attack not two blocks from the hotel we stayed at in Tel Aviv - you learn to live far more intensely here, and, not to freak anyone at home out, I feel the need to tell you all, firstly, not to worry about me, what ever will be, will be, and secondly, that I love ou all, very, very much.
Had enough? No? Good, cuz there's more. After dropping off the poor suckers who had to fly back to Toronto at the airport, myself and four new friends - the aforementioned paul and nicole, Dan and WAYNE, went to meet a friend of paul's in Tel Aviv and then hauled ass down to eilat to cross the border into ... Egypt.
Well, not really egypt, Sinai. Eleven of us in all, all strangers to me no less than ten days earlier, and half of them people I had just met at the bus station, went to stay at a small Beduin camp. I 'lived' in a small shack called a hoosha not five steps from the dead sea, right across from Saudi arabia. I slept on the beach each nite, and watched the sun rise over the water. There was something incredibly magical about reading the tempest in the twilite in a land far far away from civilizatoin. (Don't forget to ask me about the Beduin hostpiatlity).
We stayed for four nights and, upon returning to Tel Aviv, Dan and I shacked up with 'Fast' Eddy El Camino and his wife, Kaipka (new friend form the sinai). I wish I could send a picture, but since i can't, I'll describe my relationship to the man- ever see the episode of Seinfeld where George develops the non-sexual man crush on Dan Cortez? Bingo. Eddies the coolest guy, with the coolest hair, the coolest tattoos and the coolest stories to tell...the coolest - gosh , I'm gushing. But seriously, a great guy, and so too were all the people we met along the way. I met a guy from New York who's 39, is part of the 'Jewish Renewal' and travels the world lecturing and doing peace work in places like albania and bosnia. We'll meet again in Jerusalem shortly, I hope. Spent the last few nights in Tel Aviv chilling with Heli on the beach, playing guitar till the wee hours of the night, and making fun of jewish ashkenazi accents. I just said good bye to her this morning as she's off to see her mum. Me, I'm going out for dinner with some friends now, and then, in the morning, off to Jerusalem to buy a black hat and grow my beard.
No. In all honesty, I don't know what I'll do in Jerusalem. I'll be staying with my cousin until he leaves for toronto, and will probably take a few classes that interest me. Those who were worried that I would be 'brainwashed' or 'go religious', I'm sorry to say that you never took the time to really talk to me about such things, and your worries are ill founded. I am here looking for religion, to be sure, but I am not here to 'join a cult' or find a purpose for my life. I have a purpose, I just want to let this little light of mine shine.
As an aside, i was taling to heli last nite, and we spoke about the fact that we never really get to know ourselves until we give to others (incidentally, the root of the hebrew word for love is 'to give'), as if the light that shines from within us must be refelcted back on us, as if everyone else were a mirror. what's more, and this is the cool part, though I don't know if I'm able to articulate it as well as we intuited it, the next step is to remove oneself from the equation ever so slightly, and to see that the light itself, you, and me, are mirrors as well, and when you see that the light from withing, whether it be your soul, or god, or whatever, becomes increasingly luminescent, as if we can see it reflected in everyone we come into contact with.
So, I'm off to let this little lite of mine shine, shine, shine. One thing I am certain I want to, nay, need to learn, is Hebrew. So I'll see if I can do that somewhere.
So there you have it folks, better late than never, an update from the zaniac, sent with love from halfway round the world. I'd love to hear from all of you, so mail me, or call me (incoming calls are free, for me anyways). For those interested, my filght home leaves Israel late late late on August 23, so I should be home the morning of the 24 if anyone wants to meet me at the airport and check out my bodacious tan (and thick long beard, and nice black hat) - probably not, but who knows)
But, orderly to end where I begun,Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
- The Player King
Our indiscretion sometime serves us well,
When our deep plots do fail; and that should teach us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
- The Dane Himself
Shalom one and all,
much love,
Z.
to see pics from my trip, go here: http://israelfree.com/group_photographs.asp?tourid=317
to but tickets to the toronto film festival (always thinking of being the social lubricator), do a google search, ya lazy bastards!
Monday, January 26, 2004
A Dilly of a Pickle
I just got this from a friend, a very interesting little quandry:
With all your honor and dignity what would you do?
This test only has one question, but it's a very important one. Please don't answer it without giving it some serious thought. By giving an honest answer you will be able to test where you stand morally. The test features an unlikely, completely fictional situation, where you will have to make a decision one way or the other. Remember that your answer needs to be honest, yet spontaneous.
Please scroll down slowly and consider each line - this is important for the test to work accurately.
You're in Florida...
In Miami, to be exact...
There is great chaos going on around you caused by a hurricane and severe floods. There are huge masses of water all over. You are a CNN photographer and you are in the middle of this great disaster. The situation is nearly hopeless.
You're trying to shoot very impressive photos.
There are houses and people floating around you, disappearing into the water. Nature is showing all its destroying power and is ripping everything away with it.
Suddenly you see a man in the water. He is fighting for his life, trying not to be taken away by the masses of water and mud. You move closer.
Somehow the man looks familiar.
Suddenly you know who it is - it's George W. Bush!
At the same time you notice that the raging waters are about to take him away forever. You have two options. You can save him or you can take the best photo of your life. So you can save the life of George W. Bush, or you can shoot a Pulitzer prize winning photo, a unique photo displaying the death of one of the world's most powerful men.
And here's the question (please give an honest answer):
Would you select color film, or go rather with the simplicity of classic black and white?
