A Conversation with the Afterlife

It's been nearly six years since my dad passed away. I often have dreams where he appears as he was when I was younger - sometimes even in his twenties or thirties, when only photos could have showed me how he looked. Nevertheless, my belief when he died is that he exists in an afterlife, where neither God nor Devil nor Buddha exists. It would be where people's souls exist on a plane different from ours, and we could communicate with them somehow, in mystic or an indirect manner. He was not a believer of any sort of religion as far as I knew, and this belief in a non-denominational afterlife comforted me when I woke up in tears from seeing him in dreams after his death.

Once I fell asleep and dreamt I could talk to him. In life, we could not speak directly as his English comprehension was not complete and my Cantonese comprehension is laughable; but to my knowledge, we were able to speak freely with complete understanding. An exchange could happen:

Me: Dad!
Dad: How have you been?
Me: Pas pire. You?
Dad: It's good. Nothing to complain about.
Me: ...
[Awkward silence.]
Me: So... did you hear about that Hockey Night in Canada theme controversy?
Dad: I heard. >:(

The Craigslist Conversation

Chance encounter at the park?

Reply to: cbear45@yahoo.com
Date: 2008-07-19, 11:19PM EST


I saw you walking your dog at the park today wearing a pink fuzzy sweater and a grey skirt. I wanted to talk to you but your dog kept barking at me and you hurried away before I could get your number. Let's meet again without interruptions. :)


**

re: Chance encounter at the park?

Reply to: spot667@hotmail.com
Date: 2008-07-20, 9:31AM EST


You weren't wearing any pants, you sick freak.


**

re: re: Chance encounter at the park?

Reply to: cbear45@yahoocom
Date: 2008-07-20, 9:45AM EST


Just the fact you wrote back shows that you do want to see me again! Same place, same time?

Cowgirl of the Conestogo

She shifted in the saddle for comfort. The horse stood still, waiting for a command. "Gee-yup!" she uttered in a commanding but soothing voice, digging her heels into the horse's sides. Unused to the new rider, the horse neighed and reared slightly before launching, and the girl excitedly braced the leather reins. She laughed and chatted happily into the horse's ear, for each time the hooves landed on the ground and the head bobbed from each step. Without warning, the horse slowed down, and the girl impatiently dug in her heels again. "Woah, girl, what's wrong?" she asked. The horse gave no reply, and it stopped completely. A strong pair of hands picked the girl off from the saddle, with a voice booming from above, "It's time to give the other kids a turn on the horsey. A quarter doesn't last very long."

Sunburn... Slowly...

One disadvantage of running too late in the day is getting too tanned. I didn't realize how red I was getting until yesterday, when I came back inside and took a shower. I get flushed naturally when I drink (a modicum amount) or exercise, so I have to wait a while until I noticed the tan line was not just a different colour, but red. Also, it seems that I was just to the point that things would have started to peel... and that's all fun and games.

So I'm trying to go for two different goals here: not to burn by interspersing days in between running (but trying to wake up early enough to avoid high UV times), and to get to 5 km eventually because it's been 3 months and I still haven't gotten there yet. :(

But there's a way to have you encourage me, and that's to donate to the cause. More on that soon.

---

I noticed the It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! essay contest, but I don't have a 500 word story to submit. On the other hand, I do have a 154 word story for you, so that should suffice. I don't like remembering things that happened in elementary school.

Worst Hallowe'en Ever

When I was in second grade, my mother - who is inept at making artistic things - attempted to help me create my bee costume. It consisted of a yellow tee-shirt with black stripes sewn on, a pair of black jogging pants, coat hanger and pantyhose wings, and a pair of pipe cleaner antennae. I was pretty proud of our creation, until I wore it to school that day. Another girl in the class was also dressed as a bee, but her mother was a costume designer! Her perfectly sewn yellow-and-black striped torso was also stuffed, which gave her petite figure an adorable puffiness, stinger included. Her headgear was spring-mounted, a cute detail indeed. And her wings were sewn into shiny patterns, not unlike a real bee. Everyone thought she was adorable. She received the school prize for best costume.

And it didn't help that it was too cold to go trick-or-treating that year.

Nostalgic

It had been ages since the duo had seen each other, but the reunion was bittersweet. Singer and pianist separated to pursue their own careers ten years prior to the meeting, separating over personal and professional differences. Now, the nostalgic public demanded the comeback, and their popularity had been falling in later years. It was enough for them to receive the attention about the reunion that they were met with cameras and magazine reporters at their "airport reconciliation meeting." Their rehearsals were congenial but reserved, as they each noticed the effects of aging and maturing on each others' faces. Finally, the day came when they held a private interview with the biggest entertainment news program. Their smiles and uneasy laughter were broadcasted to the world, but it was unconvincing enough to generate a buzz about their incompatibility. Their comeback concert was poorly attended - rounded out with hardcore fans - and their tour was gratefully cut back. Finally, the day they called it quits, none of the media was paying attention to them anymore, and they sat together in the studio.

"What's that song we first sang together?" the singer asked.
"That was way back when the funk was big, but we were still stuck in those old folk songs," the pianist mused. "Oh I know, it's that one about the couple in love."
"Ah yeah. That's right. They had to part because of war or something."
The singer started humming a few measures, and the pianist found the right key. Soon, they started singing, and they didn't stop until the song was over. They took one look at each other, and laughed as they hadn't in twenty years.

Body

He spent his entire life with his bodybuilding obsession: full-time training at the gym, lifting weights, and constantly exercising. He talked, ate, and breathed the sport - so much that he had alienated all the non-bodybuilding people around him. However, he made a decent living with competitions and commercial promotions. At the age when most people thought of moving out of their empty nests, he was outpacing all his peers with limbs as thick as tree trunks.

Then disaster struck: due to a serious accident, he was hospitalized for the first time in his life. It was also the first time he had spent weeks unable to move freely, which broke his psyche. The hospital staff bore the brunt of his raving and inconsiderate behaviour. Each patient that was moved into his room quickly asked to be transferred to another. Finally, one patient seemed to tolerate the ramblings of the bodybuilder, and seemed to be blissfully listening.

The bodybuilder didn't understand why the other man was looking intently at him while he complained about how his body was broken, wasting away, and how frustrated he was becoming by the day. He also didn't know why the man never spoke back, nor even turned away. His talking never seemed to faze the man, which caused him to get angrier and then more subdued but annoyed. "It's like talking to a dummy!" he barked. "If you're going to look at me, at least react to something!"

A woman stepped into the room, and she stood by the man's bedside. The man gestured to the bodybuilder, who was now curiously silent, and started signing with his hands. The woman turned to face him and smiled. "He says he wants to thank you."

"What? Why? If I had known he were deaf I wouldn't have spoken to him."

The woman shook her head. The man signed some more. "He's just had an operation to gain his hearing for the first time, and you're the first person to have spoken to him like a real human being."

Nothing Ever Happens

The forest had all but been cut clean, save a solitary spruce tree that was saved because of its attractive shape and unusually large girth and height. The new owner of the lot had decided it could provide the land with some character, and it could also nicely raise the property value of the house to be built. The tree had stood for at least a hundred years, surviving season after season of intense snow storms and scorching summer mayhem. The tree's seeds made up part of the forest around it. The squirrels and chipmunks were often found under its boughs, and birds welcomed the cones especially in the winter. It was not unusual to see a moose hiding under it during vicious storms. But now a construction worker stood under it, hiding in the shade from the sweltering summer sun, smoking on his lunch break. The stub that had not been properly put out started the fire. Nobody noticed the tree, dry from the heat, robed in flames, until it was too late. The fire department put out the flaming stump, and all that was left was a dark frame of a tree. A few hours later, while nobody was looking, charred cones released their seeds.

Hobby Accomplished

Fuzznuts, I lost the last story due to the keyboard "POWER" button. It was about a bodybuilder but now I'm too mad to write it again.

Hobby Accomplished

He had been waiting weeks for his package to arrive. It was the last remaining item to complete his collection of model trains from the industrial age. He had been anxious about its price - way beyond his immediate means - but he knew it would be worth the expense just to put it in his glass display case along with the rest of his collection. Then he could rest easy, knowing that he had finished his search. When the package arrived, he savored every moment cutting open the tape, lifting the box open, and digging out the packaging material. It was intact, and he was relieved. He slowly lifted it out of the box and admired its construction. Every facet was meticulously detailed and there was no defect as far as he could tell. He opened his display case, carefully placed it on the remaining empty spot, and closed the case. A few days later, he invited his friend to visit him to view the collection. His friend at first humored his enthusiastic stories, but impatience caused him to started taking out a train set.

"What are you doing?" he cried. "You're going to ruin it!"
"Made... in... China..."
"What does that matter? Hey!"
His friend gave him a frustrated look. "What's the point of getting all of these if you're never going to play with them?" the ten year old declared.

A Spider's Random Morning

The spider spent only an hour on it, but after it was completed, the web was the largest that the doorway ever saw. It glistened and gleamed in the early morning sunlight, with a few drops of dew still hanging between a few threads. The spider set itself directly in the middle and waited for the spoils of the day. It waited for a long time before a few small flies had become stuck in its web. The spider was ready to feast upon its morning meal when suddenly the door opened. A little boy and girl were just about to step outside and into the web when they immediately noticed a magnificently large web spanning the entire doorway, with a beautifully coloured spider as large as their mouths, now open wide and screaming into the daylight. Their mother hastily swatted away the morning art, and the spider scurried away into the nearby flower bed.

It Must be Hard

She drove her date in her precious new sports car to the fabulous seaside resort inn, where they had dined on the finest seafood entrées and top quality wines. While they were nibbling away at their desserts, he took out a small box and knelt down on one knee. The restaurant patrons all watched intently as her eyes widened at his actions. He opened the ring case; her face fell quickly. She angrily stood up, took the glass that held the dessert wine and threw the contents at his face. The entire restaurant was abuzz with astonishment, while the man still holding the box held a look of stunned amusement. She quickly gathered her purse and belongings, and stormed out of the restaurant all the while screaming insults at him. When the mess had died down, a waiter helped the man clean his face and asked if things were alright. He shrugged and laughed heartily. The waiter puzzledly asked what had happened. The man opened the box and showed the waiter. Inside was neither a ring nor jewelry, but a small picture of the woman amourously entwined in the arms of another man. After the patrons had all left, the waiter said to the busboy, "It must be hard to be so beautiful."

Strawberries

She had diligently tended her balcony strawberry plants for many weeks, waiting for the first berries to appear. Finally, in early July after the plant reluctantly flowered and started showing its fruit, she could see that there would not be many berries to speak of. Thus started the heavy fertilizing schedule, until the few berries grew into large uneven blobs. Then one morning, she intended to harvest the ripened fruit when to her horror she saw that all her plants had all been picked clean. She gloomily lamented her loss, but told herself that perhaps they had been put to better use by nature.

Strawberries, Part 2

A restless and lonely boy would often wander through the halls of his apartment complex, climbing the stairs and sliding down the banisters. Sometimes he would covertly climb around the neighbours' balconies, knowing fully well that he would be in deep trouble if he were caught. His guardian knew it was not an environment suited for such a boy, but leaving him with his parents was impossible at the moment. Early one morning, the boy stole out of his apartment and came across the balcony on the ground level teeming with strawberry plants. Temptation proved too strong, and his greedy hands plucked the strawberries one at a time until his face was stained red and his hands gripping the remains of the fruit. When he realized his grand folly, he ran back and his guardian found him at the doorstep brimming with tears. The boy could not verbalize his mistake, only admitting that he had pilfered them from an unknown source.

The next morning, she found a boy carrying a large basket of strawberries on her doorstep.

Urbanites

An ambitious young student spotted on the other side of the street a solitary old woman sitting at a bench in a busy area, while rushing down the street to attend his class. He also noticed a metal walker further in the distance, unoccupied and drifting even further away from the bench due to hurried bystanders. His immediate thought was that this walker could belong to the old woman, and due to unfortunate circumstances it had been pushed beyond her reach and now lay in the middle of the busy pedestrian traffic. His path was taking him in the opposite direction, and his mind wandered about the woman so much that he was now a whole city block away, but he hurriedly turned around and ran back to where the walker was located. It was in the hands of a waste disposal manager (garbageman) who was loading it into the truck, but the young man's shouts of attention had the walker back onto the street securely in his hands. He dashed through the crowds with the walker to the old woman still seated on the bench. She was asleep so he left the walker next to her, content in his actions, and hastily jogged away to school. When she woke up moments later, she noticed that her walker had been dented in several spots and cursed aloud young hooligans who thought pranking a tired old granny was amusing.

Bird in a Teacup

A chickadee in a tree during winter ate too many fermented berries from the tree, and fell into a teacup lying in a permanent setting on the patio table underneath the branches. The teacup, filled with snow and a layer of frozen water, was shaped just so that the chickadee was unable to fly out. The chickadee struggled to escape the teacup but was unable, due to its inebriate state, leading to many distressing bird calls. The calls attracted the local alley cat, who attempted to pounce on the chickadee; but just at the last moment, the chickadee tipped the cup and tumbled out of it, escaping to freedom. A prize-winning photographer snapped a shot of the scene and it became the picture of the year.

Memories

I am both appalled and fascinated that I have a short term memory loss problem. Appalled, for the obvious reasons. One doesn't pride oneself for forgetting seeing someone merely days ago, or having eaten an hour ago, or even what was said a minute ago. (Though I'm certain I'm not as problematic as others who do have more extreme cases.)

Fascinated... because I tend to forget what I write. I have probably written as much as several times around the Earth by now, but I doubt I can even recognize my writings from even a month ago. If I discover my own short stories or a journal entry from ages ago, I will actually sit down and read these things as though a total stranger has written them. These mysterious events that occured in my blog entries from three years ago are actually new again to me. I don't remember experiencing such fierce feelings of joy, frustration, or regret... well, except the obvious.

My technique for trying not to forget anything important is to physically write it down in my agenda, on the calendar sitting right above my monitor, and/or then tell someone else about it. Though it's hard when I forget to do that within the first few minutes after hearing the bit of news. And then it's also a matter of not forgetting to refer to my agenda every so often.

What I don't do is post-it notes. They're alright sometimes but I don't see them as obviously after more than two are stuck up somewhere unusual. Even if put in usual spots, I will mentally push them aside as something obscuring my view!

My pet peeve is forgetting what I want to say just before I say it. My pet peeve is also forgetting that I want to say something.

... I don't really communicate well in person, it seems...

---

In other news, my bike has a flat again and has been sitting here for a month pathetically reminding me every day about it.

I'm finally home

I called up my sister on Wednesday, and the following conversation ensued:

E: Hi, it's me.
M: Oh. Hi.
E: What are you doing on Friday?
M: Why?
E: Well, I was wondering if you had already planned something, or whatever... So...
M: Why? What's happening on Friday?
E: Um... cuz it's your birthday?
M: ... Oh yeah... I forgot.

It's not typical that she would forget such things, unless there is something even more pressing on her mind that she deems more important. Like furniture shopping in Toronto this weekend. But she claims such days are nonsense or useless, in the sense that gift giving and celebration shouldn't have an artificial reason. (Like turning a year older, or because a certain religious icon was born on some random day in winter, for instance.) Nevertheless, I had a quick supper of Indian take-out at her house that evening, just before she took off with her boyfriend to Toronto.

Other events this March Break included making sushi for Lil V, Stephen, Jorghnassen and his brother. For this purpose, I had the distinct pleasure of walking to Parc and Mont-Royal with Jorgh, finding no fish store, hunting for the fish store up to St-Joseph and Parc, then walking back home, in the rain. Who would believe that just a week before, there was a pile of snow that fell on QC, when at that moment inches of rain ran wildly through the streets of Montreal? The raw tuna in the maki rolls made it all better.

Norm had recommended the fish store on Parc, although in his defence he didn't remember which intersection it was on. I would usually double check such things in the Yellow Pages (or the Telus Pages, their machiavellian rivals), but in our drooling haste we neglected to do so. Just the description of his fish excursion that he gave us earlier this week was enough to entice us in our own journey. It may have been part of his evil plans. Curses, you fiendish rapscallion!

On the subject of my odd writing styles of late, it is a plan to craft a fantasy novel with Jorgh. I have attempted to commence (read: slept and ate and avoided) personal projects that I have listed often. Draw, record, work on... Well, with Jorghnassen's collaboration, I think co-writing a novel would probably be the only one I could complete properly. If only it were that easy to start...

We thought that this week we could take some time to look for fantasy novels to inspire and guide us on our own attempts. Jorghnassen and I spent a day wafting through book stores and their sections of fantasy novels and titles only to come up with rather mediocre or stupid collections. Then he got tired of searching and asked me to order stuff online.

One of my career aspirations, forgotten long ago for more concrete goals, once had been to become a writer (of short stories, actually). It is exceedingly difficult, though, to believe that this person, having not cracked open a non-comical book in years, could become such a writer. I used to write in high school, but that sappy and nonsensical trite that I spewed could not have held much water in the cutthroat writers' world. In CEGEP, I was introduced to the deeper and more satisfying aspects of reading and writing, much different from the high school book report or recitations of Animal Farm.

But I had forgone the path of languages, due to the overwhelming pressure from without and within to pursue the sciences. Then I had no idea what to do with it (as such things happen often to us science students), so I became a teacher. On the other hand, I do appreciate being a teacher and spreading the merits of being scientifically literate. (So, why fantasy novels? I'm not sure... but I'm certain it's more fun to write.)

Another career aspiration was to become a math teacher. Indeed, I am.

And yet another career aspiration was to become a musician. My brother is now fulfilling this in my stead, so I don't feel so bad. On the other hand, he was rather upset that my mother is upset that he would prefer this than to return to regular studies, I imagine. And he called me while I was at Jorgh's place to loudly make his point.

But such are the pressures of a life where East meets West. Is it too much to make a career change when everything is uncertain?

Happy New Year!

I started the new year with a really odd dream. When I woke up, it left me with a bit of unsatisfactory-story-ending syndrome, not because it was a particularly good dream but because it made absolutely no sense to me, namely why I would make such terribly slapstick crap.

I don't really like these meta-stories, but I dreamt that I was writing a screenplay for fun. It was about a young woman (my dream casted Sandra Bullock) who was a struggling writer who had problems getting someone to publish her novel. Approaching a publisher, he admitted to her that she was too "boring."

He held up a recent bestselling publication by an older, flamboyantly(?) gay writer, whose picture happened to be on the cover for some odd reason. "This guy, on the other hand, is interesting." (Initially casted Tom Hanks, of all people :| ... but then I think my brain readjusted this logic and casted Ian McKellan!)

So the young woman went out of her way to track him down. Or maybe she accidentally runs into him. Whatever. It's a screenplay about Ian McKellan the writer and Sandra Bullock the writer. I don't remember writing any more than that scenario.

My dream-writer-self then runs into the dream-actual Ian McKellan, and for some godforsaken reason, who had already read the abstract of the screenplay. He proclaimed it great and he wanted me to write the rest of the screenplay so that he would actually do this terrible movie.

Finding it incredibly hard to believe, I started writing total slapstick garbage into notes. I came up with about 6 ideas but I forgot them all except 2.

One where the two main characters are on the old man's yacht with about four other guys. They just survived a harrowing ocean experience.
old man proclaims: Well done, my seamen. (LOLPWNED!!11!1one!!)
young woman: What about me?
old man: Woman, scrub the deck. (or something equally as misogynistic­­­)

The other idea is a young bi man sleeps with both of them at different times in the story.

Anyway, I think I was about to present the story to Gandalf himself when I woke up. I remember feeling incredibly bad for writing complete shit, but if anyone else out there thinks I should actually end this story in a satisfactory way (which I did, with Jorgh when I woke up), please give a shout-out. Otherwise I will have to admit to myself that my brain makes up the stupidest crap and I should never trust it.