We Should See Other Blogs

Every now and then, there is some evidence for the moral progress of mankind.  Looking back in time, Wikipedia reports:

One particularly pernicious rumor was that Koreans were taking advantage of the disaster, committing arson and robbery, and were in possession of bombs. In the aftermath of the quake, mass murder of Koreans by brutal mobs occurred in urban Tokyo and Yokohama, fueled by rumors of rebellion and sabotage. About 6,600 Koreans were murdered. Some newspapers reported the rumors as fact, which led to the most deadly rumor of all: that the Koreans were poisoning wells. The numerous fires and cloudy well water, a little-known effect of a large quake, all seemed to confirm the rumors of the panic-stricken survivors who were living amidst the rubble. Vigilante groups set up roadblocks in cities, towns and villages across the region. Because people with Korean accents pronounced “G” or “J” in the beginning of words differently, ? ? (j?-go-en, go-j?-sen) and ????? (gagigugego) were used as a shibboleth. Anyone who failed to pronounce them properly was deemed Korean. Some were told to leave, but many were beaten or killed. Moreover, anyone mistakenly identified as Korean, such as Chinese, Okinawans, and Japanese speakers of some regional dialects, suffered the same fate. About 700 Chinese, mostly from Wenzhou were killed.

On modern-day Japan, Edward Hugh has an excellent post.

From when I used to write depressing things.

This is how our love grows cold:

Like an engine running on
steel shavings and
burnt oil;
like former muscles
failing day
by day?

We run out of similes.
Love is like music: it ends.

We run out of metaphors
for paycheque and performance,
forgetfulness and flippancy.

Eventual
anonymity.

I present a post from my old, old, old blog. From the year 2003, the month, 06, and the day 11, combining as 2003-06-11, I present this slice of my former life:

Well today started off pretty crappy. I was driving to work and I heard this loud rumbling noise and I was like “Who’s driving a Sherman tank down Kenedy Road?” until I noticed that the rumbling noise increased when I pressed the gas pedal. *groan* so now I have a nice broken muffler to deal with. At least at Speedy I’m a somebody.

My brilliant party email didn’t include a time or directions. Thank you for all of you who pointed that out to me. The after-email is coming today, and I kept those things out because I hadn’t decided on which time, and I didn’t figured out the way that most people would get there.

Last night I went for a nice walk around my neighborhood, and checked out where the bus lines go in Mississauga. It’s going to take at least an hour to get to work if I take the bus as opposed to driving the Tank. But that would be alright were it not for the tortuous route that the bus takes to actually get to my work. Reading a book on the bus is one thing, but reading a book on the bus while the bus takes you to Port Credit and back is quite another thing.

So if you’re ever going to come over to my place please phone ahead. I’d want to clean it up and everything before you saw it.

Coming from the 403/QEW combination: When the highway branches off into the QEW and 403, take the 403 offramp, and take the 403 East until you come to the Hwy10 exit. Bear right onto the offramp, but don’t turn right or left. Continue straight across Hwy10 onto Sherwoodtowne Road. Round the curve in the road approaching Rathburn Road, and turn left onto Rathburn. Continue on Rathburn until you approach the first set of stoplights. Turn left onto Woodlawn Road (or something like that). Then turn left again at the first road, and you will be on Chalfield road. My apartment is #87, and you can just take the walkway around to the back of the house, down the steps, and knock on the door.

Seven years ago. Yowza. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read this stuff, then or now. (Thanks to the Internet Archive for archiving all kinds of crap!)

Or, check this out: I don’t remember any of the following happening, and I strongly suspect I simply made it up, that I was trying some bizarre fact/fiction blogging thing:

An interesting weekend without internet access lead to me going to Nathan Phillip’s Square in Toronto where it seemed like the entire population had decided to show up and skate slower than me. Thus, the inevitable child skating against the flow, the colision, and the mother who is unable to understand that it actually IS her stupid child’s fault after all.

And then there was the subway. There was this guy that looked exactly (I swear!) like Adam from Earthsuit – check that band out at Earthsuit.com – with the freakout glasses and spazmodic movements and everything. Not to mention the two guys who kept giving eachother money in ascending denominations, or the dude that jumped onto the train as the door was a mere two inches from being closed.

And then there was downtown. The streetperson who got mad at me because I didn’t give him anything (I mean what, I’m going to give a dude with a waxed mustache and Nike Airs any money?). Or the hunched over old guy in Starbucks asking for money… didn’t give him my debit card which was all I had. Coulda given him some coffee, but he probably wanted stimulants of a different and somewhat more potent nature.

Old, found in a notebook. Verbatim.

I was so small. An infinite circle, but so small.
A perfect circle, an artifice, an unnatural symmetry.

If I outgrew the circle or if it shrank within me,
I don’t know. It is a tiny, significant, imperfect memory.

I remember stars like eyes askance circling overhead
while I stalked my claim. How I struggled to bring it down!

I remember the jaws closing round my neck.
I remember the tubes and vessels full of vacuum.

I remember feeling so small while the vice tightened.
The circle right around my few remaining waking moments.

I remember being blind and deaf and sleepless for a while,
but also I remember the knives. I remembering being cured.

And I am so small, the happiest infinite smallness.
Joy at being found dead and wanting death.

I remember the first time I realised it,
and how I fell into it and disappeared.

Old song. Don’t ask. I don’t know.

Throw him in the oven. If he lives then we will love him.
And at least he’ll be sure he’s alive.
If he dies we will dissect him, from the sternum to the rectum
so we can finally understand what’s inside.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Toss him in the oil, and we’ll watch to see him boil.
if he doesn’t, we’ll let up a cheer.
If he does you get the batter, roll him up and mind the splatter,
while I crack open a couple of beers.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Old song.

In reverence and awe,
in ignorance and bliss,
you fall on your face
in front of a mirror
and call it god.

Can you recall a time
with your kinetics slack,
the agonizing cry,
the fire in your chest,
a heart attack.

Old song.

May the angel of death watch over you
on your trek to the dark side of the moon.
All of your friends have already left
with the angel of death.

Old song. Also must have been listening to Somewhere North Of Here.

There are too many days and too many long nights
between here and now and the rest of my life.
All of these songs are meant to fill the silence,
but they just remind me of your voice.

I am used to these streets that stretch between us
like telephone cords wrapped around my neck.
And the radio wire inside my heart sing signals
that you’re too damn far away.

Is there a remedy for distance, a therapy
for climbing a mountain that never seems to end?

Old song.

I can’t remember your skin.
You’re always half an hour away.
I’d sell all this stuff
if it would be enough
to convince you to stay.

Old song. Again, awful. I was having a bad night or something.

Your art is to imitate architects,
to see who can build the strongest.
As if in the penthouse of your regret
you can hold your breath the longesdt.

As if to say now that it’s said and done,
you can tie all the pages together,
hide it where no-one will ever see,
and blame it on the weather.