It's graduation week at SFU, and oh how I wish I could be there! In honor of the pomp and circumstance, I've decided to subject you all to a brief recapitulation of my wonderful year in Vancouver... in haiku form. I apologize in advance.
Vancouver, Part I
Start each day with tea
Fill up reusable cup
Class always starts late
Read, read, read, read, read
Read, read, read, read, read, read, read
Read, read, read, read, read
Talk a walk or ride
Go down to the Drive real quick
Drown stress in beer mug
Vancouver, Part II
This term is not bad
I can read while sleeping
Okay, maybe not
Where did the time go?
Four books to read each weekend
Crap! School is still hard
Falling behind, but
Last semester I learned how
To fake it when lost
Vancouver, Part III
What is in the sky?
UFO? No, it's the sun
Let's go climb The Chief
Sitting in the sand
Gaze at the mountains each day
Write, write, write, write, write
My paper is done!
Time to finally relax
Goodbyes already?
I learned lots of things in grad school, but the biggest Vancouver lesson was this: time flies when you're working your butt off.
** vancity love **
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Window
Yesterday I signed up for a new Howard County Library card, cementing my status as a re-established Marylander. Card in hand, I purposefully strolled from the front desk to the Fiction section, as if I already knew what I was looking for (I didn't). I found myself face to face with the "H" shelf and strode to the left until I arrived at the Ks. Something inside me drove my body towards the works of Milan Kundera, although once I arrived there I discovered I'd already read all of the books available (and own a copy of most, as well).
From the Ks, I retraced my steps until I arrived at the Cs, knowing I was in search of something by Michael Chabon. For some reason, the discovery of an almost brand-new copy of "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" caught me by surprise. I snatched it immediately and carried it to the check out desk as if it was a fresh, fragile egg. Elated, I walked out of the library feeling like I'd just won a prize, and in a way I guess I had. This is a book I've been meaning to read for ages, and 24 hours later I was already more than halfway through it -- at once wanting to tear through the remaining pages and also never wanting it to end.
But I still find my thoughts returning to the works of Kundera. So much of his writing is dedicated to the examination of (what I see as) the truth that two people can never share a common memory or even hold true images of each other in their minds. All of our memories of events and people (including ourselves) are tainted by our personalities, desires, and fears. And yet, despite this seemingly insurmountable obstacle that reality places between us all, we form these very real connections and love still blooms.
I'm now living in a place that for a long time was not much more than a memory to me, and I'm simultaneously flooded with a whole new set of memories of another, far off place. I remind myself, and discover reminders everywhere, that the world in my mind and the physical world are not the same place. The act of remembrance is like looking at the world through a window, with the frame blocking part of the view. Living, moving objects are visible, but our minds will never allow us to see the whole thing. Whether it's a memory of a sandwich or a friend, what's in our minds is never what -- at one time -- we found before us.
And so I am all the more amazed at the ease with which two people can remain connected over time and distance. It's a remarkable, apparent simplicity in a very complex world.
From the Ks, I retraced my steps until I arrived at the Cs, knowing I was in search of something by Michael Chabon. For some reason, the discovery of an almost brand-new copy of "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" caught me by surprise. I snatched it immediately and carried it to the check out desk as if it was a fresh, fragile egg. Elated, I walked out of the library feeling like I'd just won a prize, and in a way I guess I had. This is a book I've been meaning to read for ages, and 24 hours later I was already more than halfway through it -- at once wanting to tear through the remaining pages and also never wanting it to end.
But I still find my thoughts returning to the works of Kundera. So much of his writing is dedicated to the examination of (what I see as) the truth that two people can never share a common memory or even hold true images of each other in their minds. All of our memories of events and people (including ourselves) are tainted by our personalities, desires, and fears. And yet, despite this seemingly insurmountable obstacle that reality places between us all, we form these very real connections and love still blooms.
I'm now living in a place that for a long time was not much more than a memory to me, and I'm simultaneously flooded with a whole new set of memories of another, far off place. I remind myself, and discover reminders everywhere, that the world in my mind and the physical world are not the same place. The act of remembrance is like looking at the world through a window, with the frame blocking part of the view. Living, moving objects are visible, but our minds will never allow us to see the whole thing. Whether it's a memory of a sandwich or a friend, what's in our minds is never what -- at one time -- we found before us.
And so I am all the more amazed at the ease with which two people can remain connected over time and distance. It's a remarkable, apparent simplicity in a very complex world.
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