The Bamboo Cutter

I went out to see the perigee moon last night and was reminded of its ability to influence not only tides, but some say everything from moods to disastrous world events. Thoughts then turned to our friends in Japan and the devastation of recent days.

Amongst the most ancient of Japanese tales is The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter. (This is how I remember the story. Please forgive any errors.)

It tells of an old Bamboo Cutter who, upon cutting open a glowing bamboo shoot one evening, discovers a tiny baby the size of his thumb. He and his wife (who were were childless) joyously name her Nayotake no Kaguya-hime (the Shining Princess of Supple Bamboo) and raise her as their own.

Whenever he cut open a stalk of bamboo from then on, he found a nugget of gold and soon became rich. The baby grew into a very beautiful woman; so lovely in fact that five princes tried but could not win her hand in marriage. Even the Emperor of Japan, Mikado, was lovestruck but could not capture Kaguya-hime's heart.

Her father noticed that on every full moon tears would fill her eyes and finally she revealed that she was not of this world, but was sent here and must soon return to her people on the Moon.

As the day of her return approached, the Emperor sent guards to protect her house but when the "Heavenly Beings" appeared, the guards were blinded by a bright light. Kaguya-hime wrote sad notes of apology to both her parents and the Emperor. As she handed the note to the Emperor's guard a feather robe was placed on her shoulders and all her earthy sorrows were forgotten. Kaguya-hime was taken back to Tsuki-no-Miyako ("the Capital of the Moon").

Her parents were struck down by sadness. The Emperor, upon reading his note, ordered that the letter and the pot of elixir of immortality (for he no longer wanted to live forever if it meant without her) be taken to the tallest mountain and burned. He wanted the fire to be as close to his love in the heavens as possible; in the hopes his grief might reach her.

The word 'immortality' (fuji) became the name of the mountain. The smoke was seen for centuries...

First Fly of the Season

I think I'll call him Hubert.

I came home from work today and let Peanut out for a leak and there was Hubert sunning himself on the wall by the kitchen window. He sat up when he saw me and waved. Well, I have to tell you, my heart leapt.

Flies like my new friend Hubert, (Musca domestica, I believe – not being scientific), have quite the family tree. They are thought to have evolved in the beginning of the Cenozoic era, some 65 million years ago: originating in the Middle East. Because of their close relationship with man, they owe their worldwide dispersal to co-migration with humans. In fact, Hubert may be related to a fly that your ancestors knew...

Sayings have been made of flies just like Hubert in many languages around the world. In Chinese they say, "Do not remove a fly from your friend's forehead with a hatchet." In Portuguese; "Every fly has its shadow." In Spanish; "Laws, like the spider's web, catch the fly and let the hawk go free." And in Groucho-ese; "Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana." Wise words all.

In our daily vernacular, we say "Your fly is down." This does not mean your pet fly is depressed. It's a polite way to tell someone their zipper is down. If you "dress fly" it doesn't mean you sport a hairy body and wings, it means your personal fashion is "very cool or excellent."

While I don't even like flies personally, if the appearance today of my new friend Hubert is a harbinger of the coming of spring, then I'm his best bud.

Hubert is now, officially, my icon of hope. All bow to his presence.

Yellow Budgie Self Love

"If I only had a little humility, I'd be perfect." Yellow Budgie (and Ted Turner)

In The Shadows

We tend to weave our way around shadows by instinct. Shadows are the undefined areas where sight is suddenly limited. Lurking in the shadows are untold terrors and the demons of the night.

Truth be told, shadows are welcome. They help define sight. If we eradicate shadows, stands to reason we eradicate light...

...for shadows are not sinister. They add definition and most importantly, nuance. Without both, vision is flat. Words and numbers lose their dynamic and fade...

... and without dynamics, we lose dimension. Dimension is the celebration of where light does not fall. For when we see a lack of light, we also see what blocks it. And in that moment, that object becomes real. If we're lucky, we can ride that thought to see more...

... the magic that links shadows and light and creates a unique perspective in time.

Once imagined  – talking becomes sharing, a peanut butter cup becomes a feast for the gods, having sex becomes making love, work becomes passion, blurred understandings become clarity, the mundane turns into the marvelous and...

...shadows become the reason for light.

Ogling The Sideshow

We live with a plethora of different world characters which the press loves to bring into our consciousness. It took an earthquake to knock the most recent examples off of our televisions and newspapers (for the most part) and I don't mean to highlight their notoriety or celebrity status here.

Characters are notorious for different reasons. Some we can't help but feel sad for and some we can't help feelings of complete and utter disbelief. Common to all is a lack of understanding as to why they do what they do. Or why they're allowed to do what they do. Whatever the reason for their deeds and words, we never really seem to be given enough to form an understanding.

But is an understanding what we really want?

Or are our own lives so mundane that we need to be fascinated by wingnuts, the demented and the ill? Perhaps the way we ogle these weird and remarkable characters is this century's version of a freak show.

P.T. Barnum would have a field day.

Many thanks for this caricature by an extremely talented friend, Frederick Sebastian. You can visit his blog here.

Why Your Brain Is Not An Egg Cup

Thinking about understanding the brain is a very dangerous thing because, as Lyall Watson (author the best seller Supernature) observed, if our brain was so simple that we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't. 

In olden days popular theory likened our brains to egg cups – empty vessels at birth that we spent our lives filling up. The role of parents was to make sure that we filled them up with the 'right things'. (Thus, the ever popular question of my youth; "Who's been filling your brain with that nonsense?")

In those days when our brains were full we simply stopped learning and went about our business using what we had learned.

It's a bit more complicated than that today. Scientists tell us that several billion bites of information enter our brains every second. Stands to reason that if our brains were like egg cups, they'd be full in short order. Once we were a few days old, our egg cup brains would be overflowing. Truth is, like our ears, our brain doesn't stop growing as we get older.

As our brain experiences the world around us, it instantly evaluates and drops data it doesn't think necessary. It's more like a sieve than an egg cup; keeping the big stuff that life has taught it is valuable and discarding the small stuff. While we rest, it organizes the stuff it keeps into piles for later use.

So, your brain is not an egg cup. It's a sieve.

Gotta go and find my car keys...

How Much Am I Adored?

First thing this morning I asked some of my co-workers to comment on my god-like status and I captured their adoration in the above pictures. Witness the look of sheer joy in their eyes. It truly brought tears to mine.

Ah, the responsibility of greatness...

LOL – kidding! I work with a great bunch of hardworking, talented people and, truth be told, I try everyday to earn their respect.

My thanks to Simon, Martin, Mary and Steve for the funny faces!

Making a Phone Call With a Budgie in the Room

*ring, ring*
"Mountain Mazda, Service Department."
(squawk!)
"Hello, my name is MacIvor. I'd like to arrange to have my Mazda3 in for the recall."
(squawk! SQUAWK!)
"Yes sir, when would you like to bring it in?"
(SQUAWK, SQUAWK, CHIRP, CHIRP TWE-E-E-ET!)
"Excuse me for a second..."
"Certainly."
(SQUAWK!)
"...I just have to go kill a budgie."
(ACH, ACH, CHICH, TWEET!) 
"Excuse me, did you say you have to go kill a budgie?"
(SQUAWK!) 
"It's okay, it won't die. Believe me, I've tried."
(Squawk, Awwwwk!)
"Haha! That's hilarious!"
 (SQUAWK! Eeeert!)
"Can I bring the car in on Saturday?"
(BRRRRT-ACH-ACH-ACH!) 
"See you then. Bring a book. It'll take three and a half hours."
(SQUAWK!)
"That long?"
(TWEET-BRRRT!)
"Unfortunately."
 (AAAARK!)
"Okay. I'll be there. Would you like a budgie?"
(PREEET, ACH!)
"That's okay."

"Poof" or Prosperity?

Sorry, different train of thought for a moment here.

For those of you who may not know, I work for a major Canadian university.

Every large institution loves to benefit surrounding support services in the community and there is no argument here.

But for those who may be struggling with the rationale behind supporting external services (a) vs existing in-house services (b), I offer this simple comparison (above).

Nuff said.

In Defense of Intellectual Stupidity

I suppose I can't post a headline and visual like this and not give it some sort of explanation.

Have you ever done or blurted out something that you thought was apropos, but looked back later only to discover to your dismay that it was an utterly, totally and simply stupid moment?

A few of us simply haven't. Some of us have occasionally and for those of us that do it all the time – "Like, isn't that friggin' NEAT?"

I have a habit of doing and saying stupid things and have come to 'become one' with my stupid moments. I figure it's an art. And the only way I've found to know when you've reached the epitome of intellectual stupidity is when you're in a conversation and you open your mouth to say something and everyone in the room stops talking, waiting wide-eyed for something totally idiotic to come out of your mouth.

Some take years to get to that level of intellectual stupidity. Some never gain status. As far as I know, there is no course or degree to take that would allow you to perfect the art of stupid moments. I don't think its either hereditary nor genetic (if those two things are different). It's all in the art.

To all who dedicate themselves to the art of intellectual stupidity – take heart. For in the midst of all who declare "Okay now, that was stupid!" may be the one person who has the wisdom to retort, "No, it's not, actually."

Monday Wordplay

Alternative: "A bird in the hand... gets messy."
:o)

Petey's Puppy Playground

Petey Webster may seem scary to those who don't know him but those of us who do, quite like the chap. 

Petey was born in 1991 in a small cottage in the English countryside; the offspring of English and Belgian veterinary surgeons.

A slightly odd character from birth, his parents couldn't help but notice Petey's infatuation with puppies. He simply couldn't get enough of them. His parents thought it cute. "It's probably a passing fancy," they told themselves. Still, they resolved to facilitate his interests.

The Websters outfitted their backyard with play equipment and Petey's Puppy Playground (PPP) was announced. People from all over were invited to come, for free. And come they did. The PPP initiative became the topic of much chatter in pubs, shops and market stalls. It seemed everyone wanted to come and let their puppies romp.

Petey was thrilled.

Petey's Puppy Playground is a wonderful place. Those who don't understand may think the Websters may have created something of a monster for their progeny. Admittedly, there are stinky bits to the Playground. But most know to either poop-and-scoop or avoid those areas. Bad dogs don't last long.

The end.

The Possé

Circa 1965, Alta Vista Drive. (That's me on the right.)

It was a time of skinned knees, of baseball cards clothespinned to drag through spokes of your bike so it sounded like a motorcycle. Of questions like, "Where are your going?"... and answers like, "Out!"

Backyards were for miraculous football catches, makeshift forts, yucky rhubarb, prickly gooseberries and scary, flashlight nights tenting out with friends.

High tech was a crystal radio in your bedroom that you built yourself and a color television in your living room that your father used to park himself in front of to adjust the picture for what seemed like hours. Record of the year, "Strangers in the night" by Frank Sinatra. Bonanza was the most popular television show, followed by Gomer Pyle, USMC and The Lucy Show.

Favorite food in the whole world: Peanut butter and banana sandwiches. 50 cent allowances were given out each Friday. Comic books were 12 cents. Batman. Robin. The Green Hornet and Spiderman all lived in a pile under your bed. Individually wrapped Mojo candies at Paul's Sundries down the hill were 4-for-a-penny. Sandboxes were worlds made with toy cars and Popsicle sticks.

And time seemed endless.

Schoolyard Puddle Art

Longer days now. Melting snow. I cut across the deserted schoolyard on my way home.

The ground still echos with peels of delight and rubber boots splashing into puddles.

Gone may be youthful play but with it comes the calm. Surrounding trees take their turn to paint their pictures.

Nature's art on a playground canvas.

Night falls soon. And with it all will fade to black. Until another tomorrow.

A Three Ah-h-h Day

The soft sounds of a turtle dove's song lifted my eyes to the branches overhead this morning. She was just catching the morning light. Ah.

Which lead to a quick shot. Which lead to this illustration. Ah-h.

Which lead to rediscovering Lord Alfred Tennyson...

“And oft I heard the tender dove
In firry woodlands making moan.”

Ah-h-h.

As Sensible as Climbing a Ladder to Look for Fish?

Okay, the actual metaphor is "as sensible as climbing a tree to look for fish". Apologies, I didn't have enough paper to draw a tree. But you get the drift.

A metaphor is a phrase that, when well crafted, uses one thing to mean another. It puts things into a clear picture... sorta like in a nutshell (sorry). They carry a lot of power and allow a writer to use fewer words – to better effect. Note: This post used to be three pages long.

An analogy is another technique. It shows how two different things are similar. In demonstration, here are my favorites from a funny analogy competition: 1) "He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree." 2) "The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease," and 3) "It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools." Okay, one more, 4) "She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef." (For the full list go here.)

Words are both fun and a challenge. Set out to write a metaphor or analogy and you'll discover why some people spend hours on a single, simple sentence or phrase.

Now that I've got you all revved up with your tach hitting the red zone you might ease up on the gas pedal; there is a danger. It's called mixed metaphors. Like my  favorite: "An early bird gathers no moss." Don't go there unless you're doing stand-up. :o)

The Human Nature of Birds

Three things the Great Blue Heron has in common with the human race:

1) They are most vocal during the breeding season, but will call at other times of the year if disturbed

2) Once they find a pond, as long as they know they can get a good meal they will keep returning. It is said that, given free reign, one can clean out a small pond (read fridge) in a matter of days, and

3) Herons don't go around with their necks stuck out. They fly with their heads tucked between their shoulder blades.

Smart Burtie and The Wire

Meet Smart Burtie. He hangs from a wire.

Like most of us reading this post, he's a nice person. Wears a nice bow tie (okay, nice clothes). Tries to say all the right things at the right times. Truth is, he's a nice person. Does his job well. Stays loyal to his cohorts. Loves his family. Plays his cards close to his chest. Yada yada yada.

All is not always peaceful in the kingdom of Smart Burtie though. Sometimes he feels absolutely STUPID for not being some maverick-entrepreneur-internationally-recognized-expert-with-an-Oprah-entourage-and-a-villa-in-Spain-with-all-the-money-in-the-universe.

Breaking free and flying high would be much better of course. But would it, Smart Burtie mused?

"Nuts," Smart Burtie found himself saying out loud to no one in particular. "Life is all about connectedness, hanging out and having a grand old time with everyone else on the wire."

The End.

Wanted: One Early Spring

Help! I ordered one on Groundhog Day weeks ago but it seems to be taking too long to arrive, making me think it got lost in the mail. So I am posting this in the hopes someone has one hanging around that they are tired of. A melt would do.

Will trade for maple syrup once the sap begins to run. And I get myself dug out.

Please hurry, this snowbank is beginning to affect my normally cheery outlook on life.

(And to the party that offered me sixteen blow dryers, thanks but I tried that last year and got iced in.)

On Connecting and Negotiating for the Bed

Meet Peanut. We're friends and we live together. We met online, just like most of us here. He came to me as a rescue dog.

Peanut was his name when we met and, because he seemed partial to it, I didn't feel the need to change it.

The first day I brought him home I gave him a tour of the house and told him it was his home too. That may have been a mistake.

He immediately laid claim to my bed.

After a few nights on the floor, and some negotiations, he let me share it with him.

Sparkle Versus Art

I love washing dishes.

In fact, I am known in certain circles as the King of Dishwashers. Over the years I have painstakingly developed my patented 'technique' and I thought for a while I had taken dish washing to an art form. But I was mistaken. In the end, there is no difference between a dish that I clean and one that you clean. My dishes are not special. (deep sigh)

True art is no pile of plates. It speaks to people in a way that no stack of sparkle can. Dancers, writers, artists, designers, musicians – anyone involved in the development of creative communications all have a unique destination. Technique may be a tool to help get there but it's not the end of the journey... technique is not art.

We have all seen, heard, tasted and experienced excellent pieces – a sink full of technique, but somehow without substance. Great skill but, gee... it's missing something. The kitchen may be tidy but it's been tidy before.

Technique is all about the 'how.' Inspiration is about the 'why.' And when we focus on the message, how we get there (all the tricks and technology and sparkle) begins to matter less.

We concentrate on technique while we learn. Then, for the lucky few, there comes a magical time when knowingly or unknowingly, we make the giant leap from scrubbing pots to producing passion. The work makes a statement. It comes from the heart. It is art.

It is inspirational.

 

The Unscientific Moon

5:45 a.m. A bright winter moon lights the way for a pup who needs out after a long night. Einstein once said that he gained solace knowing the moon was there, even if he wasn't looking at it. 

This morning I looked. And I remembered that when I grew up the moon was made of cheese and you always looked for the man in the moon. Love meant spooning under the moon in June - the same moon that the cow jumped over. The very same moon that shone on that river for Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer's "Moon River" for a lovely Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's...

The same moon that lit the path for Hans Christian Anderson in 1840, while he wrote "What the Moon Saw."

The same moon that shone down upon me waiting at the kitchen door this morning. 

One night when you're looking for a sense of permanence in your hectic world, look up with an unscientific eye.

About Nothing in Particular

If you can perceive nothing as a space for something new, then maybe anything can happen and everything is possible. Allow everything to be nothing once in a while: a space for new somethings...

Casting a Long Shadow

7:45 a.m. You don't really expect idioms to pop into your head while standing in minus double-digit temperatures with a pooper scooper in one hand and a baggie of poop in the other. At least I don't.

I do remember counting my blessings that there was very little wind to increase the chill and cause my eyes to water.

Then I realized the winter sun seemed more immediate somehow today. We hadn't had sun in a few days and perhaps it was more energetic because it had been resting behind the clouds for quite a while.

I happened to glance over into the next yard to where a large branch had fallen last autumn. Clean, early light shone brightly through the trees behind it, giving the unwanted branch more influence on it's surroundings, causing it to...  cast a long shadow.

There it was. Bold as brass. Completely unbidden. Astounding how that happens.

Revealed: The Chocolate Connection!

The Saint Valentine's Day massacre involved the murder of seven people in prohibition era Chicago, on Feb. 14, 1929. It is recorded in history as a settling of accounts between two powerful gangs; the South Side Italian gang led by Al Capone and the North Side Irish gang led by Bugs Moran. It was said Capone ordered it after Bugs' gang machine-gunned Al Capone's headquarters. But this recently uncovered photo reveals this might not be the case. It may have been all about chocolate.

The above photo (from an unnamed source) shows the crowd gathering in front of the scene of the crime following the shoot-out; reported at the time as the S.M.C. Cartage Co... But take a close look. It's really a chocolate shop.

Chicago News Photo, 1927

This is the photo that was published that day. We can see it was obviously cleverly retouched to remove the sign above the location of the crime. But why?

Leaked information from documents buried for 84 years reveal the clash that day may not have been about the war over control of prohibition whiskey or gang turf at all. It was evidently more personal than that. Both Capone and Moran had a secret addiction to chocolate and it was actually competition over a totally legal shipment of the tasty confection that lured the Moran men to the shop. (Moran himself was late, finishing a chocolate shake at his local soda fountain, and therefore avoided being killed.)

A sympathetic press at the time agreed with all sides that this would not look good. If it was revealed to the world that this event had taken place over candy, it would instantly make the gangland mystique a laughingstock. Hershey bars were said to be exchanged to facilitate the cover-up, and the photo and written facts were revised to remove the chocolate connection totally. 

But of course, the conspiracy of silence could not be totally subverted. People in the know since that day have shared a wink as they give the gift of chocolate on Valentine's Day. And so began the tradition...

And now you know. WikiLeaks; eat your heart out.