February 28, 2004
Retrospective

Very, very occasionally, I like to look backwards in the effort to remember the person I was, and how different I am now compared to then — and well, if I wrote any differently at the time:

November 20, 2001:

Sometimes, I hang around the hospital for a little while. People here are not whole. They are here because they are not whole. Some others who seem to be whole are not really whole because people they know and love are not whole. That's why they are here.

That's why I'm here.

November 26, 2001:

Some days, I am a deep, bottomless well that everyone shouts into, just to hear the echo of their own voices.

February 24, 2002:

Most of today was taken up at a wedding — such a beautiful day for it. It was all very lovely, except for the organist who played the fastest Pachelbel's Canon I've ever heard — and the fastest "Amazing Grace", and the fastest Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" for the recessional — you could almost expect the newlyweds to jig down the aisle! It's not the first time I have felt like throttling the organist at a wedding.

Now, that hasn't changed. I'm still up for throttling bad organists. I've only ever met one organist I truly respect. The rest sucked; for some reason, all organists I've met have an issue with timing.

January 22, 2002:

"You're not one for brutally honest posts," he commented.

Well, heck, no. I'll be honest about that.

And ... I used to have a duck who kept me amused at work.

Posted by sniffles at 11:36 PM | Comments (3)

February 27, 2004
Small pleasures

Early this week, John and I got together to perform brain surgery on #evolt's little infobot, whose dbm brain was badly corrupted. I think we made about 50% recovery in the end — not great, but the remaining associations at least provide fascinating entertainment.

For some unknown reason, thebot has associated me with a comment that I made on the channel almost a year ago about the fire-breathing dragon on the Mozilla splash screen (which, sadly, no longer appears with Ph^H^HFirebird^H^H^H^Hfox). It gives me a nice little swell of warm fuzzy to see that thebot still recognises me:

09:15 tara: hello beautiful people! :)
09:16 emkay: 'lo tara
09:17 sniffles: hi tara
09:17 tara: how is everyone this morning?
09:17 tara: hey steph
09:17 thebot: steph is, like, *rrooaarrrrr*

Posted by sniffles at 10:18 AM | Comments (2)

February 24, 2004
Stop after this song

anything to pass the time
and keep that song out of your mind

— "Clementine", Elliott Smith.

Ever since I switched to a Mac, I've been wishing that iTunes had a 'stop after this song' functionality, similar to the 'Ctrl-v' or 'Shift-v' functions in Winamp (the latter does a fadeout). Looks like I am not alone, so allow me to bore you with the details.

Firstly, it might seem to be a strange requirement, but it's because I'm one of those odd people who have difficulty stopping a song in the middle; it jars my senses and increases my grump level. No kidding! I experience physical shock if music stops abruptly before its proper conclusion. If I had to get off the computer to get a coffee or a drink of water, or to collect some printouts, I'd usuallly try to time it so I detach myself from my headphones at the end of a song.

Short of pressing 'stop' at the right time, I've found a couple of ways to achieve more or less the same effect: if I'm in a playlist, I can uncheck the remaining songs so they don't play; secondly, I can switch the focus to another playlist or album. Needless to say, option 1 is tiresome, and option 2 means if I want to continue with what I was listening to, I'd have to navigate back to the playlist or album I was on, and find the next unplayed song in the list. Too much hassle, honestly.

Both ways require that I scramble under my stack of windows for iTunes. (If you've ever seen my screen, you will understand my dilemma.) Even with the whooshing windows of Exposé, 2 seconds to realising that the current song is finishing, I simply can't navigate fast enough with the trackpad, seeing as I never got around to replacing my mouse ever since some idiots decided to steal it along with the other laptop. In any case, I don't want to be watching iTunes while the song finishes up, I want to continue doing whatever else I might be working on ...

So, I'd finally gotten around to toying with Applescript, and after some fumbling around with trying decide what's a workable algorithm for detecting when to get iTunes to stop, I ended up with this:

tell application "iTunes"
    if player state is playing then

        set playingTrackName to current track's name

        repeat
            if (playingTrackName is not current track's name) then
                stop
                exit repeat
            end if
        end repeat

    end if
end tell

Basically, we grab the name of the song that is currently playing, we watch iTunes until the song switches (i.e. when the song name changes), at which point we tell iTunes to stop.

Originally, I set about calculating the song's remaining time and comparing it to the clock, but it was a bothersome and calculation intensive method. Besides, it wouldn't work if someone decided to fast forward the song in the middle (god forbid why they would!) after having begun the script.

Not really the best script, I'm afraid; as it does a continual poll, it puts a bit of grind on the CPU, though not too badly. The worst side effect is that it seems to confuse Finder. However, it works a good deal of the time. In the remaining cases, it misses the start of the next song by a fraction of a second — presumably because the processor is busy doing something else and isn't paying attention at the right time — an effect which I originally thought can probably be minimised by making the script fade iTunes' volume very quickly. Having given this a shot though, I'm no longer convinced it's a good solution as the efficiency of the original script is much reduced by extra code, which of course munches up more CPU time. Anyhow, the crunch only happens with particular songs which start on the first second, so I guess I will just have to compromise.

Oh, the icons you see here in my dock are courtesy of the icon factory. Cute, aren't they?

Posted by sniffles at 01:08 PM | Comments (16)

February 18, 2004
Coffee cup for dreams

I kept quiet so you'd think my heart was tough
I never showed you if I loved you enough
The dreams I had yeah I kept but I wouldn't dare
Share with you for fear of things still living in me

-- "Last Tide", Sun Kil Moon

Between here and the edge of dreams, I stumbled forward with pain in my left foot. A voice at my shoulder said, "Got any change?"

I turned around, and it was a little man with a moustache. "Um, hang on," I said, "I don't think I have much on me, but let's see." I managed to fish out a quarter that had been swimming in my coat pocket, so I gave it to him. We both looked at the quarter now sitting pathetically in his big hand. Suddenly remembering that I have recently developed the habit of dumping change in the pockets of my jeans, I said, "Sorry, wait." As I unzipped my coat, he exclaimed, "Hey! Don't strip!" Mind in complete disarray, I found nothing to say, and presently retrieved some more change and placed it in his hand. "Thank you," he smiled, and I continued walking. There must be an unwritten law somewhere that you ought to give at least enough for a hot cup of coffee ...

Like so many things I can't remember, I don't recall when or how I first heard about "Sun Kil Moon". Cos blogged about them all the way back in November, but I suspect it must have been during one of our random checks on each other's listening radars that he told me to look out for them. I do, however, remember the second time I heard about them. I was at CD Esoterik purchasing the Red House Painters EP I'd been eyeing in the window, when one of the guys told me they have Mark Kozelek's new CD and pointed vaguely at the wall. I glanced at the rack of half a dozen featured CDs and decided that one more would go over my quota for the fortnight, so I passed.

In the tiny shop that reminded me of the unmarked place renowned for electronica across the other side of the world, I stood flipping through the CDs, not being particularly sure what I was after, when the music over the speakers changed. I froze. It should have been familiar but it wasn't. I mean, I ought to have known the voice, it ought to have been unmistakable. But it was the rich yet achingly empty guitar, the forlornly simple melody that had me rooted to the spot, the picture of perpetual longing sketched by the unsung notes hanging in the air.

Regaining my senses, I went over to the counter to find out what it was. The man mumbled something unintelligible and proceeded to dig around in a cupboard somewhere behind the racks then triumphantly placed a copy of a familiar-looking CD in my hands.

"This is ... it?" I asked. History and a chain of disconnected memories came crashing over one another in my head. He nodded. I looked at it. There goes that CD quota for the fortnight. That was how I have come to spend the last few days remembering how much I love just about everything of his I've come across. This collection of songs, some going as far back as almost 3 years, is particularly exquisite.

The days are getting a little warmer. I watch the billowing snow recede, conscious that time is painfully passing. Between here, the edge of dreams, and fragments of recurring memories, I walked with half-formed songs swirling in my head, songs whose words I have yet to learn. At the intersection, I turned left, and headed down towards the cafe.

The photos have been falling off the mirror lately. Maybe something is telling me it's time to be moving on.

Posted by sniffles at 01:32 AM | Comments (3)

February 14, 2004
In two

I'm not what's missing from your life now
I could never be the puzzle pieces
they say that god makes problems
just to see what you can stand
before you do as the devil pleases
and give up the thing you love

— "Pitseleh", Elliott Smith.

Fresh Antipasto: Coffee Ballad #5 and Neither here nor there.

Posted by sniffles at 11:12 PM | Comments (2)

Down where?

Down there? I haven't been down there since 1953. No, it had nothing to do with Eisenhower. No, no, it's a cellar down there. It's very damp, clammy. You don't want to go down there. Trust me. You'd get sick. Suffocating. Very nauseating. The smell of the clamminess and the mildew and everything. Whew! Smells unbearable. Gets in your clothes.

[...]

I can't tell you this. I can't do this, talk about down there. You just know it's there. Like the cellar. There's rumbles down there sometimes. You can hear tge pipes, and things get caught there, little animals and things, and it gets wet, and sometimes people have to come and plug up the leaks. Otherwise, the door stays closed. You forget about it. I mean, it's part of the house, but you don't see it or think about it. It has to be there, though, 'cause every house needs a cellar. Otherwise the bedroom would be in the basement.

-- The Flood, "The Vagina Monologues", Eve Ensler.

The posters were up around the McGill campus for the last couple of days, and I decided that if I wanted to see a performance of this work, now is as good a time as any. So I wandered down into the Shatner building and found the desk where they were selling tickets. For some reason, I'd thought they would've been hard to find, but they weren't. Straight through the doors, and there they were.

I don't recall how I first found out about "The Vagina Monologues". My education on women's studies and literature is patchy and incomplete. Women's studies, as in "proper" studies; my experiences alone in the world of computing as a girl then a woman are probably enough to fill several books. I suspect that in my many wanders through shelves of bookstores, the title of this work must have at least caught my eye. Yet I have never picked it up for a browse. Why not? I now suspect, even though I believe ever so strongly in human rights and non-violence, I found the title of the work too confronting, and that it possibly leaned too extreme into the realm of feminism, that I somehow feared disappointment.

So I bought tickets, went to the bank for more cash, and found myself thinking that, well, I might as well get a copy of the book. It wasn't difficult to find. Gently, as one must be as kind to books as to human beings, I escorted the slim volume off the shelf and opened to a random page. I read two monologues in the space of three minutes. The second moved me to tears. Like an unwilling parting with a new-yet-familiar friend, I placed it back on the shelf. Now, or later? "Now," said the book. So I slid it of the shelf once more and tucked it under my arm and went to pay for it.

The audience tonight almost filled the auditorium of Room 132 in the Leacock Building. It was exciting to see such a crowd on an opening night. There was a buzz in the air ... but there were far less men than there ought to have been. Do men think that this show is a "girlie thing"? Do they find the title of the work too confronting too?

The performance was nothing short of stellar. The production was slick and professional, the presentation onstage and off was polished from beginning to end. The actors were tremendous and exceptional. The monologues themselves — if you haven't taken the time to flip through the book — are probably not what you might have expected. Witty, funny, honest, yet never deviating from reality, the monologues are a blast. And as a bonus, while people were filing into the auditorium and between sessions, we were treated to the beautiful, hypnotic voice of Angie and her guitar from The Vanity Press.

"The Vagina Monologues" was performed as part of V-Day McGill, whose mission is as follows:

We consider violence against women and girls to be part of a broader gender based violence phenomenon that is built on the assumption that women are inferior to men. For example, homophobia is based on the assumption that women are inferior to men and that same-sex love is, for men, a betrayal of one's gender or, for women, an aspiration to something forbidden to one's gender. Transphobia (phobia of people who identify as transgender, transexual, gender variant, genderqueer, etc.) is another form of gender based violence. As such, a person who identifies as a man but is born with a vagina can be victim of gender based violence regardless of the fact that is a man (Boys Don't Cry). The mission of V-Day McGill is therefore to raise money and awareness to stop and prevent all types of gender based violence, including but not limited to violence against women, homophobia, transphobia, gay-bashing and gender-bashing.

Walking out of the theatre was an experience in itself. I have never seen so many women happy and proud to be simply themselves. A few men seemed to be overwhelmed (a couple chickened out and left during the intermission); perhaps the reality, both the harsh and the beautiful is not quite what they are able to handle? But everyone was smiling. Every woman who looked at me flashed me a smile, and in return, I grinned back. There was a scent of pleasure in the air ...

There ought not to be such a thing as "women's business". The phrase and the concept exists because it has been defined by men, sculpted by the minds of men, generations and generations past. Violence against women and gender-based violence are not "women's business"; we are responsible, regardless of whether we are men, women, or not. We are all human. I have been lucky to meet many lovely, understanding men, yet I have met even more who consider it none of their business, that it is not part of their affairs — worst still, some who do not acknowledge that life is not quite so rosy for women for many parts of the world, and even in the day-to-day lives women within the societies we consider to be more "advanced".

Soapbox aside, if you haven't managed to catch "The Vagina Monologues" thus far (or even if you had) you ought not miss this year's performance — it's hot (sticky, damp, joyous, cynical, sad, funny), and it seriously rocks. Forget the movies. They will screen for another week. The show is on for two more evenings: Saturday the 14th and Sunday the 15th at 8pm. Tickets are available at several places. Go on, you won't regret it.

Posted by sniffles at 02:15 AM | Comments (12)

February 13, 2004
'round-the-world Charlie
Charlie-in-a-welly arrived safely in the UK today for Garrett, who is generously donating towards The Women's Aid Organisation of Malaysia. Thanks GC! :) Posted by sniffles at 09:24 AM | Comments (6)

February 11, 2004
Meuh, moo, or mu?
I grew up hearing how animals sounds are expressed differently in the various languages I came into contact with — it's a topic that I still find fascinating. Chinese dogs say "wang wang" and English dogs go "woof woof". English sheep say "baaaa", French sheep say "bêêê", English ducks go "quack", and French ducks say "coin coin" (note "oin'" sounds different in French compared to English). And well, Hokkien ducks go "aaap". A bit of hunting (hah, no pun intended) brought up this site, which has an impressive list of animals and how the noises they make are expressed in different languages. Meuh, go wild! Posted by sniffles at 12:05 PM | Comments (4)

February 10, 2004
Star alley
Going through old photos. This one is of an alley somewhere in Melbourne, Australia (I can't actually remember exactly where). Gotta do something about all my photos, one of these days ... Posted by sniffles at 11:14 PM | Comments (4)

February 07, 2004
Sniffling alligators

I've been working on a little commissioned drawing of Charlie for Garrett. A couple of days ago, I was giving him an update:

sniffles: it's in black ink and pencil. I thought it'd look prettier than in colour.
garrett: sounds excellent, can't wait to see it
garrett: think I'm going to get it framed, have you signed it?
sniffles: er not yet, I'll try not to forget :P
garrett: "A Stephanie Troeth original #1 in a series of 1" *:)
sniffles: I wish I have a cool name, like Jeff Hook
sniffles: he hides a hook in all of his cartoons
garrett: how about, Stephanie "The Stephinator" Troeth?
garrett: admit it.. you're tempted right? *:)
sniffles: I don't know how you'd draw a 'sniffle'
sniffles: snifflator?
garrett: ooo yeah... snifflator... now that I like
sniffles: that sounds like an alligator with a cold.
*** garrett thinks about the length of an alligator's snout and the length of its forearms
garrett: man... that would be frustrating, wouldn't be able to blow its nose

Posted by sniffles at 01:53 PM | Comments (4)

February 02, 2004
Reasons to be happy

Their casings tarnished by wind and snow, their glass panels splattered with dirt, the lamps perched gallantly on either side of the bridge pointing skyward as the unfortunate stump of the stadium's manly glory rose over the horizon. A flock of birds dispersing overhead, snow blowing off the top of piles off the roadside, dusting the passing cars with wet confetti. The pale grey morning indecisive about what weather to wear; the day pregnant with possibilities.

Hours spent in good company cooking good food. It never fails to surprise me how the simplest of things brought together with care can give birth to miracles. The scantiest of words to craft a poem, the most uncomplicated of ingredients to make a meal, the most sparing of sounds to weave a song.

Between snatches of Mozart I have neglected for too long, my fingers struggle to remember how to make the piano sing the song that is in the air, music that I will never remember later. I used to think of this as playing "the song of now", the song that has no place in the world other than this very moment — not later today, not tomorrow.

It's odd to think that we've never really been taught how to deal with pain, that somehow we were just expected to find our own way out of our own madnesses, or to swallow it as if it were what we duly deserved. On the other hand, we were never taught how to deal with pleasure, how to enjoy the mere act of living, to cherish the ability to breathe. Yet under the storms of insignificant daily struggles, we lose sight of the finiteness and fragility of our own existence, one with which we were never comfortable from the moment we came squalling out of the womb.

I am here, and you are too. I might not be here tomorrow, you might not be here later today. Later becomes now very soon. If I do not extend my hand to you and show a little care, and if you do not reach out to stop my fire from extinguishing under the fury of the wind, who takes care of us?

The birds have begun to sing in the morning. A green glass bowl of kuih lapis chilling on the window sill, a taste of the tropics sitting snugly on a cloud of snow. The hope in your eyes, the tears in mine.

Posted by sniffles at 01:31 PM | Comments (7)