The Paddock

Forest in Black and White

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More walks, more forests

Sorry for the nature writing. Corny, I know. But I digress…

After a few days of thawing, the temperature cooled on Christmas day and with it a snow storm. Driving home to the valley where we live, the fog dropped wet flakes onto the windshield, cars in the ditches, some abandoned. We trekked on through it, the defogger on high. We pulled up our driveway to see the front field filled with a herd of deer nibbling on the Ash berries lining the dirt path. One glimpse of our headlights and they were gone, vanished into the snowy night.

I woke up the next morning to the most extraordinary sight. I may have walked in these forests hundreds of times, but the amazing part is that they are never quiet the same. For every season and every weather pattern there is something new to see. Boxing Day, I looked out the window and it looked as if the forest had disappeared. The snow and temperature had mixed in such a way that the snow fell wet but froze to the trees -- not just to the branches, but everything. The trunks from the ground up were blasted with white stucco of snow. It looked like the trees had worn their finest white furs. When you walk around the tree, to the leeward side, the bark was bare as usual. At least one inch of snow clung impossibly to even the smallest twig. The smaller trees bowed under the weight of their new garments, while the pines and cedars sagged. The creeks and rivulets from the earier that still raged, you can hear the roar in the distance. But the cold air had left a thin layer of ice over the water and you could see the bubbles bobbing down the hill. With the absence of any colour it was like walking in a black and white photograph or charcoal picture with only a few strokes of definition here and there.

I brought the dog along, of course, as he zig zagged between the many deer trails, the double toed hoof prints weaving with his big four toed pads. And if I stood still long enough, holding my breath I could see more deer in the distance, bouncing with their white tails and leaping silently through the trees. However, with the dog making so much noise, so much panting you can only see them out of the corner of your eye before they disappear. I was told that they coyotes were on the prowl this year, so I was glad to have the dog by my side.

Further up the trail, the forest gets thicker and darker. Approaching the top the valley, the wind picks up and undresses the trees of their white. But it is quiet there, no cars no nothing. I just sat there for a long time.

Holidays

Now up in the countryside. Three degrees and all the snow is melting, even the snow man. Brown patches of mud and grass soak through the dwindling white. The river is swelling up to the banks. A light fog makes the landscape milky and smokey.

Happy Holidays.

This is the taste of real Korea

I'm moving again. Last night, I inked my 8-month lease on a new pad in the heart of Toronto's Korea town. I decided to treat myself to a little Korean cuisine.

I walked along Bloor which has the highest concentration of hot-pot and BBQ places in town. Most are glossy affairs: bright orange signs with bright lights and pop music blasting. I walked past one spot and looked in the window. It had some newspaper up in the window, and through a space between I saw a small handwritten menu on the wall. Most of the items were written in Korean, but most of them cost $5. Perfect.

I took a table near the window beside a stack of rice bags. I surveyed the small room with slush covered floors and a handful of old men slurping from bowls of soup. A kerosene heater pumped heat and illegal levels of fumes over the smells of pork. At one table, two men laughed over a stash of emptied beers. An old lady padded in and out of the kitchen with a frown on her face, navigating around the cases of Molson and Labatt, to deliver the steaming plates of grub and glass of warm water to where I sat. But it seemed like everyone worked there. One of beer drinking men got up to mop the floor and then returned to his food. Another man came from the corner and stacked the dishes.

I ordered my favourite: pork, tofu and veggie soup. Eventually a bubbling bowl of goodness arrived with separate plates of kimchi, bean sprouts and spicy pickled peppers.

As I plopped my spoon into the bowl, and old man stared at me intently. I tried to avoid his stare. With my face on fire, I wiped the sweat from my brow. My tongue burning.

I got up to pay.

"You must like Korean food!" It was the man who was staring at me.
"Oh ya."
"Not too spicy?!"
"Oh no."
"You see, this is a family restaurant. Not many people come in here. Very traditional. All the old folks who want a taste of real Korea."
"Really?"
"Yes. All imported. No one else does that. This is the real taste of Korea"
"I see...I'll have to come back. I just moved over there."
"Welcome to the neighborhood."

So Deep

I'll just come out with it: I do yoga (sometimes). I've never been one to hang out at Extreme Fitness to pump my meat hooks while the other steaks-with-legs dudes look at their like-totally amazing bods in the mirror. You know the ones. I've been more non-competitive, and more laid back about working out. I like to walk and be calm. Not all hot and bothered. I don't tell many people because they will accuse me of being gay. But I digress...

But with any activity to do with well being, there are the cultists. Yoga has its own. I went to a yoga session yesterday and overhead the following scene. Two women leave the studio, both with their mats tucked under their arms. They have almost matching Lululemon gear. The works: pants, tops water bottles.

Woman 1: So you must keep practicing over the holidays. You need to keep up with your asandrustrastattas (?) or you will lost all that you have gained.
Woman 2: Yes, I hope to. But you see, I am going to Israel over the holidays.
Woman 1: Oh, that will be really deep. So meaningful. That sounds great. But you can still do your morning pattimatturatattis(?) before dawn and at night.
Woman 2: Oh I will be so good.
Woman 1: So spiritually enrichining
Woman 2: Oh ya. Totally.

Then at a later momement. Two different women are buying things, sprays, scents candles, yoga mats for gifts. They are also wearing the same kind of outfits.

Woman 1: Oh, it was so amazing. I was flying from Victoria yesterday. And I was bored at the airport. So I thought, I'll just do some yogas, you know, the basic shapishaputtamattis and a set of kamasuttrasettimattas. And it felt really good. Right there in the lounge. And then I looked up at people and they were all staring at me. I felt so self-consious. But then I realized that I should not be so self conscious.
Cashier: Yes. All those people who arent doing it are the ones who are proably suffering the most.
Woman 1: Exactly. So I just kept on doing it. And this one guy got on the plane with me and he was like, oh I sure could use a few stretches. So i started explaining how it all worked. I was just one of those special moments.
{woman looks at me, sees me getting ready for yoga} You ready for your ashimedhafaputtas?
Mikerphone: No, I'm all ashimedhafaputtad out. Pretty stiff.
Woman 1: I find when i don't do it I'm most sore.
Mikerohone: Not me!

Yonge Street Notes

Trudging up Yonge Street in my big winter boots through the falling snow, I made some of these observations. Little scenes that that don't really mean anything but make up the mini-dramas of the world. Things that go on even when you aren't looking.

1) Two homeless men are arguing over who has the right to stand outside the emptying theatre to ask for change. They are both holding the same kind of change receptacle: a large sized Burger King pop cup.
"Fuck off, I was here first!"
"Why don't you fuck off!"
"Merry Christmas sir, can you spare some change for a coffee..."

2) A man bundled up in his winter gear, turns the corner, walks South and ties his husky to a post. He walks into the warmth and light in the 24-hour porno shop. The dog begins to bark.

3) A family of tourists pose for a picture in front of a pile of snow. The snow blowers are busy making more.

Making a List

Here's some top things that I have bought/downloaded/borrowed this year that might make nice holiday gifts. If you want more info, just Google the names. And I have included a list of things that should be banned forever.

Books:

1) The Gate - Francois Bizot - An account by a Frenchman imprisoned during the Khmer Rouge era.

2) Stories – T. Coraghessan Boyle - A great short story writer who I'd compare to Tim Robbins and Dickens.

3) The Time In Between - David Bergen - I haven't read it. But I have read the first page and it seems like Ondaatje. About Vietnam.

4) Stasiland - Anna Funder - The author tells a beautifully written, well observed account to uncover the dark history of East Germany's creepy secret police. A must read.

5) The New Directions Anthology of Classical Chinese Poetry - Eliot Weinberger - If you like poetry -- or wished you liked poetry -- get this. It is an anthology of ancient Chinese poetry translated by people like Gary Snider, Ezra Pound and W.C Williams. Nothing more beautiful and spare. None of that pretentious poetry that you had to learn in high school.

Music:

1) Z - My Morning Jacket - One my favourite albums of the year. Alt-country, with deep dark, undertones mixed with warm southern rawk. A must buy

2) Strange & Beautiful - Aqualung - Ok, so they are named after Jethro Tull song. But they take Coldplayish ballads and make them even more pretty. You must love sap and sad.

3) If you can't beat 'em... join 'em - DJ Format - The best hip-hop album of the year. Mixes Pharcyde with Common with the Roots with Jurassic 5. You know it's good if you've never heard it on the radio or TV. They save primetime for the prime shit.

4) Homegrown - The Roots - Their greatest hits collection includes the favourites from all their albums, plus the second disc which has some unreleased live and studio tracks. Amazing.

5) The Cosmic Game - Theivery Corporation - The boys from DC continue to abduct Rastas and Latin ladies and weave their chants with some deep bass and beats. Oh and they do it so very well.

6) The Understanding - Royksopp - The Norwegian duo makes electropop gems. Not as good as their first, but worth the listen.

7) New World Observer - Deadbeat - Deep click-hop that takes the best of minimal techno and dub reggae. Top marks.

8) Paper Airplanes - Marc Robillard - Toronto boy who does the Coldplay thing Canada style.

9) Unomia - Helios - Spare, beaiutiful minimal click-hop. Great for working and writing.

10) Solo Piano - Gonzales - Montreal DJ puts away the turn tables and opens up the piano. Philip Glass style.

To be banned:

1) Ugg boots - Stop. Full stop. Especially with sweat pants.
2) Louis Vuitton brown hand bags - Just stop. You are just embarassing yourself.
3) iPods - Oh don't you look all smug and cool with your white headphones. Oh wait, I just got one for my birthday. No, iPods are cool.
4) Fur boots (the big ones like space boots)- Chewie! Put us into hyper drive.... Take us to planet Wookie to get us more of those boots.



Happy holidays.

Birthday Carnage

Thanks everyone...

Barometer Dropping

One of the first things I unpacked at the new place was my trusty old martime barometer. Within hours, the needle was dropping. Low pressure coming in. I wake up. Snow everywhere.

A second walk

This morning, I made some tea, put two tangerines in my pocket and went for another walk in the woods. This time I brought the dog, a red hound. The weather was much the same as, grey clouds with patches of blue, flakes of snow falling constantly, lightly. The wind had obliterated my tracks, smoothing them over like a mason's trowel. But the dog picked up my trail and we headed off to the woods together. His nose caught the scent of some animal-- deer, rabbit or turkey-- and he sprinted ahead, his tail whipping like a car antenna.

After a while I took a rest on a log and sat there a while. I watched the flakes fall onto my black coat, wondering if it’s true that every flake is unique and different. With so much snow, I wonder if someone can actually prove that.

Up the hill. I hear a hollow knock. Someone is chopping down a tree. Then a loud crack from hunter’s rifle and it's echo booming across the valley and back. The dog picks up a trail and runs out of sight through some old scrub brush. I am left alone again with my thoughts. When I am alone here I sometimes start thinking and thinking. I come to a stop and realize that I have not been paying attention to the trees around me. I am walking in my own head. I take a deep breath a trudge on. I hear the dog howling in the distance. He's found something. I just hope it's not trouble.

I decide to find the dog; I follow the sound of his howling. I leave the trail and crash through thorn brush, the raspberry patches and into the thick of the trees. Branches flail and whip about -- smacking me in the face, poking into my sides. But now the howls are coming from the opposite direction. I change course. I call his name. Nothing but more howls. Stupid dog. I tie up my boots to make sure I don't lose them in the creeks.

The sun disappears behind the clouds, the wind picks up. The dog is circling to the west, still I can't see him. Instead of chasing him, I take a seat on a rock. I see my original trail from the early morning. I look at my boot prints; they move in a straight line and then there are the small paw prints weaving and bending and winding in and out over top of them. It's like me and my mind, one going straight and steady, the other moving everywhere, sniffing everything.

Another howl. I sit still for a while longer, just to catch my breath. When I move to get up, I see the dog panting, looking at me through the trees.

A Winter Walk

A much needed rest.

I headed north, the beginning of winter. I slept for 12 hours, made coffee and eggs. I looked out the window; the sky was grey with patches of blue. Small flakes drifted past. The landscape had changed from the fall colours to landscapes white, grey, brown. The sun is hidden, but I still have to squint to look across the fields.

I put on my sweater, coat, hat, and long underwear, left the dog by the fire ,and began my walk into the woods, to the west. The breeze was stiff and cold, but as I moved up the hill I unzipped my jacket after a few good minutes of marching. The snow was soft and the ground was still warm in places. Little rivulets of water trickled out over patches of stones and old dead leaves. As the forest thickened, the farm passed into the distance. I heard a small snap, looked to my right, and saw a white-tail deer jump past a stand of pines. I stopped; it stopped. We looked at each other. Standing still, I could barely see it. I held my breath. Then it bounced away. A few steps later, two wild turkeys exploded into flight and passed up over the trees.

Walking in the forest in winter is like passing through a room with sleeping giants. You don’t want to make too much sound.

I continued. The snow that had already fallen was soft and light. I pushed into the thick woods, found a fallen log, dusted off the snow with my gloves, and sat down. No human sounds. With the summer and fall gone, the sounds of mosquitoes, flies, birds were gone. There are no smells. Few colours. All that remains is the wind, and the things it knocks about. In this emptiness you can see and hear further through the trees.

The snow lay upon each branch like long scarves. Puffs of snow, shaped like loaves of bread, sit impossibly atop small twigs. The wind picked up; the clumps of snow fell from branch and disintegrated into a fine white power as they fell through the tree, onto the ground. Dark blue shadows from the strees appeared and disappeared as clouds passed in the sky.

I climbed to the top of the valley where the forest gives way to a thick stand of cedar trees. The sun was setting early; it was getting darker and colder. I took one more rest beside a large rock. In these remote places, you can see little movements—swaying, tumbling, rustling. It’s amazing to imagine these things still go on without anyone watching.

I turned back. I followed my own footsteps along the trail, down the hill towards the fields. As I continued, the wind and snow had already filled in where I had already been. My footprints had been smoothed away as if I had never been there.

To Pittsburgh thru the pits of hell

Rick and I drove to Pittsburgh to chase down a story. We went to interview Daniel Wilson, author of How to Survive a Robot Uprising: Tips on Defending Yourself Against the Coming Rebellion." We thought it would be a simple affair. Drive 7 hours south, arrive at midnight, interview all day the next day, and come home by midnight.

Nope.

We were frisked at the border by Homeland Security for two hours. Then hit "lake effect" snow storms. In a 15 year old Ford Tempo we drove on a highway plastered in snow. Cars in the ditch every few miles. Wipers on overdrive. White knuckles, bloodshot eyes. I cracked open a tin of dried fruit. We listened to Christian talk radio while we contemplated the possibility of death.

Finally, we stopped at a gas station in Erie, PA, and contemplated our decision. Should we go on? It seemed the world was acting against us. The flakes passed through the neon glow of the KwikFill. We consulted every person who walked in to pay for gas. We stood by the rack of beef jerky and weighed our decision: go and get the story and risk death OR turn back while we still can.

Half an hour later, we continued to Pittsburgh.