Chinese soups

were always ordered when my family used to go to Chinese restaurants in the suburbs of Toronto. I still am always happy to order Chinese soup, but I don't mean hot and sour, egg drop, or wonton, though those are good to. We ordered other varieties, and the menu would offer two or three different sizes, but always they were huge, big enough for at least four people.

The world is full of arrows

that direct you various ways.

Once there was this strange old black man I talked to on a subway in Boston. He was selling poems, photocopies of poems he had written, and we bought one. His handwriting was very strange, really shaky, as if his hand quivered when he wrote (did I see him write something down as well? I think so, but cannot be sure) but it was very neat nonetheless, with a peculiar slant to the letters. I don't know what his poem said, I can't remember, I have it somewhere. He had notebooks with him, and talked also in a shaky voice, and was saying something about the Chinese language, and even had Chinese characters written down in his book, and the next moment he was talking about ancient Greek philosophers, and it seemed that this man's breadth of knowledge must be huge, even if nothing he said quite made sense. I wrote his name down, and he said he was in the phonebook, in case we wanted to buy more poems. I called the number twice or so, I think he was listed in Roxbury, but both times it rang on and one and nobody answered. I'd have been curious to see the man's house, more than wanting to buy more poems.

The better playground

wasn't the one at my school (Cresthaven) but at this other school that was a bit of a distance away, and you had to cross a major four lane (two going each way) street with a traffic light to get there, and then walk past this house that was done in this pseudo-Alpine style (dark wood beams and large white surfaces, with lots of triangular angles (does this make any sense?)), and only then were you at this other playground. It was much better than the one at Cresthaven, but older maybe and a little more run down. It had these different playground structures, and they were connected by a hanging bridge made of wood planks with, chains running through them probably. I was only six at the time, and so getting there was quite a feat, especially the time I did it myself, and then it got dark, and I wasn't even sure if I knew the way home, but made it back as evening set in anyway, and everything was Okay after-all. Another time we were there (with my dad) and there was this dirty looking blond kid who was only a couple of years older then me, and he was smoking a cigarette. I think there were housing projects nearby, and years later I heard that one of them was some sort of giant crack-dealing building.

Mystery bathroom

at the new Thai takeout place on our street. That store was home to one of these super-greasy Chinese places, but one so unspeakably foul-seeming that we never even went there, or maybe did once, and had our expectations lowered further. It disappeared and a new Thai place took its place. This Thai place is mostly for takeout I'm guessing, but you can eat in and have a pleasant time of it. The food is good, and the atmosphere reasonable enough, and once you've drank enough Thai ice tea, you might need to go to the bathroom, which is through a little door at the back, and suddenly you are in another world: the bathroom is spacious and very clean, and all done in spotless and large black tiles, and gleaming white sink and toilet, and is there a plant in there, or does my memory insert it. Fancy restaurants do not have a bathroom so clean and nice, and I don't even like bathrooms, I don't care if they are stinky and dirty, but what a palace this one is.

The snail path

curves round and round, much like the path carved into the snail's own shell. This is not the path taken by snails, I guess, but a path one might take if inspired by a snail's shell.

A memory calls:
There was once this cheap Commodore 64 video game set in feudal Japan. The game was by the same company that made a silly adventure game (like Zork but with graphics) based on the Monty Phython movie "the Holy Grail". Don't know the company's name.

Anyway, this game set in Japan, I think you picked a character that was a small sprite, and would then navigate from screen to screen. The screen represented different locations, and often had other japanese people in then. I never understood the point of the game or how to play, though I recall that sometimes the character would get into fights, but immediately get killed.

For some reason, and this is odd, thinking back on the game, it somehow captured a feeling of tranquility -- some of the screens allowed you, for example, to visit tranquil Japanese bamboo gardens, even though they were only represented in the most basic low resolution graphics. Is this a trick of memory?


A google search informs me that the company that made the game was Mastertronic, and that the game was called "Shogun" and based on the book of the same name (that's awfully thick).

Desk

The philosopher couldn't get his mind clear, and hadn't even started thinking about the puzzle yet. All day he'd only thought about solving it (how happy he would be if he solved it, how he might be congragulated for solving it, and how long it might take) and about much else (when he should do laundry, should he now get some coffee). His thinking had been disorganized like this for weeks, and he had only faintly been aware at how cloudy and undirected he was.

He stood up, stepped away from his chair and cluttered desk. He turned around, walked a few moments, and sat down on another chair in front of another, empty desk. This was his special desk. The philosopher had been brilliant in his youth, and when the university hired him, he had negotiated for this desk in his contract. The desk was vast and empty, and he had hoped that by sitting at it, and staring out across its massive surface, eventually his mind might clear, and seemingly intractible puzzles might become clearer.

He was looking out across the desk, and his mind cleared. He stopped thinking of laundry and coffee, and stopped imagining himself working on the puzzle. His sight was filled with the gigantic desk, so huge that he could not see where it ended. He stared at it, but he could not even begin to work on the puzzle. "How strange", he thought, "this desk is really gigantic. I don't even know where it ends!" He sat staring some more, and then climbed up onto the desk. He took the first few steps uncertainly, but then sped up to a good pace, walking quickly to discover just where his desk ended.

Greatest Barrista in the World

was at some coffee shop that was attached to a hotel (we think) right near Powell Station in Union Square, San Fransisco. He would defeat all contenders in the World's Greatest Barrista Championships, and he single handedly outperformed a standard team of four starbucks workers when we ordered coffee

He is in his early 50s, the outfit has a lot of red in it, he appears to take his time, and is cheerful at all moments. He is alone behind the counter. There is a line and you are part of it, but you cannot be annoyed. The barrista takes his time without seeming slow, and the couple in front of you is getting the best coffee ordering service they ever will, and so the same is in store for you.

(The coffee was good too.)

World Famous Bushman (Bush man?)

You are walking along fisherman's wharf in San Fransisco (yes it is very touristy, but here you are walking), and suddenly you jump back in alarm -- some bush by the sidewalk just jumped out at you... You look back and see that there was no bush in front of that garbage can really... It was a bunch of dense bush branches held up bythis guy who is crouching down and hiding behind these branches. He is disguised as a bush, and when a person walks by they don't see him until... he pushes the bush branches out at the person and gruffly utters "bbaaahhaah!" or some guttural noise. And so the victim jumps aside, scared, and then looking back starts laughing upon realizing that it was just this strange guy pretending to be a bush. (We'd have been bushman victims except we were walking a bit behind someone else it happened to, and so we knew what to expect).

Once you get past the bushman, though, there are people trying to look inconspicious while watching, or videotaping, new victims walking into his trap.

Go to:
http://www.anvari.org/photos/200311h/Bush_Man.html

for a picture, but the picture doesn't show how effective he is in not being noticed by those passing by.

The Stone Soup Variations - II

In a different version of the story, the visitor asked that the townspeople fill a large pot with water, and set it to boil over a fire. They eagerly did so, and then he said "I will place this stone in our soup, what will each of you add?" He placed the stone in the water, and waited for the townspeople to respond.

One villager scratched his head, and suddenly ran home, returning with some rusty worn bolts, and he added these to the soup. Someone else had been collecting bits of wire for a few years, but she volunteered them into the soup. Another villager had some pens that had run out of ink and through them in. And so it went.

All day long the soup boiled and boiled. The visitor looked a little puzzled, though no one knew why. That night the pleased townspeople gathered to eat the soup. But the visitor looked ill and said that would go. He picked up his satchel and continued down the road.

The Stone Soup Variations - I

There was this poor village and everyone was desperately hungry. Some guy came by and saw the town's plight. "I know just the thing!" he said and everyone took note. "We'll make a soup!"

The townspeople gathered round, encouraged somewhat, but some muttered, "We are too poor! We don't even have enough food to make soup."

"Nonsense" said the visitor, "We have this" and from his large bag he pulled out a huge, old-looking pig's head. The villagers gave him a pot, water, a fire, and he boiled the pig's head for hours, and there was soup for all.

The massive field

There were a bunch of people who were on a mass migration or journey. They were walking across a gigantic field for years on end. Often the things they saw were very beautiful and usually the weather was pretty good. But sometimes someone would get too sick to continue, or someone would get bit by a scorpion or snake, or be struck by lightening. The rest would be sad but would have no choice but to continue on their journey.

Mirror maze

the CNE was many things, and one was a carnival. I don't know if its still like that. One time they had a hall or house of mirrors, and my brother and I went in. (The only time I can recall having entered one). We ran around, excited and a bit confused, screaming, and constantly running into mirrors. When we got out I was completely exhilerated, but maybe bruised from running into mirrors, and I think my mom was embarassed at how loud we'd been yelling while inside.

Magic tunnel

is where you can go for a long walk underground. Too bad after half an hour you start getting really hungry, and then you start wondering: how is it that I can see in here. That's magic tunnel, which you are still walking through, and now you are really hungry, and the question bears asking: when will this thing ever end. And you keep going along, and it can never be boring in magical tunnel because every step is deeper in, and further along, and greater discovery.

Blue lobster

is no contradiction. I have seen it myself, and so can you, just use google.

Open lots

sometimes with nothing in them, but straggling plants growing sparsely about, affording a view of the soil. These lots left unused, undeveloped. I remember looking at ants in one when I was a kid, finding a tin can full of bees in another causing me to quickly pull back, passing others on walks.

Glimpse into the future, 30 years from now. I'll set myself some project. A person might work on in an empty place. The project will not be sensible, will accomplish nothing (the goal involves somehow transforming or altering a tin can (not the one with the bees)), but hopefully can be pursued seriously and diligently.

The terminal terminal

is the last station on the line, and the furthest outpost. I grew up just beyond a terminal terminal, a 20 minute walk from the northernmost subway station in Toronto, which isn't really very far out at all.

Imaginary adventure: seek the terminal terminal of an asiatic train line, the furthest outpost. Consider, the train system has become rundown, and the further out one goes the less reliable. It might take luck to get out to the final stop. I think something of this might happen in a story by Bruno Schultz that I didn't finish reading. It also has an element of the Yellow Arrow by Pelevin (?!?).

You never know

I remember going to some sort-of-punk party in Toronto back when I was 19 or 20. It wasn't really a party because it was really just about 10 people there at someone's house at the most, and they might not even have been punks so much as goths, or some related sub-culture (they all seemed blended to me in Toronto at the time, but maybe that's because I didn't really get it). As happens, people started giving each other haircuts in the house bathtub, and I sort of remember just enjoying being there, and also perusing the contents of a bookshelf in the living room. I didn't get my hair cut that night, but some weeks later that summer, I had my head shaved by my friend's current shortlived girlfriend, who was older, from England, and had a bat tattooed on her head.