the seals are singing jagadamba

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Thu, 08 Sep 2011 16:13:16 -0400

Radiolab presents: Moments by Will Hoffman. This films is a...

Thu, 08 Sep 2011 15:57:33 -0400

Radiolab presents: Moments by Will Hoffman.

This films is a celebration of life that was inspired by David Eagleman’s book, Sum.

“3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand...

Thu, 04 Aug 2011 23:30:00 -0400

“3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand miles, an exploding volcano, 2 cameras and almost a terabyte of footage…all to turn 3 ambitious linear concepts based on movement, learning and food…into 3 beautiful and hopefully compelling short films…

= a trip of a lifetime.”

by Rick Mereki

i want to curl up in there!

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 22:55:16 -0400

i want to curl up in there!

an ode to everyone who has ever invited me over for a bbq.

Sun, 17 Jul 2011 00:28:17 -0400

an ode to everyone who has ever invited me over for a bbq.

let’s go away to here.

Sun, 17 Jul 2011 00:07:00 -0400

let’s go away to here.

"You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before, she may love again. But if she..."

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 21:55:00 -0400

““You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before, she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect - you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.””

- Bob Marley

one of my most vivid childhood memories is going over to my...

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 17:59:13 -0400

one of my most vivid childhood memories is going over to my grandmother’s house to help her rotate her enormous shoe collection so that the current season’s ware was most accessible.

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Wed, 06 Jul 2011 17:47:07 -0400

"Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its..."

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 14:55:45 -0400

“Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.”

- W. S. Merwin, “Separation” from The Second Four Books of Poems (via lastwaltzinvienna)

via Ben Heine

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 01:54:00 -0400

via Ben Heine

Last night at Lowbank

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 00:50:00 -0400

And there are not enough words to describe the flurry of emotions taking over. Twenty-three long, amazing, chaotic, memory-filled years in this home, and tomorrow we are saying our goodbyes.

I am incredibly excited for the new place that awaits my family in midtown Toronto — a gorgeous, unbelievably accessible condo that my North York self has been dreaming about since high school required my first of (oh-so-many) multiple-connection daily ttc adventures. Yet I cannot help but get emotional when I think about leaving the cul-de-sac where I conquered two-wheel bike riding; the basement that held every giggly-girly all nighter sleepover; the house where my friends shocked me with a surprise seventeenth birthday; the ravine just around the corner where we would take family bike rides, our dog always foolishly running along any paved path until her paws were raw; the front lawn that has a slight incline, which as kids we were convinced could be used as a mini toboggan hill (emphasis on extremely mini); or the dining room table, where each year we would make our Hallowe’en costumes (store-boughts were strictly forbidden) and then late after a full night of trick-or-treating, embark on the great candy swap (she would trade almost anything for coffee crisps while I attempted to con her out of rockets and bite-size aero bars, and my mother artfully scooped up any leftovers for herself)…I really could go on for days with this…

No matter how many years you have lived away from it, or how many other places you have temporarily called home, there is just something about your childhood home that tugs on the old heartstrings.

So here’s to 11 Lowbank and the last night. Tomorrow is not going to be easy.

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Wed, 08 Jun 2011 01:02:24 -0400

by Esao Andrews

Tue, 07 Jun 2011 15:25:42 -0400

by Esao Andrews

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Wed, 01 Jun 2011 01:35:47 -0400

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Sat, 28 May 2011 16:44:54 -0400

things that i miss about bolivia today: - spending the days...

Mon, 23 May 2011 17:03:00 -0400

my view

coca leaf re-fill

things that i miss about bolivia today:

- spending the days hiking through microclimates in the rainforest, in samaipata. never fully being able to take it all in because this was my view.

things that i do not miss about bolivia today:

- having to chew coca leaves the entire hiking time to thwart off altitude sickness. the little cuts that i inevitably would get on the sides of my cheeks and how the baking soda tasted when it got inside them.

The History of Love

Mon, 23 May 2011 15:56:00 -0400

Excerpt from “The History of Love” by Nicole Krauss.

Once upon a time there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword. A pebble could be a diamond. A tree a castle.

Once upon a time there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was Queen and he was King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls. When the sky grew dark they parted with leaves in their hair.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughing was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn’t talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast. Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived. What if I die? she asked. Even then, he said. For her sixteenth birthday he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. What’s this? he’d ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle, and she’d look it up. And this? he’d ask, licking her elbow. Elbow! What kind of word is that? and then he’d lick it, making her giggle. What about this? he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. I don’t know, she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed. Later — when things happened that they could never have imagined — she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything?

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl whose father was shrewd enough to scrounge together all the zloty he had to send his youngest daughter to America. At first she refused to go, but the boy also knew enough to insist, swearing on his life that he’d earn some money and find a way to follow her. So she left. He got a job in the nearest city, working as a janitor in a hospital. At night he stayed up writing his book. He sent her a letter into which he’d copied eleven chapters in tiny handwriting. He wasn’t even sure the mail would get through. He saved all the money he could. One day he was laid off. No one said why. He returned home. In the summer of 1941, the Einsatzgruppen drove deeper east, killing hundreds of thousands of Jews. On a bright, hot day in July, they entered Slonim. At that hour, the boy happened to be lying on his back in the woods thinking about the girl. You could say it was his love for her that saved him. In the years that followed, the boy became a man who became invisible. In this way, he escaped death.

Once upon a time a man who had become invisible arrived in America. He’d spent three and a half years hiding, mostly in trees, but also cracks, cellars, holes. Then it was over. The Russian tanks rolled in. For six months, he lived in a Displaced Persons camp. He got word to his cousin who was a locksmith in America. In his head, he practiced over and over the only words he knew in English. Knee. Elbow. Ear. Finally his papers came through. He took a train to a boat, and after a week he arrived in New York Harbour. A cool day in November. Folded in his hands was the address of the girl. That night he lay awake on the floor of his cousin’s room. The radiator clanged and hissed, but he was grateful for the warmth. In the morning his cousin explained to him three times how to take the subway to Brooklyn. He bought a bunch of roses but they wilted because though his cousin had explained the way three times he still got lost. At last he found the place. Only as his finger pressed the doorbell did the thought cross his mind that perhaps he should have called. She opened the door. She wore a blue scarf over her hair. He could hear the broadcast of a ball game through the neighbours wall.

Once upon a time, the woman who had been a girl got on a boat to America and threw up the whole way, not because she was seasick but because she was pregnant. When she found out, she wrote to the boy. Every day she waited for a letter from him, but none came. She got bigger and bigger. She tried to hide it so she wouldn’t lose her job at the dress factory where she worked. A few weeks before the baby was born, she got news from someone who heard they were killing Jews in Poland. Where? she asked, but no one knew where. She stopped going to work. She couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed. After a week, the son of her boss came to see her. He brought her food to eat, and put a bouquet of flowers in a vase by her bed. When he found out she was pregnant, he called a midwife. A baby boy was born. One day the girl sat up in bed and saw the son of her boss rocking her child in the sunlight. A few months later, she agreed to marry him. Two years later, she had another child.

The man who had become invisible stood in her living room listening to all of this. He was twenty-five years old. He had changed so much since he last saw her and now part of him wanted to laugh a hard, cold laugh. She gave him a small photograph of the boy, who was now five. Her hand was shaking. She said: You stopped writing. I thought you were dead. He looked at the photograph of the boy who would grow up to look like him, who, although the man didn’t know it then, would go to college, fall in love, fall out of love, become a famous writer. What’s his name? heasked. She said: I call him Isaac. They stood for a long time in silence as he stared at the picture. At last he managed three words: Come with me. The sound of children shouting came from the street below. She squeezed her eyes shut. Come with me, he said, holding out his hand. Tears rolled down her face. Three times he asked her. She shook her head. I can’t, she said. She looked down at the floor. Please, she said. And so he did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life: he picked up his hat and walked away.

And if the man who once upon a time had been a boy who promised he’d never fall in love with another girl as long as he lived kept his promise, it wasn’t because he was stubborn or even loyal. He couldn’t help it. And having hidden for three and a half years, hiding his love for a son who didn’t know he existed didn’t seem unthinkable. Not if it was what the only woman he would ever love needed him to do. After all, what does it mean for a man to hide one more thing when he has vanished completely?

another ultimate time-waster: sporcle.com

Wed, 24 Mar 2010 03:12:00 -0400

another ultimate time-waster: sporcle.com:

posting when i have work to do? hm, i wonder if this is some kind of theme.

two assignments, two essays, two tests and one play to finish directing before i can graduate. wishful thinking me says that i can get 1/3 of that done by next week. realistic me says that focusing that hard is cuckoo for coco-puffs.

instead of working, i’ve spent all my time recently playing geography quizzes on sporcle. on the bright side, i can now name at least 130 countries at the drop of a hat.

i. want. this.

Thu, 18 Mar 2010 01:52:21 -0400

i. want. this.