mindfulness

Precious faces dissolve as I try to focus,
come into sharp relief when I turn away.
I loved these people, their minds, their essence
yet their features frustrate and elude me.

Hymnal text, creed and prayer are etched in stone
but her name darts here and there, defies pinning down.
Words of old songs flow summer honey thick
but this morning's news is flimsy, already gone.

Where are my grey socks? An odd ball tucked somewhere?
I had yellow ones and a matching tie in '74,
nestling in a cherished drawer, the third one down,
in a room, in a house, in a street I lived on.

While bland minutiae soar to break the surface
murky depths claw vital facts below.
It's intriguing, what my mind believes worth saving,
my oatmeal head, grey and gently simmering.

I'm conjuring a scene half a century old
with a searing clarity, not recalled by squares
of foxy Kodak pressed between ancient boards.
As real as photons dancing on my retinas.

The common man remembers best his favourite things,
those tarnished gems and bouncing pearls he deftly caught.
If faces, scents or whispered words are lost
they merely spilled from my treasure chest...

like teardrops from my brimming eye.

prince edward island half marathon 2013

I trained all summer for this autumn's full marathon but five weeks ago I suffered a calf tear which put paid to my scheduled final three long runs. Then I succumbed to a gastric infection which spiked my temperature and killed my appetite for a week. With interrupted preparation, the full 42km would now be out of the question.

I managed three 10k runs last week and was still recovering health and fitness. In an uncharacteristic fit of brinkmanship, I left it until the last day before registering for the half. However, in typical Virgo style I was up at 5am on race day. Plenty of time for oatmeal, bath and general fussing!

 

Michelle drove me into town in good time and we took some candid race day photos. The weather was fantastic for mid October, a sunny 10C under towering blue skies and a south westerly breeze to help the outward leg. Two hours was my goal and although I have never been quicker than 2:01 before, I have done a couple of fifty-five minute 10ks this summer, my only forays below fifty-six minutes for that distance. This morning I was attempting two of those back-to-back: at five minutes forty seconds per kilometre.

 

I seldom run with an iPod. Umpteen attempts in previous years have all ended in musical frustration - I couldn't see the tiny screen without my reading glasses; it was stuck on repeat; I couldn't operate the ridiculous wheel; the earphones failed... Today I tried my new Nano 7. I set it up at home and cued a thirty song playlist. On the start line all I had to do was tap the play icon through the transparent holder on my arm and slip in the earbuds (craftily routed through sleeve and head hole). It worked like a charm!

 

Doing near-miraculous mental arithmetic at each kilometre marker, I regularly assessed my pace at slightly ahead of target. The course is a figure of eight which snakes from downtown uphill to the airport and back. Scooting past the halfway point at fifty-eight minutes was a good sign. Apart from three crushingly steep inclines, it would be generally downhill from here.

 

I turned onto Malpeque Road by Sears in record time, leaving me a relatively comfortable thirty minutes to run the dead straight final five kilometers to Province House. Roadside support was fantastic as always. Families cheering all runners, and volunteers manning the frequent water and Gatorade stations. Just before the midpoint I sucked down the energy gel I had secreted in my shorts and chased it with water. Fuelling for the half is important but not nearly as crucial as for the full where dehydration and lack of nutrition are potentially devastating.

 

On the long, undulating drag south on University Avenue I began to feel the effects of my pace but I dug in and counted the kilometre markers down. A gentle kink left brought the finish line into view and on the left, Michelle and the girls waving madly and cheering. I ran under the finish banner with the clock reading one hour, fifty-seven minutes forty-two seconds, even managing a surge of speed for the line; a new record by over four minutes and importantly, under that tricky two hours!

 


Thank you to Michelle for the great photos!

PS: The official results are in and I ran a chip time of 1:57:29, putting me 30th out of 61 runners in the 50-59 age band. (223rd put of 601 total entrants.)

the big apple (a distant nibble)

Kathleen (sorrowfully): "Where's mummy?"

Me (somewhat impatiently): "The Big Apple!"

Maisie (educationally): "Oh, he means Noo York."

 

Yes, Michelle jetted off for a week in NYC; the melting pot, the city that never sleeps, home of the sky-scraper and the yellow cab. And where are we? The melting pot-hole, the city that sometimes wakes up, home of the lobster supper and Green Gables.

 

For me it's Daddy duties, the school run, playing shop with Kathleen and bedtime stories. However we aren't missing out entirely; in this digital age it's quite possible to tag along and enjoy a nibble of 'The Big Apple', to sample the sights and sounds, cored and peeled for public consumption.

 

"There she is! With Nana, crossing the road!" I point to a likely couple strolling across a pedestrianised section of Broadway.

 

"Where?" Maisie demands, brow furrowed as she squints at my laptop.

 

"Right there. See her red shoes and green jacket?"

 

Maisie studies the pedestrians intently before growing doubtful. "She could be anywhere..."

 

There are several cameras overlooking Times Square streaming HD video and sound online, night and day. When we tune in at 7am the streets and sidewalks are virtually deserted except for red-clad city workers hosing away last night's excesses, but by 9am the show is in full swing and our eyes rove the crowds. There are gridlocked lines of yellow taxis and open-topped tour buses; everyone racing to be somewhere else; strident horns blaring; and every minute or so the ominous wail of police sirens. Heck, it's a jungle out there.

 

Michelle and her mum are a 'no show', much to the girls' disappointment so we play spot the Disney character, watching creatively dressed pan-handlers harass the crowds for photo opportunities and tips. Mid-morning we see Buzz Lightyear taking a break, deep in conversation with Spongebob on a corner of 7th Avenue. One of several Statues of Liberty approaches and joins in.

 

Michelle texts us to say she is waiting for a Brooklyn tour bus so we zoom in on Google Street View and see what she's seeing. I click and step inside the Hard Rock Cafe to see a three-sixty view of the tables, bars and memorabilia. Soon I am sidetracked and soar north to Central Park to enjoy a virtual stroll right through that lush oasis, thanks to Mr Google's fleet of trusty cyclists kitted out with helmet cams. From the comfort of my armchair I can scoot along the path by the Jacquie Onassis Lake, passing runners with an effortless gesture on my mouse pad.

 

The girls join me as I jump the Hudson to the New Jersey shoreline and look back at the iconic cityscape. Then we adjourn to YouTube and look down from a helicopter flight, grazing the forest of dizzy spires, picking out the Empire State and the Chrysler, before buzzing Liberty Island and back to LaGuardia. After supper we chat with Michelle on Skype, tucked up safely in her hotel room in the heart of Theatreland. She doesn't even seem as tired as we are!

 

It's hard work, this armchair travel!
 

 

music magpie and zoverstocks

A couple of years ago I started noticing the name Zoverstocks as a re-seller on Amazon UK. I began buying CDs and DVDs from them, lured by their keen prices and rapidly escalating tally of positive transactions. These days they are almost always the lowest priced re-seller in a saturated market. Oh, and their positive transactions tally is close to four million - yes, four million.

 

In seemingly no time at all Zoverstocks has cornered the UK market in secondhand CD sales, with a typical selling price of just one penny. How the heck do they do this? Well, a few years ago Music Magpie started offering a simple "buy your old CD collection" service and they still do. Using your webcam you scan the bar code from a CD case and get an instant non-negotiable offer. Not a high offer but enough to steer many from donating discs to charity shops.

 

Yes, Zoverstocks is the sales arm of Music Magpie and it piggy-backs on the biggest online music retailer in the world, Amazon.

 

The way reselling works, and I did this myself quite a bit in the UK, is you list an item for sale on Amazon and when a buyer nibbles the bait, Amazon sends you the purchase money (minus a modest commission) plus a generous contribution to your postage and packing costs. In fact this contribution is so generous it completely covers your costs and adds to your profit. Now you see how Zoverstocks does it. Imagine the economies of scale when you can buy padded envelopes by the million!

 

But this is good isn't it? The free market (with the help of Amazon) is redistributing music to the ears of those who want to hear it, and at a great price. Well it's not entirely good... what about the Artist who used to enjoy royalties on consistent sales of his back catalogue? This new recycling system seems to benefit The Royal Mail, Amazon (by way of commissions) and Music Magpie/Zoverstocks more than anyone. What about the little man who tries to sell online? He can't compete.

 

The scheme is a clever manipulation of the system. Seller A gets something for his unwanted CD, Buyer B gets it for one penny plus postage. In between the two, MM/ZO are creaming off Amazon commissions and the over-valued postage contributions. And what if MM/ZO get hold of rarities? They apply digital scripts to permanently undercut the lowest Amazon reseller price by one penny. As to their costs, research reveals MM/ZO are staffed with cheap Eastern European labour and they 'up' the condition of their discs with a mechanical buff. Various Forums lament the lack of customer care when you get a wrong/damaged disc from them.

 

Are they living on borrowed time?  Digital media is gradually taking over. Soon the likes of MM/ZO will have forced the little seller out and will be the only ones left recycling a diminishing stock of discs to a shrinking audience of committed downloaders. I suppose you can't blame them for making hay while the sun shines.

yesterday is behind a thin veil

I had walked, run, biked and driven through King's Park on and off for almost half a century. It was still a refreshing oasis of green snaking between the cemetery and the athletics track but I saw changes. The road was gone, grassed over, and new cycle paths criss-crossed the park like beelines. The athletics track was now powder blue and the grandstand white like an ocean liner. It was easy to follow the line of the old road as the shallow new grass had turned summer brown under relentless August heat.

As I stopped and stared into a blazing western sky, yellow bleeding into orange, and at the horizon violet and charcoal, blood began coursing in my temples and a high-pitched whine grew louder and louder until my ears popped and the world shifted. I was standing in the centre of the old road. A brand new '72 Capri cruised past, swinging around me with an admonishing squeeze of the horn. Side-stepping sharply I found the old grass. It felt lush and cool under my bare brown feet. I was fifteen.

 

Ahead the sunset had melted into a golden glow of liquid honey. I heard the distant tones of Marc Bolan beseeching 'Metal Guru, is it you, yeah, yeah, yeah.' I swung my head towards the music and saw caravans and trucks hunkered down like beasts in the twilight, and beyond, the twinkling lights of the funfair. I set off running but the grass stood taller, slowing me. After what seemed an age I reached the fair and slipped between two trailers into a floodlit village of rides, booths and tents. My toes were deliciously wet with evening dew.

 

I leaped onto the walkway surrounding the Bumper Cars as Alice Cooper screamed 'School's out for summer, school's out for ever!' The cars span and flashed and crashed, their long masts trailing blue sparks on the electrified grid above. Gypsy boys rode the backs of the cars, hanging on with one hand, flirting outrageously. Eventually the power died and riders jumped out. Already the next wave was rushing across the rink and climbing in. Dr. Hook pleaded with 'Sylvia's Mother' "… please Mrs. Avery, I just gotta talk to her, I'll only keep her a while. Please Mrs. Avery, I just wanna tell her goodbye," and while my heart ached for him, kids screamed and laughed as their cars lurched forward.

 

I fished a crumpled Marlboro from my pocket and bent to scrape a match on the steel floor. It ignited in a sulphurous bloom and I cupped the flame, drawing and listening to the tobacco crackle. I breathed a huge lungful of sweet virginia and leant against a pole. My eye caught the Ferris wheel arcing slowly against the darkening sky. The cars swung their precious cargo of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers, sisters and lovers, climbing up to the stars. Looking up I reeled with dizziness.

 

Through a maze of dazzling sideshows I stumbled and wandered. Painted faces loomed out inviting me to throw darts or hoops, "Try your luck sir?" I mumbled a response but my lips were too thick. I watched a man shy balls at coconuts perched on red and white poles. The balls hit a canvas sheet behind with a dull thwack. Slot machines flickered and jangled with racing electronic scales, coins clattered into trays and laughter reached a cacophony. Sudden piercing shrieks from the Ghost Train split the air.

 

An ancient crimson motorcycle on rollers roared to life and the rider twisted the throttle, the exhaust note barking and falling, barking and falling. Someone bellowed a muffled summons into a microphone. Mesmerised I followed the queue inside where we mounted creaking stairs and peered down into a well of vertical boards. A hatch opened and suddenly the motorcyclist was through and riding in circles, faster and faster until the bike began climbing the Wall of Death. Now he was thundering round just inches from our faces. I could not take my eyes off his expression, a look somewhere between terror and exhilaration scorched onto his features. His hands left the bars and he stood on the foot pegs. Round and round, throbbing, deafening and exhilarating, a drug.

 

The rich tang of hotdogs and onions wafted by. Girls passed with clouds of candy floss bigger than their heads. The Sweet were singing 'Little Willy' and I felt sure the day would last forever. Kids astride gilded mustangs flung their arms around the necks of their steeds while a barrel organ powered raucously into the night sky. A thousand lights illuminated the spinning carousel and the riders screeched, while the horses stared ahead, eyes bulging, nostrils flared, legs stretched at full gallop. Mott the Hoople played 'All the Young Dudes' and Ian Hunter growled, "Speed jive don't want to stay alive, when you're twenty-five." A dude, yes I felt like a dude.

 

The Waltzer was a shimmering blur of blood-red, emerald and gold. I pushed through the permanent throng on its steps to reach the riding deck. People were crammed in four to a car. The track rumbled as it began to roll. Fairground boys with earrings were standing on the undulating track, strolling between the cars and dipping in to collect coins from sweaty palms. The ride quickened and the cars span. The opening horns of a song blared from speakers, then softened, soothed and settled into a rhythm and Vicky Leandros was singing, "There were times, not so long ago, when I thought I was living, having fun with all the friends I knew." The Waltzer walkers sashayed precariously on the ride, dodging between the cars, spinning and spinning them until the girls screamed out of control. I hear "Come What May, I will love you forever, my heart belongs to you…" I knew these were the days of my life and I closed my eyes.

 

The lights and the music faded. A staccato reverberation set up in my head, repeating then drifting away to leave complete silence. Exhaustion overcame me and I lay on my back on the straw-dry grass and slept for forty years.

 

A cool night breeze found me staring up into the towering void, black velvet sprinkled with dust. I rose, shaking the stiffness from my limbs and began to walk home.

 

(Waltzer? Tilt-a-Whirl? Separated as ever by a common language!)

The Ancient Chamber Pot of Azerbaijan

The girls only have a dozen or so DVDs here and they are growing bored with the same old stuff. In fact they've recently been branching out into my own collection - the majority are unsuitable and referred to as daddy's scary movies but Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Back to the Future etc, are coming within range. Today I plundered the local Library catalogue and reserved the first three Harry Potter films for them, not my cup of tea, but I'll do my usual trick with 'DVD Shrink' and 'DVD Decrypter' and copy them so the girls can watch them forever and ever, amen.

 

***

Here is why men shouldn't buy bedding unsupervised. My favourite fitted Queen sheet needed a deputy, so I measured the bed, definitely Queen, 60" x 80" (that would be King in the UK; King in North America is sprawling, never mind the impressive acreage called Super King and California King!!) and I set off to do the rounds of Sears, Winners, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Wal-Mart. I handpicked a fitted cotton sheet for twenty dollars and two pillow cases for eight, chocolate brown, mmm.

 

So far so good. At home I discovered the new Queen pillow cases were a flapping seven inches too long for my puny Standard pillows. Several outings later I resigned myself to the fact there are no Standard pillow cases to be had these days. Bigheads abound I assume. So... I invested in two new Queen pillows. Later I ditched the girls' worn out Standard pillows and upgraded their entitlement to my serviceable cast-offs. What a palaver.

 

I don't have a duvet, just a comforter (known in the UK as a quilt). It's quite thin and akin to throwing an opened-up sleeping bag over you, but it's great for me even in winter (despite my lifelong habit of sleeping au naturel)! Well, I picked up a new comforter too and relegated the original to occasional duties. No problem on the size front and a snip at seventeen dollars!

***

I slipped over in the bath. To be precise I toppled from nearly standing to slung over the side of the bath tub. My ribcage took the full impact before I could break my fall. Initially I was shocked and winded, every ounce of breath gone. Surely I had punctured a lung or at least speared my spleen. After gingerly feeling for protruding organs I took a slow deep breath and realised I would probably live. That was two weeks ago and ever since I have winced and grunted and bemoaned my stupid clumsiness.

This week I tried a couple of longish runs, 10k and 15k. At first the bruised ribs grumbled but after a few minutes my natural endorphins started flowing and it was easier. I start marathon training in July and should be in fair shape by then.

google street view

For those who are curious about the small city I live in, for my Canadian friends who wonder how an odd Englishman sees Charlottetown, and of course for me, I am continuing to post my photography on Flickr.

It seems I am up against some stiff competition. While I hop from site to site on foot or in my Elantra, a certain Mr. Google is cruising theses historic streets in a Subaru Impreza dressed in mapping livery, updating the planet's view of the Maritimes.

Yesterday morning I spotted my adversary parked outside the prestigious Rodd Charlottetown Hotel, doubtless still dipping his bread into a soft-boiled egg and sipping coffee from fine china. His technical wizardry was safely under a protective tarpaulin while he perused the day's route. Meanwhile I scurried ahead capturing beautiful Victorian homes on Pownal.

The street view camera car records everything its multi-directional lenses can capture and transmits the data to Google HQ where they are stitched into a nearly seamless tour of... well, everywhere. I'm a sucker for virtually revisiting my old haunts, tracking down interesting places and often just stalking the cyber streets because I can. Navigation, tilt and zoom are my friends.

Thank you Mr. Google, but I think there is still room for my way. I can sneak down footpaths, crouch, stand on a wall, wait until the view is clear of cars and people, come back when the sun is shining, subtly shift position; I can crop, zoom, manipulate exposure.

This year I have been less bothered about writing my thoughts down on paper. Instead I am enjoying compiling this pictorial catalogue.