October, 2009 OR so much to tell you
It’s good to be back. Actually, I have been here the whole time, I just haven’t written anything. Also, there really isn’t that much to tell you. If I could only tell you one thing, it would be this. Yesterday, I cleaned my room. Wait, there’s more. When I finished, my rubbish bin was barely full—filled, in a sense, with dust and crumbs. I thought it would be easiest if I simply emptied the bin out the window, so I did. Who would notice? I was listening to Scott Joplin, and was not thinking too much about anything else. As it happens, a passing pedestrian received a shower of acrid rain. That’s entertainment! If only I ate more bananas.
October 14, 2009 OR happy birthday, Lisa
My sister, Emma, is eighteen at last. Just ask her. She really is the most beautiful young lady in the world, but only in certain lights. I much prefer Emma Watson in all lights, least of all because she isn’t my sister. Obvious geographical constraints have prevented me from celebrating Emma’s ability to mark time. If I could have things my way, little sister, we would have lost that $50 together.
? OR for Can, simply
My friend, Can, wanted me to say something about him. He enjoyed my last blog, especially because I insulted Turks. I intend to do as little dying as possible, so I won’t insult Turkish people any further, except to say that Can is one of them.
? OR NBA action
I am all about basketball. Some of my more cherished mmres are about basketball. In Atherton, when I was 8, or perhaps 9, I would watch NBA Action every Saturday. My favourite part was, of course, the top ten plays of the week. After number one, which was invariably M.J. being a wizard, or a bull, I would rush out into the driveway and shoot some hoops. When Channel 10 stopped broadcasting live games, basketball’s popularity waned. It is sad. My mother, who is quite wonderful, brought basketball back to life, twice. In Gympie, she single-handedly established a junior basketball competition. She has never been thanked enough, mainly because it is so difficult to compliment one-handed people. I played basketball socially and competitively until 2005. Since then, it has largely vanished from my life.
Until now!
Who would have thought that biologists could be so good at basketball? Even John, who is as graceful and delicate as a giraffe, is a triple-threat. Can, is phenomenally good, and only misses his shots when he feels sorry for the rest of us. Marta and Nacho are deadly, and Christoph is tall and handsome. My talent lies in my ability to be a nuisance on the court. They call me Marsupial Boy (not to my face).
October 17 EITHER/OR København
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
I think you have me confused with someone else,
But very well, thank you.
You may recall that my first encounter with Copenhagen was limited to the international airport and the inside of a train. Extrapolation, even in the non-scientific realm of touristology (which, as you know, differs from touristonomy in the same way that astrology differs from astronomy), is the cause of much frowning. Nevertheless, I was sure that the surrounding city was at least as nice as the terminal and train combined. I was pleased, then, when Natalia (lately of Ukraine) suggested a little adventure to Søren’s hometown. In no especial order—except alphabetical—Can, Jessica, John, Marta, Natalia, Raquel, Santiago, Ulrike, and my good self caught the A-train from L to C. The initial plan was to meet at the train station at 6:00am, but this plan was quashed when it was made explicitly clear to certain parties that this hour does not exist.
Tivoli is an amusement park in or near the heart of Copenhagen. As part of the lead-up to Hallowe’en, the walls and entrance were decorated with an adjective noun of nouns, mainly pumpkins. This is Hallowe’en, this is Hallowe’en. In the city square, I watched a convergence of birds; in the alleys, I spied a windy man and furry children. Traffic lights in Copenhagen count down from sixty, which is a polite novelty. The numbers from 60 to 21 are red, and green from 20 to 1. I now know it takes me seven seconds to cross the street, depending on the street.
We crossed the river, searching for Kristiana. On the way we visited an ancient, though purple, church. For a small fee, you can climb the spiralling bell-tower. A small fee in Danish, however, roughly translates to a large fee in Swedish, so we passed. I do not want to say much about Kristiana except that it is the most awful place on earth. Imagine a post-apocalyptic world, teeming with pug-nosed dogs, where narcotics are the legal tender, where burning barrels illuminate and radiate, where Bob Marley and the Dalai Lama are brothers; a world of chaos; a world without rules (except no photos). You have just imagined Kristiana.
In the afternoon, we were joined by Bastian, Isabelle, and Jonathan. Bastian, you may recall, inspired A.C. Doyle’s famous Holmes adventure The Red-Headed League. We were all of us hungry, and equally poor. After countless minutes (23) of searching, we finally settled on a small, underground kebab-ery. I will never forget that restaurant, except its name.
In Copenhagen, there is a statue of a mermaid that is famous for being the least impressive statue in the world. For whatever reason, Marta’s mother wanted Marta to see it, which meant that Marta wanted Marta’s friends to see it. So we saw the statue, and, of course, were unimpressed.
Night descended. Cold and tired, we made our way back to the train station. We passed impressive churches and castles. On Frederik Street, we waved to Mary; on Christian Street, we threw maple leaves; on a third street, we mocked L.R. Hubbard’s ‘book’ store. Finally, we found the station. Three trains later, including the one we missed, we were home.
October 19-22 OR further adventures
Ecology camp—again! Camp is misleading. Bastian, Can, Isabelle, Jonathan, Marta and I lived cosily in a little cottage. Cottage is misleading, too; it is actually a field station. We were there for three days and four nights, although not in that order. Our project (habitat preference among small rodents) was a pretense to eat pasta, watch Futurama, and sleep. The Swedish countryside is beautiful, like something you’d see on a postcard. Golden leaves guided the lonely roads. Even the cows, at a distance, were beautiful.
October 20 OR happy birthday, Lisa, again
My brother and I are in a race. I gave him a year and a half head start. Every year, for half a year, I rope him in, and the gap is only one year. But then, like a particle leaping simultaneously to a higher energy level, he escapes from my sights, a whole two years ahead.
What is it about October? Or, rather, what is it about (counts backwards) January?
October 23 OR continued further adventures
The more I write, the later the hour. Soon, I will fall asleep, and then I will wake, and then I will fall sleep again. Night conquers day, but day conquers night; and paper covers rock! Kif, we have a conundrum. Fetch me some paper, and a rock.
It’s good to be back. Actually, I have been here the whole time, I just haven’t written anything. Also, there really isn’t that much to tell you. If I could only tell you one thing, it would be this. Yesterday, I cleaned my room. Wait, there’s more. When I finished, my rubbish bin was barely full—filled, in a sense, with dust and crumbs. I thought it would be easiest if I simply emptied the bin out the window, so I did. Who would notice? I was listening to Scott Joplin, and was not thinking too much about anything else. As it happens, a passing pedestrian received a shower of acrid rain. That’s entertainment! If only I ate more bananas.
October 14, 2009 OR happy birthday, Lisa
My sister, Emma, is eighteen at last. Just ask her. She really is the most beautiful young lady in the world, but only in certain lights. I much prefer Emma Watson in all lights, least of all because she isn’t my sister. Obvious geographical constraints have prevented me from celebrating Emma’s ability to mark time. If I could have things my way, little sister, we would have lost that $50 together.
? OR for Can, simply
My friend, Can, wanted me to say something about him. He enjoyed my last blog, especially because I insulted Turks. I intend to do as little dying as possible, so I won’t insult Turkish people any further, except to say that Can is one of them.
? OR NBA action
I am all about basketball. Some of my more cherished mmres are about basketball. In Atherton, when I was 8, or perhaps 9, I would watch NBA Action every Saturday. My favourite part was, of course, the top ten plays of the week. After number one, which was invariably M.J. being a wizard, or a bull, I would rush out into the driveway and shoot some hoops. When Channel 10 stopped broadcasting live games, basketball’s popularity waned. It is sad. My mother, who is quite wonderful, brought basketball back to life, twice. In Gympie, she single-handedly established a junior basketball competition. She has never been thanked enough, mainly because it is so difficult to compliment one-handed people. I played basketball socially and competitively until 2005. Since then, it has largely vanished from my life.
Until now!
Who would have thought that biologists could be so good at basketball? Even John, who is as graceful and delicate as a giraffe, is a triple-threat. Can, is phenomenally good, and only misses his shots when he feels sorry for the rest of us. Marta and Nacho are deadly, and Christoph is tall and handsome. My talent lies in my ability to be a nuisance on the court. They call me Marsupial Boy (not to my face).
October 17 EITHER/OR København
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
I think you have me confused with someone else,
But very well, thank you.
You may recall that my first encounter with Copenhagen was limited to the international airport and the inside of a train. Extrapolation, even in the non-scientific realm of touristology (which, as you know, differs from touristonomy in the same way that astrology differs from astronomy), is the cause of much frowning. Nevertheless, I was sure that the surrounding city was at least as nice as the terminal and train combined. I was pleased, then, when Natalia (lately of Ukraine) suggested a little adventure to Søren’s hometown. In no especial order—except alphabetical—Can, Jessica, John, Marta, Natalia, Raquel, Santiago, Ulrike, and my good self caught the A-train from L to C. The initial plan was to meet at the train station at 6:00am, but this plan was quashed when it was made explicitly clear to certain parties that this hour does not exist.
Tivoli is an amusement park in or near the heart of Copenhagen. As part of the lead-up to Hallowe’en, the walls and entrance were decorated with an adjective noun of nouns, mainly pumpkins. This is Hallowe’en, this is Hallowe’en. In the city square, I watched a convergence of birds; in the alleys, I spied a windy man and furry children. Traffic lights in Copenhagen count down from sixty, which is a polite novelty. The numbers from 60 to 21 are red, and green from 20 to 1. I now know it takes me seven seconds to cross the street, depending on the street.
We crossed the river, searching for Kristiana. On the way we visited an ancient, though purple, church. For a small fee, you can climb the spiralling bell-tower. A small fee in Danish, however, roughly translates to a large fee in Swedish, so we passed. I do not want to say much about Kristiana except that it is the most awful place on earth. Imagine a post-apocalyptic world, teeming with pug-nosed dogs, where narcotics are the legal tender, where burning barrels illuminate and radiate, where Bob Marley and the Dalai Lama are brothers; a world of chaos; a world without rules (except no photos). You have just imagined Kristiana.
In the afternoon, we were joined by Bastian, Isabelle, and Jonathan. Bastian, you may recall, inspired A.C. Doyle’s famous Holmes adventure The Red-Headed League. We were all of us hungry, and equally poor. After countless minutes (23) of searching, we finally settled on a small, underground kebab-ery. I will never forget that restaurant, except its name.
In Copenhagen, there is a statue of a mermaid that is famous for being the least impressive statue in the world. For whatever reason, Marta’s mother wanted Marta to see it, which meant that Marta wanted Marta’s friends to see it. So we saw the statue, and, of course, were unimpressed.
Night descended. Cold and tired, we made our way back to the train station. We passed impressive churches and castles. On Frederik Street, we waved to Mary; on Christian Street, we threw maple leaves; on a third street, we mocked L.R. Hubbard’s ‘book’ store. Finally, we found the station. Three trains later, including the one we missed, we were home.
October 19-22 OR further adventures
Ecology camp—again! Camp is misleading. Bastian, Can, Isabelle, Jonathan, Marta and I lived cosily in a little cottage. Cottage is misleading, too; it is actually a field station. We were there for three days and four nights, although not in that order. Our project (habitat preference among small rodents) was a pretense to eat pasta, watch Futurama, and sleep. The Swedish countryside is beautiful, like something you’d see on a postcard. Golden leaves guided the lonely roads. Even the cows, at a distance, were beautiful.
October 20 OR happy birthday, Lisa, again
My brother and I are in a race. I gave him a year and a half head start. Every year, for half a year, I rope him in, and the gap is only one year. But then, like a particle leaping simultaneously to a higher energy level, he escapes from my sights, a whole two years ahead.
What is it about October? Or, rather, what is it about (counts backwards) January?
October 23 OR continued further adventures
The more I write, the later the hour. Soon, I will fall asleep, and then I will wake, and then I will fall sleep again. Night conquers day, but day conquers night; and paper covers rock! Kif, we have a conundrum. Fetch me some paper, and a rock.
