22 May--A Good Night Out

It became clear to Jamie very early in the morning that he should have had more to eat the night before--more than onion baji, anyway. For the uninitiated, onion baji is an Indian delicacy whereby one dips strips of onion in a batter spiced with cumin, curry, taragon, and chilis, and then chucks the pieces in the deep fryer. It should not, therefore, be eaten when a) one wishes to meet a girl, or b) when one plans on spending the rest of the evening drinking beer. Jamie was on course for the latter.

The night began--as many nights do--with an innocent drink after work. Jamie was celebrating a successful presentation on workplace sustainability (recycling, energy reduction, etc.), and decided he needed a drink. Just one, of course--just one.

Twenty minutes later he's downed two pitchers of pilsner and is walking around Mighty Mighty pretending to be a member of the wait staff. He, and two of his friends from work, Hannah and Liam, soon discovered that the world is a more fascinating place when you have a camera. Please take a moment to witness our night of self destruction.

17 May--A Good Pace

It has been 9 days since Jamie last posted. In fact, the time between posts has become longer with each passing week. It appears Jamie did not pace himself very well at the start. He should have begun more relaxed, found his pace about 1/4 of the way through, then kicked out a fast finish--a little like what he's hoping to do for the Wellington Half Marathon.

While it won't be the first half marathon Jamie's run--it will, in fact, be his second--he hopes to better his time. Unfortunately, this means running. A lot. Continuously. And if he runs with the same consistency with which he blogs, the whole event might take awhile.

08 May--Meditation

Yesterday evening, Jamie was invited to attend a meeting introducing people to meditation. While not one who regularly meditates--read: ever meditates--Jamie was still interested to participate in a discussion on the topic. As an academic, he had studied Psychology (along with other disciplines in the Arts) and Religion. He was also a Catholic until the age of 17, at which time he decided this whole religion thing just didn't really have a leg to stand on (Jamie spent much of his late teens and early 20s a very angry atheist, but has recently calmed down). So he regarded the evening as a chance to learn more about a subject he often dismissed.

However, as the evening unfolded, Jamie found himself listening to people talk on a subject matter he ended up being very familiar with. He has read books on Taoism and enjoys the idea that the only thing that exists is the current moment. He's read Lao Tzu (on whose teachings Taoism is founded), and smiles when the philosopher reminds t that everything has a use--even a pile of rubbish. Among other philosophies, theosophies, and thinkers, Jamie is familiar with the Gnostic Gospels, the Old and New Testaments, William James, Carl Jung, the Koran, and the Bhagavad Gita--all of which comment at least briefly on the idea of cognitive peace. And while he is not well-versed in some tomes (except perhaps the biblical ones, for which he blames his parents), he is all the while informed.

The speaker's name, to begin with, was Saronya (a name Jamie had to fight not to mispronounce as "Sayonara"), which is a Sanskrit word. Fair enough. Sanskrit is one of the many official languages of India, not to mention very, very old. It made sense that topics as ancient as meditation would have some affiliation with their linguistic counterparts. Yet some things didn't quite fit--there was misinformation afoot.

Saronya, who dressed only in white, explained that this particular discipline of meditation (Ishaya's Ascension) was focused on "quieting the mind's chatter and employing the attitudes of praise, gratitude, love, and compassion." No surprise there. However, when she mentioned that the founder "invented" this technique in 1988, Jamie's mind began to chatter. And when she further explained that the founder was compelled to invent this technique because, in an epiphany, it "was time for these attitudes to be in the world," Jamie's mind got a little louder. But when she said "the great thinker Alfred Maslow said we have a right to be 'whole' beings," Jamie's mind could not keep to itself.

"Um, yeah. Sorry to interrupt," Jamie said politely, "But Maslow also said that you can't get to the self-enlightenment stage without first fulfilling basic needs. His philosophy was based on a hierarchy of principles and actions, not mere thoughts."

To his surprised, Saronya gently side-stepped Jamie's comment, quickly turning back to the attitudes of ascension. But for Jamie, the rest of the talk fell apart. He could not help but draw correlations between her points and other religions and philosophies: how we need praise as children (Freud), using love and compassion to quell frustration (gnostics, Buddhism), and quieting the mind for mental clarity (Taoism, Buddhism). While putting them all together was neat, it was not worth the $500 she was asking for further sessions.

At the end of the discussion, Saronya turned to Jamie and asked, "So what do you think? Will you be joining us?"

Jamie replied, "No, I'm fine actually. I'm just fine."

2 May -- An Average Day

Today is an average work day: Jamie has spent a total of 40 minutes on the train. He took 30 minutes to enjoy a cup of coffee at the French bakery across the road before walking into the office. He read the news--for 30 minutes. He has since spent a grand total of 1 hour doing actual work (writing code, Photoshopping and uploading images, amending PDFs, tracking changes). Between work, he has spent 3 hours in meetings. Between work and meetings, he has spent 45 minutes waiting for meetings to begin (he is waiting for one now). He ate lunch for 15 minutes (he used what was left of his lunch hour strolling Wellington's freshly dampened footpaths). He used the toilet for 8 minutes (aggregated, not all at once). He is 29. The average life span of a Western male is 75 years. If, for the next 46 years (taking into account weekends and a much-deserved 2-week holiday per year) Jamie worked an average day he would have: wasted 34,500 hours in meetings, worked on something interesting for 11,500 hours, twiddled his thumbs for 8,625 hours waiting for a meeting to start, ridden 7,666 hours on the train, and enjoyed only 2,875 precious hours eating soup. He would have spent 1,533 hours in the toilet.

However depressing these figures might seem, Jamie is not fazed. He is, instead, preparing the invoice.

24 April -- Awake and Aging

The terms 'aging' and 'growing old' carry more negative connotations than positive ones. Used as adjectives in throw-away phrases such as "the aging infrastructure" and "that joke is getting old" reinforces the claim that the Western English lexicon treats these as unfavourable conditions. In fact, if one were to try to say anything uplifting while using these exemplars of existential exits, then one would have to tack on a modifier such as "gracefully", or construct a flattering simile ("like a fine wine," etc.)--especially when describing people. People don't like being thought of as useless or of limited use. It upsets them. Indeed, it no doubt expedites the very process they're trying to overcome (or to at least ignore). If nobody needs you, what's the point of sticking around (unless, of course, you're sticking around out of sheer stubbornness and the dark desire to piss off everybody else [which is fair enough, actually. Some of the oldest individuals in the worlds are fueled only by hatred and revenge. It demands some admiration.])?

How frustrating it must be for those who are aging and growing old to witness the very actions that put them in rest homes being reinforced by the obscenely young. Junior does a poopie doodie and the room explodes with applause like he's just back-flipped onto daddy's shoulders. But God forbid grandpa lets slide a little squirt; he'd be checked in to Larkspur before he could say 'Depends.' Junior draws a picture with brown crayons and drool, and mommy has it framed. Grandpa's handwriting gets squiggly, and he's medicated. There is something about coming full circle that seems to cause anxiety for those in the middle of the loop. Those at the beginning and end, however, are just happy to be here.

Surely there is something we can learn from the aging and old. There must be some wisdom we can glean from those for whom stories trump bills in order of importance. When you hands are un-still and your blue eyes fade; when dinner's at four and the skin on your head sleeps gently down your face; when your life and your memories meet each other before you and shake hands, it is time to sit down and give someone a little advice. For if you wait too long, you will find yourself in the arms of your mother--awake and learning; aging and growing old.

12 April

Morning screamed into existence with a shrill southerly, but hours later was calm; its howling subsided and stillness all that remained. In the French bakery on The Terrace, a blonde barrista wipes a strand of hair from her face and opens a window facing the footpath. Two businessmen carrying umbrellas walk briskly past, but her eyes don't catch them. Instead, she looks upward and over the buildings across the street. The hills rise in the distance, atop which trees catch the last cold breezes as the wind changes direction. She puts her hands on her hips and closes her eyes. A shot of sunlight breaks through a hole in the clouds, sweeping a few windows before it is quashed. Summer has all but fully lost its grip now, and the decent into Autumn is met with little resistance. We are tired, and there is something alluring about spending the dark evenings together--how mugs clank in a quiet pub or the sound of rain when you're next to a slow-paced fire--that makes losing the light no bad, not so bad at all.

10 April--Don't mean to be political, but . . .

Today, Jamie stumbled upon a very disturbing blog. It relays the story of Professor Walter F. Murphy, emeritus of Princeton University. Upon arriving at the airport on his way to attend an academic conference, he was detained and told he could not board. After a brief conversation with the check-in clerk, he learned he was denied because he had given a speech critical of George W. Bush and was subsequently added to a "terrorist watch list."

Professor Murphy is a hero of the Korean War.

George W. Bush dodged the draft.

Read more here.

6 April

Jamie taste-tested two fair trade organic coffees, and wrote about them on his other blog, Duck and Cover. In his opinion, the test is scientifically sound, but you may want to check for yourself. Read it here.

2 April--Hidden Treasure

While deleting old photos and videos from his phone, Jamie discovered this little easter egg taken by his brother, John, during his visit over Christmas.

30 March

Clouds cling lightly to the heavens, and there is no wind in the capitol city. The train on the Paraparaumu line skates around Titahi Bay and into Wellington Central Station. It is Friday, and the harbour is calm in the morning sun.

It is true people come and go. We are born. We die. What happens in between, however, is not irrelevant. In fact, it is all we have. Does it really matter if you buy the car? Does it matter if you make the light? Do you really need to go to work today? Your friend leaves Tuesday, for instance, and you haven't seen your brother in ages. Didn't your girlfriend mention something about wanting to have lunch in town--you know, like you used to do? You didn't return your mother's phone call. You drank too much, and you suddenly realise what it means to act your age.

Some days there is just enough time to notice there is just enough time.

In a kowhai tree, two fat sparrows preen, and their feathers puff and jitter against fat, round bodies. One is larger than the other, and the smaller one stretches its tail to reveal clean, white under-feathers. A woman in the apartment across the alley opens her window to pour out the last of her tea. The drink doesn't fall straight, but immediately spreads: unhinging itself in descent, widening, as if to stretch out wings and carry on.

25 March

Jamie spent a few days on Waiheke island attending a wedding for a friend of Ami's. The wedding itself, on a beach that was at the base of a very steep slope, was disorganised and particularly accident prone. However, one redeeming feature was the food.

Jamie had heard of a hangi, but had never seen, let alone experienced one. A hangi, as any Kiwi will tell you, is a Maori cooking tradition whereby rocks are taken from a bonfire and piled into a deep hole. The food is then placed upon the rocks, wrapped in blankets, and buried. Eight hours later, the food is cooked and piping hot.

Hangi food generally consists of different meats, potatos, kumara, and maybe a pumpkin or two. Hearty food. And wrapped in with the blankets that cover the food is also the odd leaf of cabbage used to add moisture (one of the guests remarked to Jamie that "there is always cabbage at a hangi." An observation of both the food and the relatively large number of very old women hovering around the food).

Not knowing what to expect, Jamie piled his plate high with venison, pork, beef, spuds--well, everything really. The meat was incredible. Moist and crumbling apart like cake. But when he tasted the potato, the sensation was, well, different. He imagined he might accidentally have chosen the accidental car tire chucked in with the food. The he took a bite of the pumkin. Another tire.

"How's your food?" Ami asked at one stage.

"Um, good." He answered, then added. "Does anyone else's meal taste like car?"

"Yeah," said one of the guests. "It's an acquired taste."

19 Mar

Jamie has kept himself quite busy lately. Two of his projects that have just gone public are a trading website based loosely on newspaper want ads (view), and a collaborative blog about music and pop culture penned with the help of his long-time friend, Dakin (view).

14 March

A blast of southern air blew across New Zealand, chilling the country from Bluff Hill to Cape Reinga. And while it isn't winter, per se, the shift in weather was a very convincing argument of what is, inevitably, to come. Some weeks ago, during the last dry days of Wellington's Indian summer, Jamie had the rare foresight to order a shipment of firewood. It arrived today. When Jamie, Ami, and Nick arrived home there, in a pile before the garage, was three cubic metres of wood, a mixture of dense macracarpa and softer pine. One perfect for catching from fuel as thin as newspaper; the other slow-burning, letting go so gradually embers glow still at 6am, when Jamie's alarm sounds.

It takes the three of them a mere 30 minutes to move the wood from the driveway and into the wood shed. With each armful, their heads fill with ideas for the first fire of the season. Jamie dreams of pumpkin soup and apple cider. Ami imagines the easy comfort of slipping on a woolly jumper and knitting a few lines in front of the blaze. Nick thinks of women. Nick usually thinks of women, which is why he and Jamie get along so well.

After dinner (Nick cooked quiche), the three of them sit around the new fire and talk about religion, time, quantum entanglement (briefly), New Zealand cinema, and ukuleles. They talked like they had not spoken for weeks; like they were newly alight; like it had been a year since the air had felt so clean.

12 March

For the past three weeks, Jamie has played host to a friend of his, Nick. The situation is somewhat unfortunate, if a little amusing. In short, Nick was cheating on his girlfriend. She found out when she, Nick, and the fling were all in the same footrace together which concluded with both women screaming at Nick while he hid behind a bush. So Nick was kicked out of the house and is now spending quality time in Jamie's spare room.

Tonight, Nick, who's decided the best course of action is to leave the country--a decision with which Jamie wholly agrees--and so feels he must lighten his baggage. One example of this is unloading boxes of books onto Jamie's floor. Thus far, the evening has been spend poring over graphic novels, compendiums of fantasy illustrations, fix-it manuals, and the odd piece of vampire literature. All in all, a rich and rewarding evening--for Jamie, if not for Nick.

Though it all deteriorated when Nick's ex rang him and decided now was a good time to be angry--very, very angry. After about half an hour of shouting, crying, and more shouting, Nick returns to the lounge. Jamie is just finishing a book called Dream Makers: Six Fantasy Artists at Work, but decides to read a few pages over again in hopes Nick will not tell him how the call went. After three week of living with Nick, Jamie is sure he knows very well how the call went. Besides, he's not deaf--the goddamn neighbors could comment on how the call went. So Jamie pushes his face close to a large sketch of a scantily clad woman holding an impossibly huge sword and pretends to be very interested (which is not difficult if you knew the picture in question).

Yet there is no stopping Nick. He begins with a heavy sigh, then proceeds to recount, word for word, what was said. Realising Nick shows no sign of letting up, Jamie decides now is a very good time to write a blog entry.

10 March

Sometimes it is futile waiting for technology. Jamie sits before Google Docs and Spreadsheets awaiting a blank screen. Beirut plays on the stereo, and he corrects his spelling as he tries to describe how it makes him want to sing.

There are revelations not worth recording.

At 3am, no matter where one sits, the air feels heavy. But still one may hear an echo of laughter from the other room, a slight giggle of encouragement, very similar to the day when you stepped out of the car to fix the windshield wipers in the middle of the night on the way back to Wichita. There was only darkness. Of course, you should have replaced them before you left home, but here you are, slouched on the shoulder of highway 70 piecing together fragments of your windshield. Vision is imperative. This stretch of Kansas you spent your youth on is suddenly trecherous and there is nothing more important than coming home. With a small penlight, you move about the freeway searching for rubber wings.

There is a girl. There is always a girl.

You find the sliver you were looking for, there in the tiniest light, the only light.

7 March

The wind in Wellington is easing, and rain has been scarce since early February. Autumn is coming, and the entire city seems to hold its breath in apprehension.

Unlike the anticipation felt in Spring when the desire to lunge one's self fully forward is undeniable, Autumn suspends us. We know winter is coming, but we're not quite ready to see it yet. There is a mixture of dread and disappointment, like the feeling a boy gets after chasing a girl all Summer: He stands at the train station ready to board, and she waves goodbye. Will he kiss her, or will he forget her forever? The scene plays out forever: the boy chooses an infinite number of possibilities an infinite number of times, but by the same argument, he is infinitely on the platform with one sneaker in the door, suspended in the season of farewell.

1 Mar--Typhoid?

As Jamie sits in the French bakery on the Terrace, he thinks about typhoid.

Typhoid?

He reads a headline in The Dominion Post about a typhoid outbreak in Porirua, where he lives.

Typhoid?

Jamie remembers inoculation against polio (mostly because they poked him in the bum) and the flu, but not against typhoid, that was something young children in Dickens books suffered from. He takes a sip of his coffee and lets his gaze drift out the window. How very literary it would be, he decides, to catch typhoid. He might dress in heavy blue robes during the day and move about at a slow shuffle. At night, he will moan and let the burning illness focus his mind on what he's never done, and then he'll moan some more.

Jamie suddenly remembers that one of the symptoms of typhoid is diarrhoea. Perhaps he will not catch typhoid, after all. No, indeed he won't. Instead, he invites readers to listen to a song by Sufjan Stevens (thank you, Dakin). Note--no video, just music.

28 Feb--Death by Caffeine

According to this source, Jamie would have to drink 105 cups of coffee in a sitting before croaking.

21 Feb

Jamie sits on the couch in his lounge and peers out the window. Just beyond his the boundary of his back yard there is a hill. Atop the hill is another residence which looks directly into Jamie's lounge. Often when he looks out the window, Jamie will see the occupants of the hill house looking back. Never in a spooky way, but simply as a someone momentarily lost in thought and gazing into space, or in most cases gazing into Jamie's living room. And there are, of course, the awkward moments when both Jamie and the woman on the hill decide to glance out their respective windows at the same time. For less than a second, they are two people looking at each other: completely natural. Yet there is something uncomfortable about it, something in the gut that forces both to quickly look just a little bit to the left as if to say, "Nope. Didn't see you there. I was actually concentrating on the aerial."

17 Feb--Aqua Teen Hunger Force

Jamie and his brother, John, have loved the cartoon Aqua Teen Hunger Force since its inception 7 years ago. So when they learned that the creators were somehow implicated in a "terror" plot, they were both rolling with laughter. However, for a more serious analysis of the situation and how it relates to the East coast of America's Puritanical roots, read this article.

(image stolen from www.boingboing.net. If you're from BB, and you don't want it posted here, just let me know.)