Letters To An
Overseas Friend.

I had been writing here more often because I wanted to record and note. Now I seem to be encountering fewer things worthy of notice, though the volume of observations would be about the same. Perhaps only the depth of observation may have waned. Let’s see what’s stirring and intriguing now a days. What thoughts push more thinking?

As I valiantly endeavored to order at dim sum today against Rory’s concerted effort to tick everything on the menu (she is a sampler), Max decided to put in an order of his own:

His order, in order, was as follow:

1. (dead) Fish, obviously
2. Noodles, obviously
3. Steamed pork buns (his dad’s favourite), obviously
4. Toys
5. And more toys.
6. Superfluous tick, presumably in excitement over more toys.

You have to create your own menus when you can’t read or write quite yet. Pre-literacy might be the true mother of invention.

Rory took on the project of commemorating our lunch in pictures, and continued her obsession with checking off the items:

I’ve been away building pallid but challenging software. Not physically away. Or even mentally. My daily and weekly routines have remained fairly constant. So have my consumption of words and images. It’s the slow brainwork over of such things that I have vacated. Voluntarily, I think. Let’s see if getting back on the horse picks everything else up.

There are experiences in our disenchanted common existence that can’t be reconciled with what I can understand given the limited scope of my very charmed personal existence. I’m talking about the kind of experiences that often lead to this very familiar question, “How could this even exist?” I am pondering and writing about this question while waiting for the last leg of my two bus journey from the West End to North Vancouver in rush hour…

The trip is now well behind me, and I can summarize for you the basic plot. I planned my trip via internet and figured the entire trip takes about 38 minutes, transfers and walking included. I don’t want to be late and prefer to be early so I leave to catch the bus about 55 minutes before scheduled arrival. I’m at the bus stop. First bus (#240) is full and won’t take on passengers. Other buses to the North Shore come but I decide to stick with the #240 since it’s the one I know and the next one, according to my smart phone, will be there in 9 minutes. About 22 minutes later the next #240 arrives and I board. The guy standing next to me remarks how crammed this bus is. Seems all right to me but what could I compare it to? While exiting the bus (debussing?), I notice there are two #240 buses in a row right behind it. The second one is almost empty. The third is about half way to its seating capacity. I check my smart phone and see that my next bus (#255) is five minutes away. Another #240 comes through in those five minutes. I check the smart phone and it says the #255 is two minutes away. Then one minute. Check the smart phone a littel alter and it says the bus departed one minute ago. Then two minutes ago. Then it says the next one will be around in 14 minutes. 17 minutes later the #255 comes and I board. (I now know what it feels like to spend 22 minutes of my life standing in front of a suburban Staples. How many people have done this before me and how often? How indomitable those people are. How domitable [should be a word] I feel.) I arrive at the door of my final destination only 10 minutes late which feels remarkable given the ratherish epic flavour of the journey. But this is no consolation when I think that I had taken the due diligence to be 17 minutes early. There was some consolation, however, briefly…

To overstate things: I was Orwell in a Parisian hospital. Siddhartha outside the castle. Chappelle in a questionable limo. I have seen things now. I hear people complain about transit often. Entire Facebook accounts seem to be based on such complaints. But the commuters I saw looked so at peace on and waiting for those buses. Grizzled veterans. What if I was on my way to a job interview? School? Crazy thoughts happen during times such as those. I wanted to help people. I wanted to run for mayor. But that was hours ago. I no longer feel such a strong compulsion to make a difference.

Perhaps you are wondering why I even took a bus in the first place. I actually enjoy transit. It is scenic and stimulating. But now I know what I know. So, no. No more buses for me. At least not on the fearsome and deficient West End to Lynn Valley route.