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:

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.

The same individual can regularly exhibit notable feats of memory, good feats and bad feats. I can recall the names of almost all the actors of Beverley Hills 90210 and be told I have a good memory then consistently forget to take my lunch to work and be told that I have a lousy memory. Seems contradictory? The easy explanation is that they are really two different things working in two different ways. If they are so different, why then do we use the same word, memory, for both? They don’t seem too different to me. They both are a suite of routines involving the three “R’s.” Register, retain, retrieve. Perhaps the differences between the ability for cast memorization and the inability for sandwich portage are willingness and triggers. Memorization and remembering are not quite the same thing. I didn’t so much lack the memory of taking my lunch (ie. memorize) as much as the memory didn’t trigger (ie. remember) at the appropriate time, possibly due to a lack of willingness to remember. Why would I be motivated to memorize the cast of Beverley Hills 90210? The answer might appear to be that, no, I would not be motivated to remember the cast. Although, I can name the cast of The Facts Of Life (except Blair but including Mrs. Garrette(sp.?)). I know who Tina Yothers and Dana Plato are. You got to care in some form to know that. And I didn’t even mention anything about queueing memory and how that plays into all this.

Being a real scientist looks very glamorous to me but it couldn’t be as fun as being an internet scientist. Probably not, since you’d probably have to exercise a high amount of discipline, responsibility, and follow through to pay for all that glamour.

And on the subject of memory, let us solemnly never forget the debit card incident.