Month: April 2007

La Conscience

I’m in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. So let’s cap off this month with one of Hugo’s most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there’s just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain’s flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail.

I’m in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. So let’s cap off this month with one of Hugo’s most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there’s just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain’s flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail. This work is full of larger-than-life mythical figures and over-the-top emotions accompanied by violent weather, as befits a Romantic poem. The meter is flawless (alexandrine verse? oh yes), the language is exquisite, the images are gripping. Truly, a masterpiece.

La Conscience

Lorsque avec ses enfants vêtus de peaux de bêtes,
Échevelé, livide au milieu des tempêtes,
Caïn se fut enfui de devant Jéhovah,
Comme le soir tombait, l’homme sombre arriva
Au bas d’une montagne en une grande plaine ;
Sa femme fatiguée et ses fils hors d’haleine
Lui dirent : — Couchons-nous sur la terre, et dormons. —
Caïn, ne dormant pas, songeait au pied des monts.
Ayant levé la tête, au fond des cieux funèbres
Il vit un œil tout grand ouvert dans les ténèbres,
Et qui le regardait dans l’ombre fixement.
— Je suis trop près, dit-il avec un tremblement.
Il réveilla ses fils dormant, sa femme lasse,
Et se remit à fuir sinistre dans l’espace.
Il marcha trente jours, il marcha trente nuits.
Il allait, muet, pâle et frémissant aux bruits,
Furtif, sans regarder derrière lui, sans trêve,
Sans repos, sans sommeil. Il atteignit la grève
Des mers dans le pays qui fut depuis Assur.
— Arrêtons-nous, dit-il, car cet asile est sûr.
Restons-y. Nous avons du monde atteint les bornes. —
Et, comme il s’asseyait, il vit dans les cieux mornes
L’œil à la même place au fond de l’horizon.
Alors il tressaillit en proie au noir frisson.
— Cachez-moi, cria-t-il ; et, le doigt sur la bouche,
Tous ses fils regardaient trembler l’aïeul farouche.
Caïn dit à Jabel, père de ceux qui vont
Sous des tentes de poil dans le désert profond :
Étends de ce côté la toile de la tente.
Et l’on développa la muraille flottante ;
Et, quand on l’eut fixée avec des poids de plomb :
Vous ne voyez plus rien ? dit Tsilla, l’enfant blond,
La fille de ses fils, douce comme l’aurore ;
Et Caïn répondit : — Je vois cet œil encore !
Jubal, père de ceux qui passent dans les bourgs
Soufflant dans les clairons et frappant des tambours,
Cria : — Je saurai bien construire une barrière.
Il fit un mur de bronze et mit Caïn derrière.
Et Caïn dit : — Cet œil me regarde toujours !
Hénoch dit : — Il faut faire une enceinte de tours
Si terrible, que rien ne puisse approcher d’elle.
Bâtissons une ville avec sa citadelle.
Bâtissons une ville, et nous la fermerons.
Alors Tubalcaïn, père des forgerons,
Construisit une ville énorme et surhumaine.
Pendant qu’il travaillait, ses frères, dans la plaine,
Chassaient les fils d’Enos et les enfants de Seth ;
Et l’on crevait les yeux à quiconque passait ;
Et, le soir, on lançait des flèches aux étoiles.
Le granit remplaça la tente aux murs de toiles,
On lia chaque bloc avec des nœuds de fer,
Et la ville semblait une ville d’enfer ;
L’ombre des tours faisait la nuit dans les campagnes ;
Ils donnèrent aux murs l’épaisseur des montagnes ;
Sur la porte on grava : « Défense à Dieu d’entrer. »
Quand ils eurent fini de clore et de murer,
On mit l’aïeul au centre en une tour de pierre.
Et lui restait lugubre et hagard. — O mon père !
L’œil a-t-il disparu ? dit en tremblant Tsilla.
Et Caïn répondit : — Non, il est toujours là.
Alors il dit : — Je veux habiter sous la terre
Comme dans son sépulcre un homme solitaire ;
Rien ne me verra plus, je ne verrai plus rien. —
On fit donc une fosse, et Caïn dit : C’est bien !
Puis il descendit seul sous cette voûte sombre.
Quand il se fut assis sur sa chaise dans l’ombre
Et qu’on eut sur son front fermé le souterrain,
L’œil était dans la tombe et regardait Caïn.

I Knew Where My Towel Was

We had our end-of-year volleyball tournament yesterday. My team won first place, which surprised the hell out of me. I haven’t won first place at anything in a while, and it was a very/ even game: with only a couple of exceptions, all our matches were won or lost by a handful of points.

We had our end-of-year volleyball tournament yesterday. My team won first place, which surprised the hell out of me. I haven’t won first place at anything in a while, and it was a very/ even game: with only a couple of exceptions, all our matches were won or lost by a handful of points. So I blocked and I passed and I set and I reffed for a bit and then I blocked and passed and yelled some more and sweated like a pig, from morning to mid-afternoon. Good thing I had my towel with me.

Which may not seem like a big thing, but I realized I’d never brought a towel to play. Until this weekend I just used my t-shirt to wipe myself off (yes, even for big tournaments), but I figured maybe I needed a little more. And, who knows? Maybe it’s the towel that helped me win. Because the rest of the players could sass what a hoopy guy I was: they knew they were dealing with a frood who really knew where his towel was, and their strength failed them.

(RIP, Douglas.)

I’m sad to see the season end, but grass volleyball is coming up soon, so it’s all good. Maybe if I bring a towel there too, I’ll end the summer with off-white skin instead of shining alabaster. Unfortunately, tanning is right out. Curse these melanin-impoverished genes what my folks gave me!

Wings Of A Wild Goose

Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I’d never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact.

Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I’d never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact. At the time I wanted so much to write like she did, fierce and unapologetic and flowing straight from the heart. The following is from her first collection of poetry, Not Vanishing.

Wings Of A Wild Goose

A hen, one who could have brought more geese, a female, a wild one
dead     Shot by an excited ignorant young blond boy, his first
His mother threw the wings in the garbage     I rinsed them
brought them home, hung them spread wide on my studio wall
A reminder of so much, saving what I can’t bear to be wasted
Wings
I dream of wings which carry me far above human bitterness
human walls     A goose who will have no more tiny pale fluttering
goslings to bring alive     to shelter     to feed     to watch fly
off on new wings     different winds
He has a lawn this boy     A pretty face which was recently paid
thousands of dollars to be in a television commercial     I clean
their house every Wednesday morning
2 dogs which no one brushes     flying hair everywhere
A black rabbit who is almost always out of
water     usually in a filthy cage     I’ve cleaned the cage
out of sympathy a few times although it is not part of what
are called my duties     I check the water as soon as I arrive
This rabbit & those dogs are the boy’s pets     He is very lazy
He watches television constantly leaving the sofa in the den
littered with food wrappers, soda cans, empty cereal bowls
If I’m still there when he comes home, he is rude to me     If he
has his friends with him, he makes fun of me behind my back
I muse on how he will always think of the woods
as an exciting place to kill     This family of three lives
on a five acre farm     They raise no crops     not even their own
vegetables or animals for slaughter     His father is a neurosurgeon
who longs to be a poet     His mother frantically searches
for christian enlightenment     I’m sad for her     though I don’t like
her     because I know she won’t find any     The boy does nothing
around the house to help without being paid     I’m 38 & still
haven’t saved the amount of money he has in a passbook found
in the pillows of the couch under gum wrappers     That dead goose
This boy will probably never understand that it is not right
to take without giving     He doesn’t know how to give     His mother
who cleaned & cooked the goose says she doesn’t really like
to do it but can’t understand why she should feel any different
about the goose than a chicken or hamburger from the supermarket
I bite my tongue & nod     I could explain to her that meat raised
for slaughter is very different than meat taken from the woods
where so few wild beings survive     That her ancestors are
responsible for the emptiness of this land     That lawns feed no
one     that fallow land lined with fences is sinful     That hungry
people need the food they could be growing     That spirituality
is not separate from food or wildness or respect or giving
But she already doesn’t like me     because she suspects me
of reading her husband’s poetry books when no one is around
& she’s right     I do     I need the 32 dollars a week tolerating
them provides me     I wait for the wings on my wall to speak to me
guide my hungers     teach me winds I can’t reach     I keep
these wings because walls are so hard     wildness so rare     because
ignorance must be remembered     because I am female     because I fly
only in my dreams     because I too
will have no young to let go

The Old Astronomer To His Pupil

I just remembered it’s National Poetry Month. Last year I posted an old poem of mine, but this year I thought I’d showcase the works of real poets. Now, I read very little poetry, but there are few poems that have made a strong impression on me.

The first is The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, written by 19th century poet Sarah Williams.

I just remembered it’s National Poetry Month. Last year I posted an old poem of mine, but this year I thought I’d showcase the works of real poets. Now, I read very little poetry, but there are few poems that have made a strong impression on me.

The first is The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, written by 19th century poet Sarah Williams. The first four stanzas are the most often quoted, and it’s the last line of the fourth stanza that guarantees its immortality. I found this a quietly moving tribute to the scientific profession. There is a deep respect for science, its virtues and rewards, but also, perhaps, the price one pays for practicing it. Mind you, I’m not aware of any scientist whose career is as lonely and thankless as this fictional astronomer’s… but, we’ll chalk it up to poetic license. Enjoy.

The Old Astronomer To His Pupil

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, — I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then till now.

Pray, remember, that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data, for your adding as is meet;
And remember, men will scorn it, ’tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learnt the worth of scorn;
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn;
What, for us, are all distractions of men’s fellowship and smiles?
What, for us, the goddess Pleasure, with her meretricious wiles?

You may tell that German college that their honour comes too late.
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate;
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me, — since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, — that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife, —
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sworn, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, ’twill disturb me in my sleep.
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars, —
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

How to get from New York City to London

Step one: go to Google Maps™
Step two: click on “Get directions”
Step three: enter “New York City” in the start address
Step four: enter “London” in the end address
Step five: click the “Get Directions” button

  • Step one: go to Google Maps™
  • Step two: click on “Get directions”
  • Step three: enter “New York City” in the start address
  • Step four: enter “London” in the end address
  • Step five: click the “Get Directions” button

Or just click here.

I got this link at work, forwarded as a joke. “Ho ho, look at step 24 asking you to swim 3,400 miles across the Atlantic,” sort of thing. And yeah, I thought it was silly too. But then I thought about it some more; and really, it makes sense if you accept that Google Maps doesn’t know about ships or planes.

And then I started wondering about the details of this route. Why, for example, are we supposed to first drive from New York to Boston and then start swimming? Well, it’s probably the most efficient route. Not the shortest as the crow flies, but it makes for the shortest distance you have to swim. And since driving is faster, it’s a bit more efficient time-wise than if you cast off from, let’s say, the eastern tip of Long Island.

Right. That part’s clear. But the European end makes less sense. If we’re going to London, why are we first landing at Le Havre, then taking the highway to the Channel Tunnel? Is it really faster than landing at, e.g., Plymouth? According to Google Maps, it is. I also tried going to Cardiff, Dublin and Plymouth, and all three times I have to land at Le Havre. Likewise for Bordeaux, Madrid and Lisbon. Huh, is all I can say.

Just for a second, I wondered if the algorithm takes ocean currents into account and I’m actually taking the most efficient swimming route. But, nah. After experimenting a bit more, I found that even starting off from Ottawa, Montreal, Fredericton or St-John’s, Newfoundland, I always swing by Boston. (The only difference being that for Canadian cities distances are measured in kilometres instead of miles. Go metric system!) So it looks like the algorithm has just this hard-coded connection between North America and Europe. The developers probably figured they wouldn’t need anything smarter. Can’t say I blame them, because who uses Google Maps to plan a transatlantic trip?

Dungeons & Dragons

I discovered The Order of the Stick about a month ago (with this episode, to be precise), and was immediately hooked. It’s got great plots, character development, action and adventure and tons of humour. Half of that is the hilarious metagaming dialog which spoke to right to my geek heart.

I discovered The Order of the Stick about a month ago (with this episode, to be precise), and was immediately hooked. It’s got great plots, character development, action and adventure and tons of humour. Half of that is the hilarious metagaming dialog which spoke to right to my geek heart. All this talk of hit points and +5 modifiers and levels by the characters themselves took me back to those long-ago gaming Dungeons & Dragons™ sessions I played with my brother M and a few friends. Ah, memories: the rattle of the dice, the scribbling on character sheets, the memorizing of monster stats, pretending we were wizards or paladins or thieves… Good times, good times.

We started playing around age 8, even before the (1st Edition) Advanced D&D came along. I remember our first couple of games, on our grandfather’s dining room table. Good old module B2! We played with our older brother and dad—who’d introduced us to the game and bought the module and dice. He never wanted to play himself, and bowed out as soon as we found gaming groups of our own. M and I played for more than a decade (and two editions), up until our early twenties when the last of the old gang moved away. I didn’t mind not RPGing anymore, since by then I’d come out of the closet and finally had a bit more of a life. Still, it was fun while it lasted, and I got to flex a lot of my creative muscles. Plus, let’s face it: there aren’t that many social outlets for awkward teens with hyperactive imaginations, and I’m grateful to our parents for, first, introducing us to the game, and second, ignoring the fundie-driven “D&D is Satanism” hysteria that flared up in the 80’s.

But though I haven’t felt like playing since, I do get nostalgic. Now, we used to read Dragon™ magazine for most of our gaming life. Dragon had excellent articles on many RPGs (not just D&D), art, modules, short stories… and comics in the back pages. After devouring the OOTS archives, I suddenly had a hankering for those long-ago comics.

What’s New? with Phil & Dixie lasted only a few years, delighting readers with its hilarious commentaries on games and the gaming world. The creator, Phil Foglio, has been keeping busy: check out the terrific steampunk adventure Girl Genius.

Yamara started in the late 80’s and apparently kept going for a bit after we let our Dragon subscription lapse in ’93-94. It was also chock-full of metagaming dialog, with this strip being the best example. And yeah, we totally did that too. Or would have, if our DM’s had introduced this kind of mystery monster.

And Wormy. A beautiful, intricately drawn story about a cranky cigar-smoking dragon, that ended abruptly in the late 80’s. Gremorly the wizard and Solomoriah the winged demon cat kicked all kinds of ass; I believe the July ’81 strip was my introduction to the story—and what a strip it was!

No trip down memory lane would be complete without a nod to Dungeons & Dragons, the TV show. Actually, more than a nod. I recently got my hands on the entire show on DVD, and I’m happily making my way through all the eps. I loved the show when it came out, and it still holds up pretty well. The voice talent is only so-so, the dialog was kind of clunky and (this being an 80’s kids’ show) full of “morally uplifting” messages, but that’s okay because the visuals are what I signed up for, then and now. Venger on his nightmare is still an awesome sight, as is Tiamat and pretty much all the various creatures and places the children see. The animators did a top-notch job of adapting to the screen the fantasy monsters I was already familiar with, and I can tell they had a lot of respect for the source material. Which is more than I can say for the losers responsible for that similarly-named abomination. Bleah.

KITCHENER.ONT.2005

…is what the graffiti said, on the side of the freight train I passed on the West Coast Express this evening.

Awesome. Just think of the sights it’s seen! Welcome to VANCOUVER.BC.2007

…is what the graffiti said, on the side of the freight train I passed on the West Coast Express this evening.

Awesome. Just think of the sights it’s seen! Welcome to VANCOUVER.BC.2007