Exams & haircuts

The provincial English Standards Test began today, and the theme is ... tumtumtum ... "Journeys of Discovery". Not bad. Not bad at all.

Then, more importantly, Margruite graciously took the time to give me a haircut! All right! She does fine work! In case you're interested, here's a photo of the development of my very own baldspot:

Someday I hope to be freed of the shackles of it, by eliminating it altogether and graduating to ... baldness. At this point though, if I'd dare to do it, I might lose some privileges ... I am investigating the purchase of a good pair of hair clippers though. That sure would make the haircut thing a lot easier.

Ride in         Temp 9'C Wind SW 12 ks
Ride home   Temp 18'C Wind NW 20 ks

Catching up

Today is Sunday

This morning's service honoured Sara, as AMC's only graduate this year, and then held a baptism and membership transfer service, for three new members. After that it was recover, relax, relax, blog, relax.

Tomorrow the ELA Provincial Exam begins! Whoa horsey. The year is almost totally out of the barn!

Ingolf

May 29, 2010 (Saturday)

First, today is Margruite and Sara's birthday! The two of them, Margruite in particular, granted me permission, even encouraged me, to head out to the Spring Ride! I cannot begin to calculate my debt (I'm thinking that Margruite will begin to calculate it, though!). It is Sara's 18th birthday, and Margruite's ... never mind. Anyway, without their kind and generous support I would not have been able to participate in my second ride at Ingolf. Compared to the flat open roads around Neubergthal and Altona, this ride is a bit technical. Ingolf is just about on the Manitoba Ontario border and the trails there pass through a mix of Boreal forest and Canadian Shield. More than 20 of us set out, just after noon, and the riding out there is just ... well ... hard to describe for a flatlander like me. This year the rain added some challenge to the technical. We often rode through long puddles that were 6 to 12 inches deep (some deeper) hoping that the front wheel would pass through, rather than stop abruptly, or skitter off of, some rock you couldn't see. I managed to keep things upright for the most part, although I had one good endo when I underestimated the amount of speed needed to clear a rock, conveniently submerged under the murky waters just past the edge of a 18 inch rock drop-off. My front tire dropped, then stopped, so I rolled. Good times and no significant damage (except for a really sore shin muscle overnight ... right now things are good good again). This yearly ride features a really supportive group of guys who ride a wide range of bikes with a pretty wide range of ability and experience - from pretty damn great to pretty much just hope to survive. I'm in between, but leaning heavily to the "hope to survive" end of the spectrum. Indeed, we did all ride out alive.

After surviving the ride, we headed back for Falcon, chips, beers, dogs, and fellowship. I headed for home (for Sunday duties) around 7 PM. A big thanks to the FGBC guys for planning and hosting this most excellent adventure.

Lacerations and Zombies

May 28, 2010 (Friday)

I shall attempt to explain my negligence. On Friday after work I headed out for the FGBC (Fort Garry Bike Club) Spring Ride in the Whiteshell. The group camps at Falcon Lake and then rides from there. I pulled in to the campsite, which this year was the luxurious Falcon Trails resort chalet, at about 8:00 PM, in time to witness shocking display of accidental laceration (Graham, while walking outside trying to find cell reception, tripped and landed on something quite sharp, which cut through his jeans and his skin just below the knee. The cut practically ringed the front of his leg. More than half of the distance around his shin was cut; it was more than a half-circle. GROSS! Still, after some quick (and excellent) first aid work by two helpful and able FGBCers, the paramedics took over. We heard on Saturday that it took 30 stitches, but the damage was limited to his skin.). In keeping with this visceral, yet good-natured grossness, we settled in to watch Zombieland. Pretty great movie! There's no review necessary, really. Suffice it to say that Woody Harrelson and Bill Murray make the show even better. Just remember these simple rules (among others): limber up, cardio, seatbelts, double-tap.

Ride in         Temp 13'C Wind SE 15 ks

Ride home   Ruuudy!!!!

Presenting ...

Tonight's W.C. Miller Collegiate Amnesty Coffeehouse, "Got Bread" (a fundraiser for the Rhineland Area Foodbank) featured the debut of a hot new multi-vocalist, multi-instrumentalist modern music ensemble known as "Scholars of Purple Kites". On this their first performance they decided to please to the crowd, playing covers of bands that they found inspiring: Scarborough Fair (Simon & Garfunkel), Dust in the Wind (Kansas), and "Fortunate Son" (CCR). There was also a spoken word, jazz fusion performance by two of the members. All in all it was a successful first outing. The guitar-playing sizzled. The vocal performances were awe-inspiring. The drumming fantastically foundational.  We can only hope that this performance will not be the last!

Oh yeah. And there was this other band that played. Captain Bear. They were pretty good too. (you know I mean that they were great, eh? you know? real great!)

Ride in          Temp 12'C Wind NE 15 ks
Ride home    Temp 16'C Wind NE 20 ks

Goin to get fixed

I've ridden the winter on a single speed, varying the gear ratios depending on the variables (cold, snow, wind, road condition). I've been riding a 42 and 18 combination till now, but not fixed. As of today I'm going back to my 42 and 16 fixed gear set up. Coincidentally, Dan K also just set up his fixie tonight! I'm looking forward to this change. There's something pure about the fixed gear. Pure, and terrifying at times. You know you're a part of the machine. You know that if you stop, the machine stops too. Or, if it doesn't stop, you get ejected for stopping. But that's all a function of physics. An object in motion wants to stay in motion (or something like that).

And if you think you'd be wobbly on a fixie, imagine what you'd be like riding across this bridge?

Ride in        Temp 12'C Wind SSE 10 ks
Ride home  Temp 20'C Wind NNE 30 ks

The wind today

It just tired me right out. It wasn't too bad on the way in, but the ride home was quite a chore. Ah well, just pumping those old thighs up.

Ride in        Temp 14'C Wind S 35 ks
Ride home  Temp 20'C Wind S 45-55ks

We're getting some moisture ...

... as my Dad would say it. Always able to manage the obvious.

I don't know whether it was wishful thinking or what, but I recall the forecast for the summer to be hot and dry. But the way things are going these days, I wonder whether we're in for another wet cycle. I'm no expert, so I'll stop there. Wouldn't want to jinx things.

No riding today. Just stayed inside and did stuff. You know. Important stuff. Rhubarb. Marking. Prepping. Writing. Reading. The usual. Yup.

I am so LOST

Lost: The Last Supper - GET IT?!

So I'm looking for something to do after a good day of writing, sitting with friends, and a 40 k bike ride (20 ks into a 40 k SW wind, and 20 ks with it) and I walk into the TV room and there's Bekah surfing for something to watch. There's not a lot of wave in our house; we get CBC, CTV, CKND, CityTV, and occasionally Fox. We settle on CTV.

It's Lost. I'm convinced that it's a two hour recap, a bring-the-lost-ones-up-to-speed episode, designed to prepare me for the finale. But pretty soon I'm thinking it's too linear for that - if linear is a word that one can ever apply to this show - there aren't enough cuts and split screens and flashforwards, backwards, and sideways. Still, nothing is surprising me. I'm watching a show that I haven't watched for four seasons, that we watched quite avidly for the first two seasons (the whole fam was kinda into it - we had family time around the old DP every Wednesday night (I think) at about 9 PM) and then just lost (pun clearly intended) interest. Plot twists and convolutions are all right, but they have to have an air of plausibility, or, failing that, a sense of confidence and authorial control. These things were not evident to us. At least with the Harry Potter books - which we (Sara, Bekah, and I were reading them together) ditched after the fifth because we just couldn't abide Harry's whining (whinging?), and Rowling's bloated prose - we could see that someone had an eye on the endgame; the plot kept singing along, with holes plugged, and major events falling into place, with some logic. Lost just, well, lost it. And they lost us. And now here I am four years later, picking it up like I didn't miss anything. Sure there are a few characters I struggle to recall names for, but I've seen them before. And nothing they are doing, is surprising, or interesting, me.

So here we are, Bekah and I, having a moment of TV-watching-time, the first TV we've watched together in months, and it's Lost. And we're both sort of feeling it, feeling that it's not too bad, but not too great. But as we both start to out loud wonder whether this isn't in fact the finale, I feel a mix of chagrin and incredulity, because we both can see where it's going. But who wants to admit it? The feeling grows and grows. This is the finale. This is the way they're going to end it. And the way these much-lauded (by some) genius writers are going to do it ... wait for it ... is to acknowledge that, in fact, they are all dead, and that what they were doing on that island of lostness, was making a place where they could find one another in the afterlife, when they were ready to leave, or, as Jack's Dad Christian (realllly???!) puts it, to move on. To put a period on that big family-Bible-sized club they're hitting us over the head with, this all takes place in a church! The church in which Jack's Dad's funeral was going to be held. And in that church ... wait for more of it ... backdropping Jack and Christian's reveried revelatory conversation is a stained-glass window of six squares, each representing a major religious symbol: Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Yin Yang, etc! When Jack accepts it, he walks out into the sanctuary to meet all of his friends from the island! Sigh. We can all rest easy now, knowing they're all together forever, in a place they made to find one another.

This is terrible writing. This is grade 8 "he woke up to realize it was all a dream" writing. From this evidence I might posit that these guys never knew where they were going or how they were going to get there. They never had a real mystery thriller in mind, or if they did, they're too terrible to control it and pull it all together into something coherent. I am not speechless. But I just don't understand how writers this high up the "ladder" with all of these resources (and a good long break during the writers' strike to set things up) can't create something mature and interesting. I've heard talk of Lost being a breakthrough show that has proven that audiences can manage complex storytelling and convoluted plotlines. If this is the end result of these complexities and convolutions, I protest.

I have a theory. That all of the expensive (not necessarily good, but most likely Hollywood) writing these days is aimed at the 16 - 25 year old audience. And specifically at those who play video games. These so-called complex and difficult plots have episodes that vary widely in plot and character placement, to mirror the "levels" of games. The characters in these levels are presented with a problem that they must solve. They have few choices, and must "get it right" to move ahead: Jack has to go down into the hole (not Hurley, not Ben, but Jack because he's the one), rescue Desmond, put the stone thingy into the fire-hole thingy, and thus "save" the island. Jack levels up. Then Jack, finding himself in an entirely different setting, has to want to get out, wander through a bamboo forest, finally allow his body to rest, give in to the "eternal" force, enjoy the dog licking his face, smile, and accept his fate. He levels up again. But this is his final leveling up. This is him winning the game! Accepting the terminus!

For every character in the "game" called "Lost" the process is the same. Problem-presented. Solution-found. Level-up. New setting, new problem, new solution. Level-up. If this is storytelling, it's a new genre, and I'm not convinced it's a step forward. It's simplistic, predictable, and only superficially complex. Most of the complexity arises from the constantly shifting settings and new characters one must confront. But the problems that are presented are similar and banal: make sure you punch in the right numbers before the time runs out; make sure everyone moves off of the beach; make sure you get the medicine from the bad guy (punch him up too); make sure there's enough water; make sure that Jacob is satisfied; and so on.

Look for this same delightful pattern in most new blockbusters coming to a theatre near you! No need for characters to develop. They may grimace and groan, become ecstatic, furrow their brows and push forward, have sex to pass the time in fleeting pseudo-intimate moments. But don't worry, they will not confront complex questions of being, alone or together. So neither will you! Just know that when we've solved our final problem, when we finish the final level, we'll all be together on the couch of happiness, in front of the screen of oblivion! So-ma! So-ma! So-ma!

If I was a video-game writer writing this right now, I'd probably know how to end it. I'd find some avatar that would allow me to understand this new form of human. I'd transform. I'd transmogrify. I'd transport. I would win! Epically! But I would not transcend. I would not want too, because I would not recognize transcendence if I met the Dalai Lama on the Darjeeling Express.

To be fair, the guys who are writing video-games are probably not story-tellers. They are probably graphic designers and code geeks just trying to get by. So I'm not sure they're to blame. They're making money doing what they do. And to me, it looks like these guys are making money in Hollywood too.
      

A Girl Cut in Two

Or "La fille coupée en deux" (it is a French movie) is a story of, Gabrielle, a beautiful young woman, working as a weather girl for a Paris TV station, who finds herself the object of the affection of two men: Charles, a 50+ married ("liberatedly") and successful writer, and Paul, the 20-ish (her age) rich heir to a fortune held by his mother, via his deceased father - yeah yeah yeah, it's the story of the competition between the aging lothario and the spoiled rich kid for the love of the gorgeous dame. A tough choice for her. What could more appropriately illustrate the dilemma of the intelligent and beautiful woman. Well, the movie proves that even a smart woman can lose her brains to her crotch.

Eschewing the obvious choice to take neither seriously, she falls for the older man. She lets him enjoy her, teach her, corrupt her, all for what? The possibility of stability, and wisdom? This is debunked pretty quickly for her. He leaves for a business trip to England, has his wife change the locks on their trysting place (How much she's in on it remains a small mystery, but there's evidence that she gets it, is okay with it, and, because of her moral flexibility, benefits from the arrangement.), and unceremoniously ends it (He says after he rebuffs her following their first sexual encounter, that he's protecting her from him, which is true, but he takes her for a spin or two afterward, because she's willing and, because he thinks she's bright and open-minded enough not to fall in love).  

So, when this fails, she turns to the second, Paul, though her heart remains with the older Charles. One can't help but see the frailty of sentiment. Paul, knowing that he's the second choice, can't live above it. Though he gets his dream girl, he has visions of her with Charles, etc. Haunted by his knotted past, and a twisted personality, he refuses, radically, to be circumspect. If all's fair in love and war, then it must include the possibility that one party can go to war with himself, as well as his rival. Paul does it, and ends up in prison. Not long after, the once bright Gabrielle, testifies to the truth of the matter, believing that the truth will vindicate all. It does not. It leaves her, its most trusting ally, on the short side. So it goes.

From what I've read about the nature of love and sexuality in France (Mitterand's had several mistresses and they attended his funeral, along with his wife.) I wonder if the film isn't a discussion of the possibility of a change from these "old values" of the flexible and pragmatic sexual more of the older set, that understands infidelity to be a norm to be born and forgiven - as compared to the sexual idealism of the younger set, that somehow has stumbled into an old-fashioned romanticism that plays for all or nothing. If that is a reasonable way to see this movie, then its statement is clear: the young will pay with heartache and disappointment, while the old will move along, jaded but unsurprised.

I guess I'm old. Though I'm not anticipating infidelity of any sort, I hope that when passions are in play I am able to maintain my presence of mind, rather than falling into self-indulgent despair. Disappointments will come. Our best defense is reflection and practicality. It's not too romantic to say it, but romantics are far more likely to find themselves broken-hearted (and then it's only a matter of time until tears, or blood, is shed). It's better to seek self-control, to keep things together.  

Indirectly the movie asks about the nature of love. It's a good question. The answer? I don't know. I'm tempted into a pithy either or. Here goes: Stay for the delusion, or stay for the principle. But whatever you do, stay. If you leave for the delusion, or for the principle, there's too much evidence that you're simply out. And with love, it's better to be in. I think.

The Whole Night Sky (fiction)

During the day, the day after, he dares to wander back (to the cemetary). The lilac blooms still just as fragrant. Bring back to him those moments beneath the stars. Her skin. "You taste of heaven," he says to her then. The words coming just right. Just then. He wanted to say good things, and he did. And she laughed. They shushed one another, and laughed some more, fumbling and tumbling.

He didn't know then. He doesn't know now, but this will be the happiest (whatever that means) time of his life. These few days, weeks, months. Now, in the sunlight, he squints. Thirty minutes for lunch. He walks and eats three glazed cinnamon twists, and strolls the grounds. Overgrown grass. German script on stone. "Heir ruht im Frieden." Here lies in peace. A language he does not know. But he speaks the words, and others. Makes sounds that seem right.

Small rectangles of silence. Granite. Concrete. Still he doesn't see it. Not yet. Though he knows more today than yesterday. He knows more now than he ever imagined he would. Something's been lifted. "Im Frieden."

He knows. He doesn't know. In three weeks? A month? The lilacs. The laughter. The peonies. Small fallen stones, words weathered and worn away. So long ago.

He knows. He doesn't know. The laughter. The sweetness of honey. The dew. The lilacs. The whole night sky. This bright sun.


Ride in:          Temp 15'C Wind SE 8 ks
Ride home:    Temp 25'C Wind E 30 ks

It's getting hot out here

Always interesting to me that, during the winter, when it's -30C outside and about 20'C inside, we feel comfortable and warm, but when it's +30C outside and 20'C inside we think that it could be cooler (inside, I mean). I think temperature, and the way we feel about it, is relative, and quite dependent on the gradient (the difference) between the inside and outside temperature.

For instance, the 50' difference ("increase") between inside and outside in Winter, we're just so damn happy not to be out in the -30 that we think the +20'C is fantastic. You'll walk around naked inside thinking, "Wow, this is great!" Maybe you'll even stand right next to a window, still naked, and look out at the -30' deep freeze out there and think, "This is pretty cool (or warm) that I'm, like, just inches away from it, but I'm not cold at all." But when it's hot outside, like 30'C hot, and it's only a few degrees cooler (like 8 or 10') inside, you're thinking, still naked, that you can't get naked enough. You'd like it to be cooler inside, a lot cooler. Like "the mall" cooler.

Have you noticed how cold it can be in malls? Why is that? Because there's no soul there? Because they want you to come inside from the heat and feel grateful, so grateful that you'll buy a new pair of jeans and those shoes that you've been wanting for the last few weeks?

It's not cool in my School, and not just because it's a school. There is no air conditioning in the classrooms, and as the cinderblock walls heat up, well, it just gets hot in there. This means that it's not going to be easy to work in those classrooms. And this is the time of the year when the work matters more than it did earlier. Not a great combination.

What's to be done? I know. But that's not going to happen. Not anytime soon.

Ride in:         Temp 10'C Wind S 10 ks
Ride home:   Temp 27'C Wind S 20 ks

How about dinner?

Well today three friends made dinner for the missus and myself. And a very good dinner it was indeed! Fettuccine Alfredo, oven-roasted, breaded chicken, and a spinach and lettuce salad. Fandydandytastic! Thanks you very much you three friends. You may rent the place whenever you like, as long as we get to taste of the fruits of your labour. Sweet!

Ride in          Temp 13'C Wind SW 10 ks
Ride home    Temp 27'C Wind SSE 18 ks

It ain't me

An uneventful day.
How do we make it pay.
If I could find a way.
I'd write without cliche.

Ride in        Temp 12'C Wind SW 15 ks
Ride home  Temp 25'C Wind SSW 25 ks

What a school could be

This afternoon Connie HM, Alison S, and I drove to Garden City Collegiate in Winnipeg to visit their version of a MET School, also known as a "Big Picture" school. Here three teachers and 41 students (all grade 9s at this point) spend the whole year working three days a week in their three-classroom (all interconnected) area, which features a mini-lounge, workspace, a small library, computer access, etc., and the other two days out on job placements, internships, job shadows, or other events outside of the school (tomorrow they're going to spend a few hours on a fishing boat on Lake Winnipeg, near Gimli. These three teachers are totally responsible for all of the credits the students earn, and they help them find internships, etc. All of the work and planning is done cooperatively. The kids have a lot of choice about what they will study and what they will make. For instance, one of the kids was making four pieces of clothing for a final project, another kid was working at City TV, and so on. To me it seemed like a pretty fine idea. They get the basics of a "regular" education, AND they get to explore areas of interest, and get real experience doing it. That's putting your education into the "big picture."

Speaking of big pictures. We'd all be happier and healthier if  more of us would move around the world in this way!

Ride in         Temp 12'C Wind SW 10 ks
Ride home   Temp 26'C Wind SW 20 ks

A day of ... rest

So I got up and went to church. This is my spiritual discipline. Getting up, on a day off, and going to church. If I can calm my mind, and if I can transcend, then the time has been well-spent. Today was a partial success. First, at AMC, I listened to the presentation by Esther Epp-Thiessen of MCC Canada, re their new initiative to raise awareness about the damage Canadian mining companies do in Latin American countries like Guatemala and Honduras.

There was no surprise reveal here. If you've been to a mine, of whatever sort, you know they are pernicious, Orcian, things run by the Saruman's of this Earth. Whether you're digging 300 metres deep in an open pit mine, and then spraying the ore with a cyanide-solution, in the open-air mind you, to leach out the gold, or whether you're tunnelling in for kilometres and then sending in the men, like drones after the queen's booty, you don't have to think too hard to see the parallels to rape. It is forced entry for personal profit, plain and simple. There's no gentle way to put it. And the lubricant is money (in addition to the perfectly good water they use up and ruin in the process). And the money comes from you and me, when we buy the stuff that these minerals make possible.

Here's the really disappointing part of the presentation. I asked Esther whether MCC could compile a list of the metals and minerals being mined, and say how each would be used - in electronics? in cars? what? Then I asked if MCC could identify the mining companies that follow the (optional) ethical guidelines provided by the Canadian government (of course the boys and girls in Ottawa wouldn't want to unnecessarily impede our digger entrepreneurs) and those that don't. Further, if we could get a list of the products that contain metals obtained in pernicious ways, we could become better informed consumers. She seemed to indicate that she was not sure whether she or MCC could meet this request.

This leaves me to wonder what good an organization like MCC can do for us in North America, trying to live more ethically. If you've ever tried to find information about where the materials in your harddrive or your Birkenstocks actually come from, it's virtually impossible. So it's my sense that a well-intentioned, tenacious group like MCC might be able to spend some time and energy, using money I've donated, to find answers to some of these practical questions. With a little bit of good information (which is hard to find, even with the internetsss) a consumer can make better decisions, and with better decisions might come a modicum of influence, and some change. If I know there's coltan that's mined in the DRC (and that this mining causes conflict and strengthens warlords) in my Lenovo laptop, maybe next time I'll look for a brand that is more careful about where it gets the metals and materials it gets to build the widget I think I need to buy.

I'm frustrated when organizations like MCC tell me to care (and to pray, always to pray) but they don't tell me how to care. I care for my family in a thousand practical ways. I care when I do my job, by doing real things (more than just showing up for work). For me to truly care about unethical and destructive mining practice in Latin America, I need some guidance and advice as to what to do - and don't tell me to write a letter to my MP, because I thought we anabaptists decided a long time ago that that's lame and actually indirectly supports the system that's sucking the spiritual life out of us anyway. All I want from an organization like MCC, in exchange for the money I donate to help them do what I can't do, is some specific advice as to what I CAN DO HERE. Give me something, please! Tell me what not to buy. Tell me to use less. Whatever. But don't tell me to care without telling me how.

On the up side, the baptism service I attended at ABC, made me feel good. I met some good people and supported Renae in this important step. Woot! (as they say)

A two-ride day

The first ride began around 10 AM, with Johnny S, and Dan K (and Crystal K for a little bit). The route was: 421 (for me), 30, 243, 306, water-hazard (bridge was out) - wading was the solution, more 306, Plum Coulee's Sunset Diner for lunch, 306, 201, Johnny's for beers, 30 and 421 (for me), for a total of 77 kms. It was 26'C and the wind was SSW and 20 ks (or so).

Then, after Dan Dunsmore helped me mow the yard (thanks you Daniel!), I set off to Winnipeg for ride number two. GeeVs and I left her place on River Rd (Osborne Village) at about 7:15 PM and follow River Rd to Wellington, rode through Assiniboine Park, turned onto Roblin and followed it through Headingly. Then we turned around and retraced our route, but detoured to Nucci's on Corydon for Gelato. Justin joined us there. After shivering through this great dark chocolate, raspberry, and pineapple iced dessert, we headed back to GeeVs to regroup. This 55 k ride featured slightly cooler temperatures, more moderate winds, and the stupid bumpy, cracked and bleeding roads of Winnipeg.

So the total ks for the day was about 132. The most this year. Not bad.

Wham bam thank you ma'am.

The difficulty with the biopic, is that you're never sure who or what you're talking about. Readers and viewers want to know whether "that's the way it really was" as if that may be the film's highest achievement. This ridiculous expectation makes it almost impossible to talk about these films without some kind of weirdly mediated back and forth between judgments as to what "he did, or did not." I prefer to treat the film as art. Period. Although one's fascination in a "biopic" is heightened by the possibility that the sensational things we see portrayed have, in fact, occurred, we ought to set these leanings aside and judge the art of the film.

The movie Bronson portrays, in a fictional way, the life of the British man formerly known as Michael Peterson, and now living under the name Charlie Bronson. I enjoyed it. It wasn't moving. It wasn't even very visceral. It was fascinating. It was a study that included, for me, equal moments of humour and amazement.

Some of the reviews I've read talk of Bronson as this anarchic force of primal violence that must be penned up. There's no question that Bronson is a violent man, but in the movie he wears his violence with a difference. Violence is this man's performance. It's what he does. If life is art, Bronson's medium is hitting and destabilizing. And for his tenacity, and bravery, and constant willingness to stand in the gap to show the shortcomings of institutions and life in a society governed by them, I applaud his type.

Certainly there are many events and individuals that can jar us out of our routine acceptance of institutions and their marginal adequacy, but it is only when someone arrives on the scene and, either deliberately, or by function of their nature, completely confounds society, that we might find a way to see what we, the people, have made to keep one another in check. The Bronson's of this world offer us another look. They challenge us to critique what we have wrought: a prison, a sanitarium, a school, a nightclub, a frustrated male, a celebrity-mad culture.

We can't all be stars, but Bronson insists on forcibly wresting his opportunity from us, whether we want to give it up or not. He will take it. He will act it out. He will play our id. We should be grateful. We should observe. We should wonder. We should reconsider.

Ride in         Temp 8'C Wind SSE 15 ks
Ride home   Temp 23'C Wind SSE 20 ks
  

Here are a few links, just for fun: Instantsfun!, K-Strass, and Matt Mulholland. One can only hope to reach these heights of comic performance! The dream lives on.

Housewarming party at Colby's!

Four of the Krahns headed over to Colby Friesen's place tonight to celebrate his moving in to his new place, to eat a pile of popcorn and cookies, and to watch The Half-Blood Prince - which was a whole lot darker movie than I expected (no we had not seen it yet - yes Colby had). It was a great evening. Colby's place (and Jason's and Brandy's) is great and we look forward to many more movie nights! But once, at least once, we will have to see a movie with Colby that he has not seen yet. If you've watched a movie with Colby, you'll know what I mean.

Anyway, a big congratulations to Colby, Brandi, Jason, and Ange and Dennis on the new place!

Whoa horsey!

I just fell off! Oh my oh my oh my. I don't know what to say. Ooops?

So the date on this should actually be May 11, 2010. That's the date for the following information:

Ride in          Temp 8'C Wind NNW 18 ks
Ride home    Temp 10'C Wind SSE 20 ks (with sprinkles)

The birthday boy!

Well yes it has. Yes it has been a good day! Indeed! Although the day began with a rather early ride in to work (left at 6:30 AM), to run a soccer practice (at 7:15 AM), it was a good practice, and the ride in was with wind. So my fortunes had improved.

The morning was smooth, until my pd 3 grade 12 English Lit class threw a party for me! We had chocolate cake (with candles), and apple pie with ice cream, bottles of pop, and multiple bags of chips. It was a chip and pop party extraordinaire! Then they gave me a gift of a gift certificate to Altona Farm Service! WOW! Thanks so much to you guys for all of this. I am a bit overwhelmed by it.

Tonight, for supper, Margruite prepared the classic barbequed steak and potatoes (one of the best meals ever!), with a Greek salad (we're trying to support the struggling economies of the world). And Sara made matrimonial cake (date squares) at my request. Excellent as well!

Then Harry and Susan dropped by to join us for cake, and brought a bottle of wine, along with a book on life in Provence, which we will visit next April.

So it was a great day indeed! I'm 45. I think I might be able to squeeze another 45 years out of it. My chances are reasonable I think: my Dad will turn 90 this August, and his mother lived to 93.  

Ride in        Temp 6'C Wind SE 15 ks
Ride home  Temp 8'C Wind E 15 ks

Just goes to show

At 1:30 this afternoon I decided that I would go for a bike ride. The wind was SW, between 15 and 20 ks, so I decided I'd head into it first. By 2 PM I was on the bike and riding West from our place, along the 421. The wind was steady, but not at all overwhelming. I kept a pace of 28 ks. When I reached the 30 I turned South, what I thought would be more fully into the wind, and was able to keep my pace at 30 ks or a bit better.

Of course there are times when you ignore the evidence before you, in light of the vision of reality you believe to be real. I believed that I was going to work hard for the first half of my ride - I had planned my route for it - and then cruise home, pushed steadily by the wind. Well by the time I got to the intersection of the 243, where I turned West again, I knew something was up. The weather gods were mocking again. (You need to know that when I'm on my bike I always feel that the weather gods are sharpening their spears - it's that Mennonite Martyr complex. I think it's in our genes by now to believe that if things can go wrong for us, they will (which of course everyone in the world believes). And then we try to turn our pain and misfortune into some kind of spiritual suffering - something that will earn us eternal goodness points. Perhaps we could call this mental disposition (illness) Mennomartyropathy.) Indeed the wind was shifting. It was becoming calm and, predictably, because there were rain clouds mounting, beginning to blow slightly from the East.

I knew it. I laughed my mocking, self-pitying, guffaw and turned West again. It was my intention to complete this Tour de Blumenort regardless of the obstacles. Of course the ride West to the Blumenort turnoff was pretty reasonable. The ride South into Blumenort was also easier than I thought it would be. And when I turned around to head back, it became obvious. I was not going to gain much, if any, advantage from the wind. Again I laughed ruefully, mocking myself in the face the eternal.

So, short story long, I worked hard most of the way home, rather than cruising. The ride back North, on the 30 was pretty quick, but there was none of the anticipated speed and exhilaration. I managed to average 29.66 k/h over the whole 42 km ride, which is okay.

But I had wanted so much more!!

    

Corn row clouds

This evening as we drove north to Winnipeg to celebrate GeeVs birthday (dinner at La Garage (excellent!), frisbee, frolics, and general attempts-to-do-headstands-and-cartwheels silliness at Assiniboine Park, capped off with gelato at Nuccis (also good - raspberry and dark chocolate for me)) the clouds were lining up in rows again. It seems to me that this is a recent phenomenon, or else it's a regular phenomenon that I've only begun to notice over the last four years (which is more likely the case). Four years ago, on the way home from a short vacation near Ely, Minnesota (northern Minnesota), I first noticed that the clouds were lining up in rows, or you might say they rippling like sand dunes, or snow drifts, or water waves. Whatever. Each time I've noticed this, it seems to me that the weather has been unsettled. Lots of wind, usually. I don't know why the wind would cause this. Like I said, I don't even know if what I'm seeing makes any sense. It could totally be me, and my perceptions of things that makes it seem this way to me.

Anyway, today my curiosity overcame me - that and the wonder that is the internetsssss - so I searched "What causes clouds to line up in rows?" and this was an answer I found, from www.pilotsofamerica.com. According to this site, it's the wind, and glider pilots call them "cloud streets". Well that's pretty cool!

Speaking of glider pilots, my friend Norman Schmidt has, over the last few years, been terribly afflicted with an inner ear condition that makes him feel constantly dizzy. So he can't fly his glider anymore. He's a retired UM Fine Arts prof who has published a number of books on making high-end paper replicas of airplanes.

It might be like asking for a miracle, but it would be great if we could all spend some positive energy time wishing for Norman's inner ear crap to clear up so that he could get a few more glider rides in before ... well ... you know. I think we all do.

Here are a few covers of his books:

Hey Dan!

You refer me to this video of JK aging over the course of eight years as what? A kind of joke about me turning forty-five on Monday? I know it was probably more high-minded than that. You probably thought I was into the wonder of aging and the idea of it. Which I am. And since Mallory's into photography ... well it seemed obvious that this was a great link. And ... it is. But I've gotta say that by the end, when JK's doing the moustache and goatee thing for an extended period of time, I'm just thinking ... Well, this is kind of precious. I mean it's one thing to make a fashion choice, and stick with it for a time, but this guy tries on a ridiculous number of glasses, and then suddenly goes into this "well now I'm going to be scruffy" phase. I just gotta call bull shit. I don't believe it's eight years. I don't think the YouTubes have been funneling crap into the internets for a long enough time for JK to have imagined it (eight years ago) and then stayed with it for that long. And he just doesn't age at all. So, despite the testimony (albeit a quiet one) of a million and a half viewers saying "Geez, this young man sure has done something interesting" I've got to say: Well, the idEa's okay, but I don't think he actually executed it. Of course, really, who of us does? Eh?

Then again, this could all be influenced by the reality that I just lost at two games of poker tonight, and I'm feeling a bit under the gun of the fates. Things always could go better I know, but some days ... well ... what's to be done? I cannot go on. I must go on. I can't.

Thanks Sammy.
Let's go on.

Ride in              Temp 4'C  Wind NNE 20 ks
Ride home        Temp 6'C  Wind N 40 ks

It's not time to sleep ... yet

So it's hard to focus on writing. The radio's playing (I should head over to it and turn that Jian Ghomeshi off). I feel like I should be getting to bed. My eyes are getting red. Usually about now things slow down, and if I can hold sleep off (Why you ask? Why not?), I'll get a kind of second wind. And then I can read or write for a good while yet, and not feel tired in the morning.

How are you in the morning? It does take something for me to get out of bed, and then it takes a bit more work to get me going, but once I'm up, I'm good to go. Sometimes I believe that, for me, the amount of sleep is not as important as that I get some deep sleep. And I can usually get that going. My most difficult sleep issue is usually getting to sleep. Which is why I often put off trying to sleep. I mean why try, if you're going to just lie there and end up wondering whether you should just get back up and do something more productive.

There are times that I try to convince myself that lying there, eyes closed, not sleeping, is kind of the same as sleeping. It's not though. Once I'm out though. I'm out.

So yesterday, at 1 AM I started reading Philip K. Dick's Eye in the Sky. I could have read for a long time, but by 1:30 AM I told myself it was ridiculous. So I turned off the light. This is always a point of contention between me and Margruite, who is a light sleeper, and for whom a light on, no matter how low the wattage, is problematic.

So it goes.

Ride in           Temp -1'C  Wind NNW 10 ks
Ride home     Temp 9'C    Wind NW  15 ks

On this fine day

I took a pass on riding bike the 8ks in the rain, into a 45 k/h wind, and drove in to work with Sara and Bekah. I brought the bike along though, so I could ride back. The day was marked by a PD afternoon; perhaps the 50th time over the past 8 years that we've discussed A for L strategies. So. It. Goes. (SIG?). I look forward to the day that we'll struggle with this no more. Until then, with joy, I'll carry on.

Speaking of carrying on, this 2003 interview with David Foster Wallace is good to listen to. It comes in 10 parts. I've only linked the first clip. I'm sure you'll find the rest.

Walked to Ted's for a nightcap after 10.

Ride in             the Honda
Ride home       8'C Wind NW 30 ks

The first one turns 20!

One score years ago, at 7:30 AM, in Winnipeg's Victoria General Hospital, Genevieve Suzanne Krahn was born to the young, naive, idealistic, happy couple, Margruite and Paul Krahn. This event was earth-shaking for the three of them. It really doesn't get much bigger than this. One moment she's an idea, a possibility, a round belly of anticipation, the next she's a screaming, breathing reality. Oh my. Here we are. 

The following sonnet is for her. Hey GeeVs! Congrats on your first two decades!

sun's up and ready this early morning

east wind pushes, the wheels run on

I feel the rain relentless, oncoming

I will be in before it stumbles down

still I hear that beau of time a'knocking

reminders of what's been, undone and done

we are bound to watch the minutes hocking

our past sited down the metal of a gun

but for you I will never remember

yeah, for you I hereby will not forget

that deep and gentle hum of slumber

that sweet and supple swell of death

yet let us breathe and live in purity

among white lilies waving, as a sea

PauPs

Ride in          6'C Wind ENE 15 ks
Ride home    5'C Wind WNE 40+ ks Rain

After a busy weekend

It's really good to take it easy, sit back, and sip a tall cool beverage? Am I right? Eh?

Ride in        3'C Wind NW 20 ks
Ride home  8'C Wind W 5 ks

A Sermon and Just Food

I preached a sermon entitled "Worldly Holiness" (the link takes you to my talking notes, so some parts will be just in outline) at AMC this morning. This evening we drove to Steinbach for the opening of the Just Food art exhibition, featuring 19 artists, including Margruite. The above piece, by Margruite, is entitled "Soup and Pie". I've scribbled enough for today.

In the world, but not ...

Well I've been preparing a sermon for tomorrow morning, and it's mostly done. The title is Worldly Holiness. I'll post it tomorrow, after the fateful delivery, but for now you could read this essay, by David Foster Wallace and then you probably won't have to show up at AMC at all. I think he's got it about right.

What blinds you?

The Russian movie 12, patterned after the American movie, 12 Angry Men, tells the story of 12 jurors who must decide the fate of a Chechen boy accused of stabbing and murdering his Russian stepfather. Following the formula of the brave one, prepared to stand up against the many, the jurors turn, one by one, from what was to be an easy verdict of guilty, to a solemn not guilty.

As each of the men grapples with his vision of himself and his people, they reveal and discover their blindnesses. Writer and director Nikita Mikhalkov seems to say that we can only see others clearly, when we see ourselves. I cannot comment on the complexities and prejudices of the relationship between Chechnya and Russia, but his conclusion about our blindness is universal. Just as the men testify of their personal doubts to one another, they uncover the fissures in the testimonies and the evidence. They bear witness to the truth of the matter, only because they are prepared to speak their own truth, not the conventions and bigotry of their upbringing. Yet, while they are able to confront the narrowness of the past, they also become open to the wideness of human experience as they share these points of view with the others.

This is also a story of a discipleship to truth. The 12, saved from and by their stubbornness, sift the facts as they are presented and find the way. But personal enlightenment, albeit with the help of others, is not enough. The final juror to convert, the chair, reminds them of the consequences of their mercy. The accused will be set free, but to what? A life on the streets? The chair suggests that they may be right to determine him innocent, but they cannot, with clear conscience, do that without understanding the fate of the boy because of it.

The film challenges us to do the right thing, but it reminds us that there is a cost. The final convert, the chair, takes the boy into his care after the acquittal. As if to emphasize that moral clarity should not be easy, he makes it clear that he, a former secret service agent, and the boy will hunt down those who killed the step-father and framed the boy. From the mercy and will to see, spawns a continued determination to vengeance.

The movie is painfully male. Despite the compassion and vulnerability of the jurors for one another, and for the boy, they laugh, joke, harass, mock, and tussle, like boys. This story, like Alexandra (reviewed here April 17), is just as much about the absence of the female. Whereas in Alexandra the grandmother plays a central role, though she is a stranger in a landscape of war, there is virtually no female presence in 12. The judge is female, but even as a stern overseer, she is not significant in impact or in presence. One of the last frames of the movie is of the accused's mother, who has been murdered, along with her husband, by her fellow Chechens who do not take well to her husband's unwillingness to fight, approaching the camera. She walks confident and she gazes directly at us. Then the screen darkens and a final quote scrolls, ending with words that echo one of the jurors earlier, "I'm blind."

Though surely we are to associate the gentle eyes of the mother with the mercy of the jury, we are also left with the merciless knowledge that the violence of the boy's life will continue, as the one who freed him will help him exact revenge. In some moral universe that may be the right thing to do, but it's a cycle that leaves us all blind.      

Ride in            Temp 12'C  Wind SE gentle
Ride home       Temp 14'C  Wind calm, rain