Maximilian

So I’m on lesson 21 of 30 of Pimsleur’s Cantonese 1. I know it’s Pimsleur’s Cantonese 1 because it says so on the box and they tell me so at the beginning of each lesson: e.g. “This is Lesson 19 of Pimsleur’s Cantonese 1”.

So I think it’s about time I order Pimsleur’s Cantonese 2, so that it arrives in time for my imminent completion of lesson 30. Only there ain’t one. There is no Pimsleur’s Cantonese 2. I am displeased, to put it mildly.

Either I find some alternative method to continue my studies, and I already know that the alternatives are hugely inferior, or I switch to Mandarin, which is undoubtedly more useful, but that’s not the point.

Harrumph!

Naked before me, your cover is blown
Here come the robots, the mindless, the clones
And you’re sold up inside, body and soul
Do as you're told now, and we'll play our roles
And we'll play, we'll play all of our days away
Hazel O’Connor, Breaking Glass, 1980

Funny, most people, well men at least, have to don beards when they want to travel incognito. I have to remove mine to adopt a disguise. This is the least facial hair I’ve had in about a century and I’ve been a stranger to myself since yesterday afternoon. I have become invisible to bear-folk and I’ve been attracting men that I wouldn’t normally notice, and who wouldn’t normally notice me – which just goes to show what terrible narcissists we poofs are, or should that be John Edwardsists?

Just scanned my friends list, and not a single comment on the Hamdan verdict. Have I self-selected a group of the politically apathetic, or does anything associated with this ugly administration now provoke nothing more than weary resignation and indifference? Perhaps we all just got tired of preaching to the converted.

66 months for ‘material support of terrorism’. Less than you’d get for crack possession. And significantly less than you’d get for being black and in possession of crack.

I can’t help but think that this was deliberate tactic on the part of the prosecution. Target one of the more tenuous cases, where a short sentence wouldn’t be worth appealing, and thereby establish the validity of the process.

A curious discovery when I sat down to meditate today. I have a Chinese woman inside my head, and she won’t stop talking. Barring small fragments, I have no idea what she’s saying, but she’s evidently fluent and opinionated. It was at once disconcerting – having two voices in my head rather than the usual one – and useful, in that it underscored that neither of them merit much attention, and that 'I' am no more the Chinese woman than 'I' am the more familiar English-speaking voice.

I asked Mark today how to pronounce his surname. He rather embarrassedly explained that it's pronounced in exactly the same way as 'banana' (impossible to romanise, but a bit like 'tjiu') though it's a different character. His colleagues tittered - apparently it means something rude if you say it slightly wrong.

Chuffed. I said something to Monisa at work in Cantonese today (Bing go hai sang yat a?) and, for the first time she simply answered, without frowning and immediately correcting my pronunciation.

Yes, I’m attempting to learn Cantonese again. I think this may be my fourth attempt in ten years. This time I’m using the Pimsleur system which purports to emulate the way that children learn languages. So far I’m very, very impressed. I’ve had it for one week and I’m on lesson 8 (of 30). I encountered my first completely new word today.

No dubious romanization, in fact no text at all. Just listen, repeat, answer questions, formulate questions. They rapidly equip you with a working vocabulary and then show you how to juggle it. In about 6 hours of study I’ve heard and spoken more Cantonese than I would in weeks or months of evening classes. And already my grasp of tones has improved ten-fold. It’s easy to see how you could pick up a working knowledge of any language in a matter of weeks using this method, which is very exciting.

Rebecca asked me today to give her one-on-one Excel tuition at lunchtimes. She nearly fell off her chair when I asked her, in Cantonese, whether she speaks the language. In exchange for my Excel knowledge she’s going to let me practice on her :-)

Asian calligraphy is much more subtle and much more difficult than I’d imagined, and this weekend I’ve acquired a whole new appreciation, insight and respect for the skill, genius even, of the classical masters.

This was my best effort of the weekend:



Seui / Shui / Sui = Water

I’m doing a contemplative brushwork course this weekend. Our teacher is 75-year old Kazuaki Tanahashi, a calligrapher, Zen teacher, founder of ‘A World without Armies’ and a live-in student (from 1946) of the founder of Aikido, Morehei Ueshiba.

The weekend began at an Aikido dojo in North Vancouver, where Kaz reminisced about his early upbringing and Ueshiba’s teachings, while demonstrating his calligraphy. The talk was fascinating; Ueshiba was clearly a profoundly complex man, of near-supernatural abilities, very-probably enlightened, and immense influential. Kaz described meeting a Christian Orthodox monk in Syria in 1999 who had been practicing Aikido for 15 years. Back in 1946 there was only a single dojo in the entire world, practicing illegally in a farm building in rural Japan. Now there’s one in most neighbourhoods.

Kaz was natural, plain-speaking, self-effacing and joked about his own mediocrity. Irritatingly most of his audience treated him with excessive reverence as though he was a living saint. With one exception, the pieces he generated through the course of the talk were unexceptional and uninteresting. Though perhaps that’s just the nature of the art: lots of duds for one moment of supreme accidental serendipity. I might have bought the one exceptional piece if I’d not been on the motorbike. But perhaps I can produce my own serendipitously marvellous piece over the course of the weekend.

I occasionally have a crack at ‘art’. I’m an excellent copyist, but I never attempt anything spontaneous. I’m careful and meticulous and hidebound by fear of wasted effort, wasted materials and adverse reactions. I’m looking forward to the opportunity this weekend to waste some paper.

My husband, the published Economist letter writer.......

Oliver Reed


Malcolm McDowell


Lee Majors


Burt Reynolds


Virgil Tracy


Captain Scarlet

It's the mark of a full weekend when Friday feels like a hundred years and a different lifetime ago.

Yesterday was the third day of Shambhala level 3 training ("Warrior in the World"). The morning essentially comprised softening us up, continuing the practice of the previous weekend of expanding our awareness, sensitivity and vulnerabilty. The afternoon consisted of a 'meditation walk', conducted in 'noble silence' around the Downtown East Side - Vancouver's infamous/notorious enclave of poverty and destitution. This was the first time this type of exercise had been attempted as part of Shambhala training anywhere in the world, though it has apparently formed a part of training in other traditions.

It started well enough. I was initially under the relieved misimpression that it was a quiet afternoon on the street, but I was soon disabused. I was confronted with a battered young woman, so adject, desperate, and helpless that it blew away all my naive rationalisations about how she was the product of her own foolhardy and obstinate choices, and thus not my responsibilty. I felt an overwhelming surge of compassion, a crack in my heart, an opening into a bottomless pit of unfathomable despair. I could not bear for a second to look into that place and immediately slammed that crevice shut, re-erected my protections (my cocoon) and so it remained for the remainder of the walk, and during the subsequent post-mortem discussion back at the meditation centre.

It's unsettling, to say the least, to discover after 44 years that there's a whole ocean of your psyche that you weren't even aware was there.

I've been confronted with extreme poverty before, most notably in Cambodia, but that had a different quality - those people still had their dignity. Drug use has stripped the people in the Downtown Eastside of their dignity, liberated them from the normal societal conventions, which makes them unpredictable and scary, but also more alive and more present. I was in turmoil and confusion that I did not know how to respond to them. I felt pathetic tucked safe inside my protective cocoon - that I could not respond to them with genuineness and authenticity. My usual response to problems - rationally seeking solutions - seemed hopelessly naive and inadequate here - this situation is too far gone - there are no simplistic solutions to be had.

The walk was in some respects quite surreal. The blurring of sounds and impressions was similar to being underwater. For much of it I felt invisible. I put this down to the fact that I was moving quietly and gently, without intent or aggression (I've noticed this again today - people don't see you if you're completely passive non-aggressive).

I was exhausted, irritable and resistant after the walk. And angry. Angry at a society that, while so often smugly asserting the superiority of its values, could allow so many - so many - people to fall by the wayside. When I got home I had to hide in a darkened room with my eyes closed.

Today the world seems impossibly bright and beautiful. I feel light, unself-conscious and unencumbered, with an urge to connect with people. But also rather sad that the grim, distracted people around me can't also see the beauty of the world around them and the miracle of their lives in every place and in every moment. Which of course was exactly the intended outcome of the exercise.

"Developing fearlessness by examining our habitual tendencies, we are willing to experience our life without relying on the cocoon. We begin to engage the world directly and extend the attitude of fearlessness to our activities."

I'll go back for another walk around the Downtown Eastside. Not just yet, but soon enough. And I hope I'll be able to conduct myself more humanly and humanely next time.

Level IV is called "Awakened Heart"

Tomorrow will be my 44th birthday, and my darling husband bought me these....silly boy.



Fear not, they're not sharp, though they are heavy.

( And the gratuitous accidental belly shot... )

The ultimate toy solider becomes pliant….

The children of the one reborn shall find their own country.

End of Line. Reset.

Thus will it come to pass….
A dying leader will know the truth of the Opera House
The missing three will give you the five….
….who have come from the home of the thirteenth.
You are the harbinger of death Cara Thrace,
You will lead them all to their end.

End of Line.

OMFG Becky!

My husband’s away so I’m taking the opportunity to do some of the wicked things that I otherwise couldn’t do. Like making crispy five-spice pork belly and watching Aliens vs. Predator. Tomorrow I shall sit in the sunshine on the balcony and shamelessly eat Lox and drink Rosé, before going over to Ed's to eat cheese and watch the latest two episodes of Battlestar Galactica. Aren’t I an animal?

I was supposed to be diving today – the ocean component of my drysuit specialty course, but the instructor was ill, so it’s postponed until next weekend. It’s been gloriously sunny and I’ve really enjoyed having a largely unencumbered day. Not unproductive though: Wing Chun class, walk on the seawall, chores are largely done, allotment is watered, bread is rising, lamb-shank is in the roaster, pork belly is marinating, head is shaved….

A full weekend. On Friday evening after happy hour we had a very nice steak dinner at Moxy’s before heading to the second monthly Grip Bear’s night at the Davie Village Caff. John had procured new matching t-shirts for us: His in a lovely soft pink bore the word ‘Betch’ and mine in dark blue ‘Deck’. Those who got it smiled, and those who didn’t looked pained and excluded, and quite right too.

Saturday started as usual with a Sausage ‘n Egg McMuffin and Wing Chun. I’ve been suffering from joint trouble in the last week and I warned Sifu that we would probably need to take it easy. He either didn’t understand or decided to ignore me, as he really laid on the weight, turning my poor shoulders to jelly. Another fragment of the double-sword form, this one to intercept an overhead blow and promptly sever the would-be assailant’s wrists.

Organic butcher, paint swatches for the bedroom from Homo Depot (Lavender Sparkle anyone?). After lunch we headed out on the bikes for a little tour of the north shore with two of John’s colleagues from work. Coffee and gelato in Dundarave, a walk on the beach at Whytecliff Park, where the views are quite splendid. Lots of divers were going in from the shore. The girls prattled inanely about boys and made me feel very old and terribly wise; I tuned them out and watched the numerous v-formations of waterfowl passing through.


Biker Betches

It was a nice afternoon. I’ve been feeling a little trapped in Vancouver, and it was good to discover that there are some ‘nice’ village-like suburbs, great for civilised Sunday brunches, where one is not endlessly beset with panhandlers (what they call beggars here). I now feel motivated to explore a little further afield on the bike, especially now that the weather’s warming up. Saw a beautiful old v-twin GT650 (Hawk), and now I want one, as well as a VFR, and maybe an MT01 for posing.

In the evening Vic and Angus came over and we drove over to West Vancouver and had an excellent meal at a very good Italian restaurant, in company with some of Vancouver’s most well-heeled. On the way home we stopped at a good old-fashioned fun-fair and had a go on a couple of the rides - or at least I did – my beloved squealed like a little girl and nearly lost his dinner on the first ride and wouldn’t go again. Actually that’s not quite right – the little girls looked entirely unfazed and unimpressed by the experience.

"Morning max

Just to let you know there was pandemonium here tonight. The post man arrived in his van & as usual Sophie & Lucy had a race to get to the post box. Sophie won & got the post off him. Lucy shouted as per usual that Sophie always wins. Then the postman said there is something for you to carry & he gave her the box. We've had a non stop fashion parade here this evening. They were both pretending that they were going to parties & discos."

Pretty bloody impressive. I mailed the box last Wednesday evening in Denver, and one week and seven and a half thousand miles later it arrived in rural New Zealand.

The change of altitude, air density and humidity befuddled my poor brain this morning. My Wing Chun forms were terrible - I kept losing my place. However my Chi Sau was inspired, in large part I think because I forgot to be deferential.

Which leads me to wonder. Where in the world is zhenzhi? I haven't had my fix of Australian colours for ages.

Heehee. All the hot men who wouldn’t say a word to me last night at the beer bust are now clamouring to chat on Bear411 this morning….

A pleasant day in Denver. It’s a nice city, especially when the sun comes out, as it did today. Lots of churches, a nice mix of interesting architecture, clean and tidy, people are friendly and it feels safe. If you’re young and planning on visiting, then lip piercings and huge cylindrical earlobe-inserts are evidently de rigeur. The UV is intense and the air is thin.

I registered for the conference this morning and collected my cheap rucksack full of junk. Then brunch at ‘Bump n Grind’ where the boisterous waiters are all arrayed in bad drag. I had to wait ages for a table, but it was good fun. One busty, bucksome beauty didn’t miss any opportunity to feel me up, but I eventually had to break her heart, confessing to my homosexuality.

My first conference session this afternoon, which turned into an extended commercial for one of the sponsors products, followed by beer bust at the Wrangler. I first got there at 5pm when the queue was 4 deep, but hadn’t thought to bring along ID, and when I got back again the queue was enormous. Some cute men there, but as ever, the cute ones were standoffish and the uncute (if not downright creepy) ones weren’t. Rather alarming to discover how much larger some guys are in real life than they appear in their Bear411 profiles. The beer was piss-weak and no-one did anything remotely undignified, which was disappointing.

We were utterly spoiled today. I made a trip to the organic butcher this morning: For lunch Buffalo rib-eye steaks, by fluke cooked to perfection, which melted in the mouth. This evening, tender succulent Cajun chicken breasts. I hadn’t previously realised that you can make your own Cajun spice mix at home. Picked this combination up from the web and it was delicious:

4 teaspoons paprika
2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons garlic powder
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon white pepper
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 teaspoons mustard powder
1 teaspoon thyme
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon cumin powder

"By formulating alternative, nonessentialist dynamic explanations for subjective feelings of drivenness - accounts that do not rely on the existence of underlying, universal, and permanent drives – self psychology, intersubjectivity theory, and other relational models have come around to a perspective far more compatible with Buddhist models of the mind than was ever possible while the Freudian picture held sway.

Rather than assuming the existence of, for example, an immutable human tendency for aggression or destructiveness, these new psychoanalytic models ask us to look into the specific contexts in which aggression arises. We then discover that narcissistic injuries (i.e., traumatic blows to our self-esteem) often trigger aggressive responses. Different individuals will display varying degrees of narcissistic vulnerability, and what counts as an injury may change over time. With practice, the insult that once provoked rage can be shrugged off. Our anger, rather than being a biologically predetermined part of our psyche, is a highly mutable, context-dependent variable, one we can observe, understand, and ultimately transform."

Barry Magid – Ordinary Mind. Exploring the Common Ground of Zen and Psychoanalysis