January 26, 2004
Blood on the fence
Fresh antipasto: Perhaps October.
Posted by sniffles at 01:16 PM | Comments (2)« December 2003 | [dandruff::main] | February 2004 »
If I were to steal through these passages
palms of my hands against these walls
blindly
and find you on the other side
then perhaps this journey might not have been in vain.
The air stale to the point of stillness
I hold my breath in stifled sympathy
in time to the thudding of your heart
as pounding blows of blood
ravage my veins
If I were to crawl through these darknesses
and find you
on the other side
— half-whole, blind, as I —
I could be your scaffold and you could be mine
that I might lift you and keep your pieces unbroken
holding you up from the outside
that if you should collapse from within
you would not all fall
like feather rain
that we could remain
together-alive.
Alliance will let artists sell their music on the net:
With the internet transforming how people buy and listen to songs, musicians need to act now to claim digital music's future, Gabriel and Eno argued yesterday as they handed out a slim red manifesto at a huge deal-making music conference.
[...]
By removing record labels from the equation, artists can set their own prices and set their own agendas, said the two musicians, who hope to launch the online alliance within a month.
(via the lovely ms. molly)
Aaron prompted me to dig through the ABC Web site today, and clicking around brought me to the Triple-J's Hottest 100 for 2003, running smack-bang into fuzzy memories of crazy university days.
Posted by sniffles at 05:06 PM | Comments (2)
Fresh antipasto: Perhaps October.
Posted by sniffles at 01:16 PM | Comments (2)
After trying for a day and a half, I finally managed to call my parents on their second day of the lunar new year (it's still the first day here). They were either out or the phones weren't working — I ended up talking to the phone-operated house alarm system a couple of times. (Presumably, when you have about 25% of the world trying to call each other on the same day, things inevitably get screwy.) Two families of my relatives from Australia have decided to go back this year, so for about a week or more, my parents' house is home to 14 people.
Chatting with my family over the phone, I realised that I won't be hearing screeching kids anymore in the background on such long-distance phone calls (for a while at least) because all the children of my generation are now reaching their late teens or early 20s ...
My mother told me that she was watching this show on TV where some famous Chinese astrologer was summarising the year's outlook for each Chinese star sign.
"What's mine?" I asked, half-laughing.
"In all, not a terrific year, but okay. You're supposed to watch your health, and to help that, keep birds around you."
Birds?!
"Pictures of birds, photos, anything. Even paper cranes would do." She was beginning to laugh a little, being painfully aware of the apparent lack of logic. "You never know what to 'follow' or not, really. You know, you could just draw those stylised birds with two pen-strokes, that'd probably count." By this stage, we were both giggling ourselves silly.
One of the strangest things about being caught between times and cultures, we have carried with us age-old rituals, habits and superstitions long after we have left our mother country behind. Both my parents are people of science, as am I, but certain little things — illogical little habits — still lurk in the shadows of our daily existence. As long as I live, I will never lift a broom to sweep the floor on the first day of the lunar new year. "Sweeps away the luck", so the saying goes, but, well, it didn't stop us using the vacuum cleaner when situations got desperate with guests with young children. You could say the interpretations of such things get a little lost in the translation.
In any case, this year it's going to be metal for my darling little sister, and birds for me.
Happy Lunar New Year!
Posted by sniffles at 11:39 PM | Comments (9)Young George had such a short attention span.
Posted by sniffles at 01:13 PM | Comments (1)
Did you know that "subjunctive mood" exists as an entry in the dictionary? I didn't.
- subjunctive mood
- Subjunctive mood (Gram.), that form of a verb which express the action or state not as a fact, but only as a conception of the mind still contingent and dependent. It is commonly subjoined, or added as subordinate, to some other verb, and in English is often connected with it by if, that, though, lest, unless, except, until, etc., as in the following sentence: ``If there were no honey, they [bees] would have no object in visiting the flower.'' --Lubbock. In some languages, as in Latin and Greek, the subjunctive is often independent of any other verb, being used in wishes, commands, exhortations, etc.
I was actually looking for the tricky little annoying grammar rule that some claim should be dumped. And here it is:
the forms. If she were coming, she would be here by now. I insist that the chairman resign! Their main demand was that the lawsuit be dropped. These sentences all contain verbs in the subjunctive mood, which is used chiefly to express the speaker's attitude about the likelihood or factuality of a given situation. If the verbs were in the indicative mood, we would expect she was coming in the first sentence, the chairman resigns in the second, and the lawsuit is dropped in the third.
English has had a subjunctive mood since Old English times, but most of the functions of the old subjunctive have been taken over by auxiliary verbs like may and should, and the subjunctive survives only in very limited situations ...
Subjunctive mood? How groovy. The particular clause that I am interested in is actually the past subjunctive, which has continually cropped up in discussion between myself and several other friends due to the ambiguity surrounding its usage. Observe:
The past subjunctive is sometimes called the were subjunctive, since were is the only subjunctive form that is distinct from the indicative past tense. It appears chiefly in if clauses and in a few other constructions expressing hypothetical conditions:
If he were sorry, he’d have apologized by now.
I wish she weren’t going away.
She’s already acting as if she were going to be promoted.
Suppose she were to resign, what would you do then?if clauses — the traditional rules. According to traditional rules, you use the subjunctive to describe an occurrence that you have presupposed to be contrary to fact: if I were ten years younger, if America were still a British Colony. The verb in the main clause of these sentences must then contain the verb would or (less frequently) should: If I were ten years younger, I would consider entering the marathon. If America were still a British colony, we would all be drinking tea in the afternoon. When the situation described by the if clause is not presupposed to be false, however, that clause must contain an indicative verb. The form of verb in the main clause will depend on your intended meaning: If Hamlet was really written by Marlowe, as many have argued, then we have underestimated Marlowe’s genius. If Kevin was out all day, then it makes sense that he couldn’t answer the phone.
Remember, just because the modal verb would appears in the main clause, this doesn’t mean that the verb in the if clause must be in the subjunctive if the content of that clause is not presupposed to be false: If I was (not were) to accept their offer—which I’m still considering—I would have to start the new job on May 2. He would always call her from the office if he was (not were) going to be late for dinner.
Another traditional rule states that you are not supposed to use the subjunctive following verbs such as ask or wonder in if clauses that express indirect questions, even if the content of the question is presumed to be contrary to fact: We wondered if dinner was (not were) included in the room price. Some of the people we met even asked us if California was (not were) an island.
if clauses — the reality. In practice, of course, many people ignore the rules. In fact, over the last 200 years even well-respected writers have tended to use the indicative was where the traditional rule would require the subjunctive were. A usage such as If I was the only boy in the world may break the rules, but it sounds perfectly natural.
*phew* So, the usage of the if ... were construct depends on if the statement you are making has its basis on something that is hypothetical, depending on what has already occurred at the point you are speaking, otherwise, you would use if ... was. Perhaps Bill, Kate or Ed would be able to clarify?
How much of a subjunctive mood are you in after all that?!
Posted by sniffles at 08:16 AM | Comments (4)
There is no such place, o yes I have seen it too
Just a little different from how you do,
A river winding blue among the dunes and a marble bed
A sun that doesn't set but settles.
There is no such place.
If I lower mine to yours would you kiss me on the face?
If you're looking for an unmarked place,
There is no such place --- "There is no such place", Augie March.
Fresh Antipasto: Morning dance.
Posted by sniffles at 07:14 PM | Comments (2)The Montreal Mirror has published an article on McLUG (McGill Linux Users Group) — you get to see three of the funky guys I work with. :)
Posted by sniffles at 12:03 PM | Comments (6)Linux's anti-corporatism isn't the only reason why users should enjoy working on it, Pereira says. It's also about personal choice, something commercial software doesn't offer users. Because it is open-source, its source code can be modified by anyone for modification or improvement. It puts programming back in the hands of the programming public, and out of the cabal of private firms.
[...]
"As a user," Pereira says, "Linux offers a lot of choice. If you're really technically oriented, you can go for a distribution [version] that will allow you to have fine control over the computer. If you're less so, you can just point and click, making it just as friendly as a Mac or any other operating system."
Spurred on by Ed and Martine's monthly monkey idea (there is also a French version), I've been thinking about all the jobs I'd ever held. I thought it would be easy, until I spoke to Ed at the last YULBlog and he said, "volunteer stuff is okay" — I remembered distinctly thinking "uh-oh". Because then, I might have to start the list from when I was around 8 years old ... or maybe not. My entire life is littered with volunteer stuff I'd gotten myself into. It led me to think about when a "job" is a job, and well, what do you call the other stuff?
From the time I was around 8 to 11 years old, I regularly performed music onstage with a couple of other students to promote musical instruments sold by the music school we all trained at. Later on in high school, I was one of those people who had no free time after class, because I'd be playing sports, working on the yearbook, be at a choir or orchestra rehearsal, or a musical rehearsal. Outside of these, I would occasionally be called to accompany an instrumentalist or a singer (and once, a choir at the last minute) on the piano, and when I got to University, I took part in the musical department's choir. Granted, these probably don't qualify as "jobs", but they still involved a fair amount of commitment, responsibility, and a lot of time. Funny that all the energy I used to invest in music is these days being channeled towards worthwhile activites such as The Web Standards Project, MACCAWS and the W3C QA interest group, amongst other things I now tinker with.
So, jobs, eh? I'll follow Ed's example and include volunteer stuff, but only when they are more "official", or interesting:
And there you go, a monkey!
While on the topic of jobs ... I am urgently looking for one, preferably in Montreal and either a contract or permanent role. It has something to do with needing an employment visa to be able to continue to work/live in Montreal, a city I have grown to love. So ... need a Websmith to make your Web site work better? Starting out on a new Web project and need some guidance? Looking for good options in the direction of Web standards? I can also teach, train, code, cook, write, sing, take photographs and am good with cats. Have a peek at my CV, or drop me a line — let me know what I can do for you.
Posted by sniffles at 11:53 PM | Comments (0)
Somebody hold me too close
Somebody hurt me too deep
Somebody sit in my chair
And ruin my sleep
And make me aware
Of being alive-- "Being alive", Stephen Sondheim
I checked the weather forecast before leaving my apartment this morning, and pulled on three pairs of socks. My feet get cold on most days, so on a day like this — -28°C, -40°C with windchill — one can afford "extreme" measures.
The doors to the lifts in my building wouldn't open. The lift itself was fine; I could hear it chugging up and down the shaft, and the door on the inside was certainly sliding open with the familiar crunch, but there was no way I could actually get in. I took the stairs down one floor and tried the lifts there. Same thing. By that stage, I just decided to take the stairs instead; if I'd waited on yet another floor, it would have taken about the same time for me to just plod down the remaining ten flights of stairs.
The worst moment in such weather is the very instant you open the door to step outside. After you acclimatise, it can be bearable. Today is an extremely gorgeous day ... if you ignore the slightly unfriendly temperature.
My dad (currently tucked somewhere near the equator) and I had this conversation some time last week:
steph: hi!
dad: Hi! cold?
steph: -22 , -37 with windchill
dad: how does that feel like out in the open in that weather?
steph: cold! :)
The insides of your nostrils freeze, so you wear your scarf around your face and as a result, the steam travels upwards, causing water droplets to hang around your eyes, and tiny icicles start forming at the edge of your eyelashes. Oh yes, your contact lenses will occasionally freeze.
But days like today are lovely. The sun softly lights up the morning in a blanket of faded gold, the cold on my bare skin, a sharp reminder of that we are forever at the mercy of nature's elements. It makes me feel alive. And this is the first and the last time you'll hear me write explicitly about the cold; otherwise, I could write about it every other day.
Posted by sniffles at 10:22 AM | Comments (6)
hey don’t stop and turn away
I’m sure you’d rather stay
than follow me into the alleyway
we were passers on the street
don’t turn it into grief
just follow me into disaster-- "Simonize", Pete Yorn.
Two Sundays ago, I wandered alone into Chinatown with the vague notion of perhaps having lunch at one of my favourite places. The weather was indecisive, hovering between a little too cold and a little too warm, plaguing the day with uncertainties, pockets of possibilities. On a sudden hunch I walked into one of the grocery shops, remembering that I am on the constant hunt for ingredients for some Malaysian dishes.
It has been one of my major complaints: I have found plenty of ingredients for Japanese and Thai cuisines (I call these cuisines "fashionable"), but as for ingredients stemming from the regions of Indonesia, Malaysia and Singapore, it has been a frustrating search yielding next to none.
Except today ... against a backwall of this store I discovered a stack of large cans containing Singaporean curry sauce (close enough to the Malaysian curry of the same kind), and next to those, were jars of sambal udang. There exists at least a few varieties of sambal, and often they taste different even though they carry the same name, presumably depending on where they have been produced (people also make their own). So, I picked up a random jar of sambal and turned it over — the label announced that it originated from Malaysia. I blinked, put the jar back, and turned the one next to it on the shelf. My eyes weren't making things up, it appeared that I wasn't hallucinating. What remained a mystery to me today though, is why I didn't buy a jar that day ...
My mood lifted by several notches — first time in days — I weaved my way out and into the next store and scoured the shelves. There I found gula malacca (palm sugar), the package bearing its Malay name, something which I thought would have been impossible to find here. Wow, maybe I haven't been looking hard enough. If that wasn't enough of a discovery, on the back shelf, there were boxes of instant mixes for two or three kinds of kuihs. It was amusing to note that there appeared to be instructions in Indonesian/Malay and Chinese only, and none in English. I shall need to invest in big pots before I can try making these ...
Perhaps it was due to the day's uncertainties, my lack of a firm grip on the reality then, or maybe something unsettling in the air — instead of walking out of Chinatown with all these exotic ingredients, I left ... with three types of tea.
It was beginning to get chilly as the sun prepared to retire for the evening. I trudged home with a fairly unrefined oolong (with which I kick-start my day), a packet of this particular Japanese genmaicha that only seems to be available in teabags, and an unexpected purchase of a rather delicate green tea from Huangshan, but that's a story for another day. The warmth of home was calling, shrouded in the heavy fog of dreams.
Posted by sniffles at 12:30 PM | Comments (9)
On a morning where the sun stole into the room sliced by blinds at the window, two hands sang a song of ten parts, ten interweaving individual melodies, celebrating the non-passage of time.
Posted by sniffles at 07:53 PM | Comments (0)
I finally caught "Alexandra's Project", after having wondered at length if I could cope with its rumoured intensity, having first read about it in the program of the Montreal World Film Festival last September. And now, having lived through the experience, I smile at the memory of a bunch of women with whom I chatted before "The Story of Lotus" at the time. They were pretty convinced that "Alexandra's Project" would collect an award or two; it won the "Golden Zenith for the Best Film from Oceania".
Rifling through some reviews, I found this comment from the one at Rotten Tomatoes rather interesting:
In many ways, Alexandra's Project begins where Lantana finished as it rips into the myths of marriage: how appearances can be deceiving, how routine and tradition can stifle happiness, and how husbands can control their wives with a perceived sense of superiority. Alexandra has had enough, and her "project" stands as a kind of ultimate revenge for 20 years of physical or psychological abuse.
It's much darker than Lantana and Alexandra does some pretty shocking things on that tape – things that have Steve squirming and audiences wincing. But its brilliance is in the way what's said and done on a simple videotape flips the balance of power in a typical marriage, making the husband an impotent onlooker.
... partly because I'd forgotten about "Lantana", yet another excellent Australian film which gets beneath your skin. (I appeared not to have blogged about it, but I believe I saw this around the time of the Melbourne Film Festival in 2001.) And ... partly because I feel the issues raised in "Alexandra's Project" are very relevant to relationships today. Though one might argue the elements of the story in this film are too exaggerated to be "real", it carries an effective mechanism to shock and to drag us out of our comfort zones so we could have a good think about things — with the sinister shadow of reality in its wake.
I'd always judged a film by how it remains in my memory a day or two later. Coming out of the cinema with my gracious escort for the evening, I muttered aloud that this film has all the elements of a traditional definition of a short-story, though I didn't have the time to explain myself then, and now's not the time because that's a whole other post by itself. :)
It is rare that an independent Australian film doesn't move me; I wasn't going to pass up the chance to see this one if I could help it. And well, neither should you.
Posted by sniffles at 05:35 PM | Comments (7)