Random finds on a international language

From the Wall Street Journal,
Plain English Gets Harder In Global Era
By PHRED DVORAK
November 5, 2007; Page B1

GlobalEnglish earlier this year also added a "Culture Notes" section to its Web site featuring cross-cultural business tips created by Transnational Management Associates Ltd., a London-based management trainer. When working in the U.S., "it is important to exude confidence, which Americans are taught from a young age," the guide warns.

Poem for David Lambert

Who can fault the sun
that gives light and heat
on all surface things?

Photonics rays
irradiating
the masses of electron waves.

Energy masquerading solids.
Steam, stream, and ice.
One light illuminating one sameness.

But, Inequitable Man,
frail and pale,
imagining wisdom
from its narrow spectral vision.
Calculating, differentiating.
Edifying the thought-tree
of phylum and kingdom,
family, class, and specie.

A delight of self-delusion.

Progress in chaos.
Myriad in one.
Lines in circles.

When the eternal cycle comes.
Existence compressing and expanding.
When the earth is molten.
When leaves and grass,
spine and fingers are stripped ions.

Where will the minded difference be?
What fell, what evil,
what good, what excellent?

Language a riddle,
Time, illusion.

Our comprehension no greater than the black ant
Knowing only
work, feed, breed, breathe,
and the probabilistic nature of existence: beginning, striving, dying.

When time runs itself out,
one black dot,
four-times unextended, remains.

Climbing up from rock bottom

I went to The Boat a few nights ago with friends I knew for awhile and some people I met recently. Flailing my arms, jumping up and down like an idiot to the ironic thumpings of 70's pop, I had a really really good time. I was 23 again.

Actually, better than when I was at 23. At 23, I was too self-conscious to dance like that with all those people. I was more withdrawn. I felt like, on the dance floor, the 23 year old I should've been. More care-free. Enjoying being young and feeling good about an unknown future.

23 was probably the worst year of my life -- in a lifetime filled with many bad years. They just never seemed to me to bad. Bad is not what happens to you: it is when you are within that state of mind where you look at your surroundings and you tell yourself that it was bad.

And it was bad at 23.

I was living by myself in the graduate student ghetto of Kingston. I hated everyone around me: my friends, my peers, my family, my teachers. People who might care. It was a self-made misery.

23 is too young of an age to be unhappy with life. I spent the next four years in upheavel. Changing places, jobs, friends, but never changing that state of mind of being miserable. Wasted youth.

I am 27 now. Life has not changed. I am still in the same place, really. But my outlook has changed. The world seems to be giving and giving to me now. It probably always have been giving and giving. I just wasn't paying attention.

And really, what is place if not a mental representation of ourselves over our physical surroundings? A plateau can be flat rolling plains or the height of the world.

I am appreciative of the joy people I know and people I am meeting have shared with me.

The Persistence of Memory (of web-apps)

An ex-girlfriend from high school used to get mad at me all the time because I couldn't remember her birthday.

I don't know when I did it, but I apparently entered a repeating reminder to myself years ago on Yahoo Calender.

I don't even use Yahoo Calender, but I still kept Yahoo Mail. Last night, while checking my mail, Yahoo reminded me that it was her birthday today.

It was so weird.

Synchronocity also displayed itself today on the same item. I went to have a burger at Harvey's. The clerk's name-tag read, "Tenisha," which is the ex-girlfriend's middle name.

Double weird.

So, wherever you are, hon, happy birthday.

The Toronto Way

Hanging out with many different people from all over the world is one of the privleges of living in Toronto. Here, everybody has different norms and expectations. And there are different communities of diverse cultural backgrounds. I, personally, know very little about each one of them. I just know the people that I know and that some of them are cool, some of them not, some are sad, some are flippant, some are rich, some are poor.

I had always thought that the ability to accept -- or, at the very least, tolerate -- people who are very different from you is one of the key pre-requisites to surviving and thriving in Toronto. You cannot walk half a block in this city without being overwhelmed by differences. That is what makes a city, a city. The overwhelming diversity is what makes Toronto a great city. And tolerance, and co-operation, and harmony. It's the Toronto way.

Cabbies

I was leaving for home the other night. Leaving a club in Kensington with $1.43 in my pocket.

2AM. It was cold at the streetcar stop on College. A black man and a white man was trying to catch a cab. There were plenty of empty ones but none would stop for them. The black man had on a toque in Jamaician colours. The white man was bald with a single earring. He had on a navy blue bomber jacket -- the same one the skinheads in American History X wore.

All the empty cabs kept speeding past them. They were walking and laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

I crossed over to their side of the street and asked them if they were trying to hail a cab. They were apprehensive, but told me yes. I looked at them and smiled. I waved them away from the curb; closer to the side of the building and out of the light.

I had on a khaki-coloured London Fog jacket and and conservative-looking messenger bag swung to one-side. I looked like a visiting American businessman.

I stuck my arm out of the sidewalk and a cab sped down -- it swerved almost off the roadway -- and stopped pin-perfect in front of me, in spite of the rain.

I looked into the side-window to the driver, openned the rear-door. Quickly I waved the two men inside. As they got in, one of them thanked me. I said goodbye, slammed the door, and walked back to the streetcar stop. It was wet and I stared down the road west towards Little Italy. Still no streetcar was coming.

Urinals at Yonge and Bloor

Just went to the bathroom at Yonge and Bloor. All the urinals are working. The automatic sensor flushed. THere was perfectly warm water from the taps. There was even soap! Amazing!

Before I left, I thought I'd try my luck: I stuck my hands under the hand dryer. WHIIZZZ!! Hot air warmed my skin.

Wow. What did I do to deserve such good fortune?

Sex and Manhood

How could a man say no to sexual opportunity?

I am in the middle of reading Men's Work by Paul Kivel. Great work exploring the inner workings of masculinity. I can really identify.

I was kind of thinking about the same thing. A few years ago, a woman I was very attracted to propositioned me at a party. I don't know her very well, but I always found her very physically beautiful.

She was being a little frisky with me and I was a little aroused. On the other hand, I just wasn't really feeling it that night. I was slightly drunk. I wanted to go home and sleep. But I responded to her advances anyways because I felt like I must. After all, what kind of man goes running when a hot chick comes a knockin'?

Whenever I relate these incidents to my guy friends, they think I am a wussy. One of my best friend actually has a policy to try to fuck every girl that steps into the threshold of his bedroom. He isn't necessarily interested in every women that does enter his room, but he told me that he felt less of a man if he didn't at least try. The pursuit is what is important. The pursuit is itself the true test of masculinity.

I think back to all my friends who would go out every night, looking a lazy fuck. Actually, it was hardwork. Dressing up would take them two hours. Then, another hour of pre-drinking. What "pre-drinking" is for, it took me years to figure out -- it was to numb their sense of embarrassment so that they could hit on dozens of women a night and get rejected and keep on going. I still remember all the women they would bring back. Some of them, I knew, my friends were completely unattracted to.

I remember after one such unmemorable fucks, I asked my friend about why he did it.

"I just needed to get laid," he said, "sorry about the noise."

He chuckled and went back into his room.

I was horrified. My friend is an upper-middle class snob that would normally blow someone off if they had the wrong socks on. Why the hell is he fucking a woman he probably won't even talk to, he wasn't the least bit interested in, and will probably never want to see again? It seemed neither pleasurable, nor intimate, nor something to take pride or joy in.

My friends actually kept an informal scoresheet of their sexual "conquests." It wasn't really talked about, but everybody keep a mental note. And do compare. My friend, GQ, averaged about one woman a week, and YM, averaged about one woman every two weeks. They were friends and often wing each other. But it was also a competition to see who can beat who this week. Or, if one can take a chick off anoher. It was all meaningless.

GQ had just came out of a difficult relationship and was still dreaming every night about his ex-girlfriend. YM was completely confused. He wasn't sure about his sexuality at all.

Yet this nightly ritual of theirs went on for years. I was pretty disgusted and pretty sad.

I was thinking and thinking. Why do we have to prove our manhood like this? Why should anybody feel "less like a man" for listening to their body? Why can't a man say "no?" And if he did, does it make him less of a man?

The Great Yellow Hope

A few of my Catonese friends jokingly refer to me as dai-lo , "big brother." They say it in a joking manner, but they do actually mean it. Many of my friends look up to me.

With my friends, I was almost always the smartest. I knew more. I pick up new things quicker. I was more bold. I led.

Dai-lo was an honorific. These guys really believe in me. And they expect to keep doing things that will impress them. Things that they themselves cannot do. Score points. And these points will accrue to the whole team. My team. And they will somehow share in the glory. Or, as the Cantonese saying goes, "the one who helps the Chinese race capture a bit of air." Air = pride, self-respect.

Well, uneasy sits this crown.

It has been a little embarrassing that right now, I am not doing very much with my life. Mind you, I feel fine about it. My friends are embarrassed.

When we meet, they often ask me what I am doing. Almost half-hoping that I'll tell them that I am doing something so amazing that they will be dazzled again. Or, they will go out and find things for me to do. "Try that," they will say, "you will be great at it and it makes a lot of money."

I remember a few years ago, I was venting to a friend that I was unhappy at a crappy office job I was at. I was dissatisfied with a boss. The response was not what I expected. "Of course," my friend said, "how can a bunch of dumb-asses be your boss. You are too good for them." I thought he was trying to cheer me up, but listening further the conversation, I realized he was being quite literal.

They get confused if I tell them that I had recently failed at something. They will fault me. "Sam, how could you have not done it? You were probably lazy." It is as if, in their mind, I can do anything. The only possible reason how I can not get something done is if I didn't really want to do it in the first place.

This has done the most damage to my self-developement. I almost always take failure as a sign of my own lack of will. Instead, failures are part of life. People fail: they fail often. The good thing though is that people only need one or two success in their lives to live a full life. And the ability to accept the many numerous failures is the most important part of living life. It's okay to fail. Failure is what will eventually bring us those one or two success that we need. I need to start telling my friends that.

Mostly, they are confused about my lack of initiative and action. Wasn't I the one who is always strong when they are weak? The one who advanced when they retreated? The one who held the line. The one who shook the tree. The one who didn't falter. The one who carried the team. The one who stood above. Who flew and glided as everyone else struggled. Why am I not that person anymore?

Personally, I am very comfortable in my current state of limbo. I feel that I need it. I have been having a lot of inner growth. I am maturing in a way I never knew was possible. I am also having fun. Dipping in the fountains that I never knew existed before. The fountains I skipped as I flew. I am having the time of my life. Not just fleshly pleasure. I think I might have achieved a sense of euonia.

It's hard to talk about this sort of inner progress to some of my friends. They had always expected me to be richer, more successful, higher on the societal ladder, be the big man.

Recently, the situation is tense. They still speak reverently around me. But they are embarrassed and frightened. One even told me in Cantonese "if you don't make it, what chances do I have?" I scoffed.

Inwardly, I feel like I am letting down and making them feel that the world is just too tough. I feel like I have to go out and make a big splash. Be a big fish, so that they will feel okay in our little internal pecking order. This top dog is still top dog.

Then I remember why I am here and feel at peace again. That it is worthwhile. Even if I am seeing a lot of disappointed faces on people who count on me. Even if some of them become disallusioned, are avoiding me, gets flushed.

I have my own life to live. Maybe it won't take me anywhere glorious. Or make me rich. But it is my life and it is happening just as much as the tall grass is reaching towards the sky.

El Patrone

I had a talk with a friend today and it kind of helped me out with a problem I've been having in my life.

I was telling her about the various people in my life I feel responsible for. I've felt this way for most of my life. It seemed normal. My mother, amongst her friends, was ah-gai, older sister. She was the person everyone else came to when they have problems. Sometimes she consols, sometimes she problemsolves, other times, the person in the situation already had all the right solutions but just needed a slight nudge in the right direction. That is my mother.

I actually inherited this behaviour at a very very early age. I remember doing this as far back as grade 6.

Today, talking to my friend, vocalizing what I have been doing all these years sound weird. To some degree, it was intrusive. It was also controlling. It was caring. I know everybody always like me beter, some even look up to me afterwards.

Sometimes I wonder though: to what degree am I taking responsibility away from other people, infantilizing them. These patron/client relationships.

Who the fuck do I think I am? Godfather? Dai-lo?

James was telling me a few days ago that I should trust people, or, at least, leave them to their own device. People are more able when you trust them. I think I trust them. Especially to do things for their own good. Couldn't I?

Besides, even if they cannot do these things for themselves better than I could do it for them, the net effect of it ó being done by that person ó will more beneficial for all. Lack of frustration on my part. Sense of success on theirs. Our relationship will be far more equitable.

Not hot at all

Last night, my friend JC and I were talking about his "women problem." He is in-between seeing two different women: the really hot woman he is involve in now and the far plainer, less hot woman he actually likes.

I as making bets with E, our mutual friend, that he will wise up. Dump the girl he is with now and be with the woman he loves. E is more skeptical. "If the sex is as good as he says it is, I don' think he will."

This is compound by the fact tha the current girl is universally acclaimed to be hot.

"People kept coming up to me to tell me how hot she is. Even those who do not know we're dating," JC confided to me.

I realized, right there and then, how useless the concept of "hot" is.

In high school, my male friends andI often hung out at Fairview Mall. Above the food court is a crossbridge to the theatre on the second level. We stood on this platform ot check out chicks eating below.

Every women had a number. From out commanding heights, we jabbed out thumbs and heads at the hotties below. Imperiallydeclaring their hotness using a numerical scale from 1-10.

It was a floaing, consensus-building exercise.
"Dude, check out the 8 in the pink top."
"Nah, she is like a 6. Tits too small."
"But look at the legs on her. I think that counts for something."
"Okay, maybe 7."

So it would go on for hours. I think most of us barely paid attention to the women that we ourselves are allegedly attracted to. If one of us declared the appearance of a 10, we all clamoured like monkeys for a good look. Mostly, we argued. Each giving a diferent weight to different body parts, style, demeanor. The attraction was never the women and the endless parade of hotties never did feed eroticism into our hormon-driven bodies. It was just a big buy-bonding thing to do.

Over the year, I spoke to many heterosexual men about sex. I learned that their sexual preference are diverse. Pleasure of the flesh varied as the bodies of men varied. It is a piece of foolishness to let other men tel you who you should be attracted to.

So, it felt like high school again when my friend presented me with his problem. He was fucking the girl that every one else said was hot and not the woman he is actually attracted to.

But, eternal optimisim shining like the sun within me, I am still betting onmy friend to dump the hotie and date a woman I find physically repulsive and irresistably cool.

Book-brained!

I have too many books. I don't know how it happened. I don't think I
even read most of them. They are kind of just there, sitting on the
shelf and in boxes in the basement.

I don't want to get rid of them because they aren't worth anything.
And they might be useful. Maybe.

So I am in the process of cateloging them. If I can read them, I can
at least track them.

icky

Just realized that I hate Anglo women who like Paris.
It betray a certain ignorance about the city beyond the guided tours
and Fodor's.

I share the same pain as the French guy across from me. Trying to
hide behind his Nintendo DS as two more boring, suburban Ontarians
try to strike it up with him.
Just because they found out that he is from France.... how crass.