thisCassandra

A Tale of Two Chickens

For the longest time I have wanted to keep chickens in the city, but there was never a place for them. Then I moved here and started to think about keeping some chickens on the roof, but haven't got around to it yet.

I assumed that it was illegal to keep chickens in the city, but I figured that the people who could see down onto my roof, the fob immigrants from China in the building to the east and the down and out in the SRO hotel to the west, wouldn't really care. Still I didn't get around to getting chickens.

I learned today that it is legal to keep chickens in Vancouver. I've built a shade and privacy shelter on my roof, and I think I'll build a little coop for the legal chickens; they'd need shelter too.

I think I'm going to get myself some chickens, maybe two. Two of those plump russet coloured chickens, Rhode Island reds, like in the cartoons.

And now a tale of two chickens: It was the nest of times, it was the roost of times...

Ester told me about a chicken her mother used to have. This chicken was a great egg layer; she was just like the other chickens, hanging out with the other chickens, scratching, pecking, squawking, gossiping, and like other chicken she stopped laying so well as she got older. When she was about five years old, she grew out her tail feathers and her crown, and started crowing in the morning. Then she started to avoid the other chickens and started hanging around by herself in the corner of the yard. For the next ten years she lived as a rooster; she came out of the coop, took to the roost, and lived for another ten years.

A trans-gendered chicken. How amazing is that?

To Market

Dinner was Chinese food at the Ho Tak Kee with Rob/Bob (my ex) and Rob G and Lori, and April and Laura and April's parents. After dinner Julie and Sacha joined us and we talked and we talked.

After we left the restaurant, Julie, Sacha, Laura and I went to the Richmond Night Market where we walked around eating bits of food and drinking bubble tea. It's a wonder how many things are available to buy.

I found one booth that catered to people with small dogs and money: there were sets of four booties for the dogs and costumes for small dogs. My favourites were the chipmunk costume (your dog can be a furry!) and the bee costume. Very funny.

I bought some striped socks (what a surprise), which came in handy because I started to feel a bit cold, so I put the socks on and felt much warmer. Stripe socks to the rescue!

I almost bought a polka dot toque, but didn't. I can rationalize a pair of socks, but a toque, maybe not.

My New Glasses, My Old Green Bandana

Today I picked up my new glasses, many dollars worth of clearer vision. Clear vision is quite different from what I'm used to: I've never been able to wear my most recent glasses, so I've been wearing my two pairs ago glasses, the scratched up glasses of yesteryear.

I've been wearing my green bandana as a hairband. This means that my hair is too long and needs a big cut. I've had this bandana since at least December 1992 when I started wearing it as a hairband. I remember wearing it while playing in the ocean off Puerto Vallarta. If you've ever been in the ocean off Puerto Vallarta, you'll know that the surf breaks just off shore. It pounds a few feet from the beach. If you're not careful the surf could pound you into the gravel on the beach, and you could drown three feet from shore.

This almost happened to me, I was pounded into the gravel a few feet from shore and it took some time for me to pull myself out of there. When I did get out, I had a pound and a half of gravel in my swimsuit and I'd lost my green bandana.

I looked and looked, but couldn't find it, and after a while I gave up. I did other things for the rest of the morning, then that afternoon I was standing on the shore eating a banana. I said to the ocean, I'll trade you the banana for the bandana, and I threw the banana peel into the water. The next thing I knew, the bandana was washed up at my feet.

Apparently the ocean thought it a fair trade.

Bones of the Day

On the way to meet Marlene (we were going to the Giants game) I took the #4 bus to the end of the line, along McGill Avenue to Renfrew and around the corner to Eton Street which is close to the Pacific Coliseum, where the game was. On the north side of McGill Avenue at Penticton Street is a grocery store. At this corner, while crossing the street, my mother's mother's sister May was run down by a car.

The driver ran (never caught), and Auntie May died of her injuries. I remember hearing on the radio about this unidentified older Oriental woman who had been killed by a car while crossing McGill before I heard that Auntie May had been killed by a hit and run driver while crossing McGill to buy milk.

Nowadays there's a pedestrian controlled traffic signal at that intersection. So there is some point in the pointless death of a little old Chinese lady on her way to buy milk, shuffling across a street that resembles nothing more than the Atari Freeway, with little old Chinese ladies instead of chickens dodging the cars.

Brian, my mother's cousin, who is also the son of Auntie May, has had some tragic occurrences in his life: first his mother being killed by a hit and run driver, and then his son Lance being killed by having a dumpster fall on the car he was in, and now Brian is very sick with cancer.

It's cold here today, toque and scarf and gloves weather. I saw a young woman dressed in a turquoise camisole with brown low rider pants and flip flops. Brr.

The Department Head where I work gets season's passes for the Giants games. If he can't make it to the games, he gives the tickets away, sometimes to me. My friend Marlene loves hockey, so we make an effort to go. We like to watch the games and see the remote controlled blimps charging at one another and see the between periods rounds of humans sliding down the ice and trying to knock over the inflatable bowling pins. We also like the Zambonis, especially the one which has an ad on it stating that the VPD (Vancouver Police Department) is hiring.

Last week the head gave me four sets of tickets to use or to give away. The game this evening was the last of the four, and only one which Marlene and I were able to attend. This evening the game was the Giants against the Seattle Thunderbirds.

The T-Birds have a player whose # is 3, whose given name is Scott, and whose surname is Jackson. This fact is, in and of itself, utterly trivial and of no consequence. How it rates as odd, is that I have a Livejournal friend whose name is 3catsjackson with whom I have had more than one odd and synchronous occurrence. Doubly and exponentially odd, because, well, just because. Trust me, it's odd.

Even I, who exist in a universe full of of odd occurrences, consider this occurrence odd.

The Forensic Assassin

Where I work I see students (though I don't deal with them). Some of these students are annoying. One of the most annoying was Gary.

Gary was one of those little Asian guys who do the kung fu moves while walking down the hall. He said he couldn't decide if he wanted to be a forensic scientist or an assassin. In the lab he was learning to be the first, but when he was walking down the hall pretending to be Ninja, he was practising to be an assassin.

It would be a difficult decision to make: forensic scientist or assassin. I thought he should conflate the two and be The Forensic Assassin - someone who would be paid to kill people, and then be paid to analyze how they've been killed.You could make work for yourself and protect yourself from being caught. Far sighted and clever planning.

Gary left the country. I don't know what he does.

The Dog Bag

Today I carried my lunch to work in the dog bag, which is a fairly large unbleached cotton bag that was given to me by someone who was (and is) dear to me. There is a silk-screen of a border collie approaching on one side and of the same dog walking away on the other side. It used to be my main food shopping bag. I had a big lunch today.

I seldom use the dog bag these days, but every time I do, I am reminded of an odd thing that happened in the early spring and the summer of 2001 or 2002: I was food shopping at Granville Island with my friend Amy, and I was standing near the door waiting for her with the full to bulging dog bag slung over my shoulder. A casually-dressed (LL Bean khakis, fleece, goretex - the uniform of the middle classes in Vancouver) middle-aged fellow approached me and started talking to me as though I had a border collie, chatting about what good dogs they were and asking if I didn't agree, and if I belonged to the border collie association.

It didn't register that I was carrying the dog bag, and I said, "I'm sorry, I don't have a border collie," to which he apologized and explained that he'd assumed that I was a border collie person because of the bag. I said, "No, it's just a bag that someone gave to me that I really like using."

At this time Amy came up and I turned to greet her then turned back and the fellow was gone. I couldn't see him anywhere. I felt a small twinge of disappointment, because he was cute in a nerdy middle-aged guy kinda way, and I don't often have unknown men, kinda cute or not, come up out of the blue and try to engage me in conversation, so wanted to relish the novelty further, but he was gone to the realm of the lost opportunity. 

I didn't really think much about this mysterious encounter brought to me courtesy of the dog bag. Truly I almost forgot about it until the summer when I was returning something to the London Drugs on Broadway: I was standing at the customer service counter with the item I was returning in the dog bag in a cart, when a middle-aged man dressed in clam-diggers and an On Golden Pond hat approached and started to talk with me as though he knew me. I drew a blank until he said "You have a border collie," to which I said, "I have a border collie bag," and he accepted the correction then asked me "Do you work in the Faculty of ********?"

I did not work in the Faculty of ********, but I worked in a department within the Faculty of *******, and I was often in the offices of the Faculty of ********. I explained that and asked "So who are you?" to which he replied "I'm **** ******, head of the Department of *******," which was another department within the Faculty of ********.

I probably thought something like, "Oh my god, I'm being stalked by the head of the Department of *******," and I was probably unsure what to make of the situation. I probably looked stunned, and probably stammered something inane. He disappeared again, again a lost opportunity.

Both times I met him, I've had reverberations of wonder in my brain for a few days afterwards. Wonder if I'd missed something, wonder what had actually happened, wonder if I mightn't have noticed it sooner, wonder if Dr. ****** is as goofy and charming as he appears to be. I think of him occasionally, and wonder if I've ever seen him again and not recognized him. The answer to this is, yes, probably I have seen him and not recognized him.

Today a goofy and kinda cute middle-aged fellow came into my office looking for Dr. **** and/or Helen. He was dressed in clam diggers and an On Golden Pond hat. He was very tan and carried two bags. He took off his hat and had close-cropped hair (# 3 guard). He had a huge smile with very white teeth..

I took him to Dr. ****'s office and as I walked away I could hear them greeting one another. When I got back to my office, I thought I recognized him as **** ******, the dog bag guy, but wasn't absolutely certain. This fellow seemed much younger than someone who had been a Department Head five years ago would have been.

I was talking with the executive director when he left, walking past smiling at me again, so I couldn't run and ask him if he was who I thought he was. Instead I asked Dr. ****, and she laughed and confirmed that he was Dr. ******.

Seeing Dr. ****** has again set up reverberations of wonder in my brain: I don't really think I'm being stalked, after all three meetings spread over 4 or 5 years hardly constitutes a problem. I admit that I am a bit fascinated (and flattered) by the whole odd thing, and, of course, curious. I wonder, just wonder what exactly it is. I am pretty certain that I'll never know what it is, but whatever it is, it is contained within the dog bag.

The dog bag is half full.

The Ghost of Christmas Presents Lost

August was found in the bottom of my locker at work, so all is well, and I am happily reading Happyland again.

This alternating missing stuff reminds me of something that happened during the bus ride that Rob/Bob (my ex) took from Montreal to Vancouver (with a car ride from Calgary to Cranbrook), Christmas of 1989. We were traveling to see his family in Cranbrook, and he had gone shopping for presents for his family before we left Montreal . He had packed everything in two cardboard boxes, one small and the other medium sized, and we took them, our luggage and ourselves to the Voyageur station near the Berry-UQAM metro station.

Taking a long distance bus ride is a grand adventure: after about twenty hours id ceases to exist. One is reduced to a paramecium state, responding to stimulus in its simplest forms. Outside is either light or not-light. You are either conscious or not-conscious. It is either food or not-food. Life becomes very basic.

Except that there were two boxes of gifts, one small and one medium, which Rob/Bob (my ex) was making an effort to keep tabs on inasfar as he could, considering they (the boxes) were riding in the baggage compartments under the bus and we were up above in the cabin.

In Winnipeg, we got out of the bus and found the small box, but could not find the medium-sized box anywhere. Out in the bitter cold we looked and looked, but had to give up when the bus driver told us the bus was about to leave and that we had to get back on. We watched the small box being placed into the baggage maw in the belly of our bus, and then the bus took off. Rob/Bob (my ex) was very sad that one of the boxes of presents had disappeared.

In Calgary, we were going to spend the night with Colleen and Larry and the boys (Rob/Bob (my ex)’s sister and the family), and then all of us were going to drive to Cranbrook together. We got off the bus and went to the baggage claim area, where we found the medium-sized box, but couldn’t find the small box anywhere.

After looking everywhere for the small box, we gave up and went off with Larry, who had come to pick us up. The next morning we went back to the bus station, where we found the small box waiting for us as though nothing were amiss. The brat.

So if you wait long enough, lost presents may come back.

Not Critical

There was a phone call at 7:30 am, from Kevin at the Lost & Found office at the Acadia Fairview (Residence on Campus) Commons Block who told me that my driver's license and bank card and charge cards had been turned in, and were waiting for me to come pick them up.

Now I'm relieved and grateful that they've been found and turned in somewhere, but I have to say that they were lost at a bus stop at 4th & Macdonald, which is 3 or 4 miles away from Acadia Fairview Commons Block. I consider myself to be quite intuitive, but it is unllikely that I would have thought to ask about the items that I had lost at a bus stop in Kits at a Lost & Found in a residence on campus.

Also, Kevin told me that the cards were turned in on June 19th (when I lost them), and nobody phoned me until he did at 7:30 on a Saturday morning in July (the 22nd). It should be easy to assume that the situation would have been dealt with by now (everything cancelled or replaced), so was no longer critical. Kevin found my phone number in the on-line campus directory, and so he would have seen my work number, work address and e-mail address, so he had several contact options. I think he might have called me at work one week day and/or left a voice mail and/or sent an e-mail, rather than calling my home at 7:30 on a Saturday morning.

I'm not trying to be critical, I'm grateful and all, but I have to say that I find this a little odd.

Third Time's the Charm

Early today I dropped off Crowtography II for inclusion in the Foundation Show. Dallas showed me the piece he’s putting in and I’m impressed; it’s a print made up of a repeated stamped pattern consisting of interlocking turtles and airplanes, which also happens to be a map of the world (one of those cut and peeled globe type world maps). He has received one offer to buy this piece (one of the instructors), but I don’t think he’s willing to sell it. I think I might offer to buy it if he were.

I went up to my locker, and I ran into Elizabeth in the hall. I asked her if I could get my drawings today rather than tomorrow and she said I could. She also gave me a short version of my term work assessment today: my strength is in my spontaneity, the snap decisions that I make, that my short drawings are energetic, and that I tend to peter out while doing longer drawings. This is true, I often finish my drawing in half of the allotted time and I will take another piece of paper and start another one. It would be good if I could learn to maintain the energy longer term, learn to pace myself. That said, she thought the long portrait of Irma, the Goofy Sock Monkey, was beautiful.

It’s interesting that Elizabeth would talk about the strength of my spontaneous decisions, because I had just handed in my not-more-than-50-word assessment of what I have learned in my foundation year: "Do nothing without intention." (though I probably should have used my other concise motto: "How hard can it be?"). This idea of intention and control is an important one for me. I think that I would like to develop more craftsperson-like work habits, being thoughtful and considered and not being rash, and so I try to develop these by being intent and controlled. Disciplined. I see myself as being impulsive and having none of these characteristics.

After talking with Elizabeth I went outside and ran into Chelsea, one of the gals in my drawing class and we chatted a bit. I was wearing the yellow wide leg - flood length - going on six year old and falling apart overalls, and the black turtleneck and the blue hoodie and my new black shoes, and out of the blue Chelsea told me that I always looked well put together and had funky clothes. Odd. She’s 19 and an art school student. That said, some, but not all, of the gals dress in fashionable Barbie outfits; Chelsea is not one of them. She is a fairly conservative dresser, still you wouldn’t expect her tastes to be at all similar to mine.

Odd.

That was the second time in two days, someone under 20 has complimented my outfit: yesterday I was in the Dollar Food Store on Commercial Drive, wearing pretty much the same outfit, except for the vaguely green wide leg - flood length - going on six year old and falling apart overalls rather than the yellow ones, and the hipster clerk raved about the overalls. She loved them.

Odder.

My great friend Rob H and I met and went to Tsunami Sushi, the place with the little boats that go around and around the sushi bar, filled with little dishes of sushi, and you just grab the ones you want as they go past. Kind of like sushi dim sum with boats instead of carts. Yum. After lunch we went to the VAG to see the Brian Jungen show. His work is still impressive.

After the gallery tour we sat in the gallery café drinking tea. We discussed what Elizabeth had said, and I mentioned my view of myself as rash and impulsive. I think that my great friend Rob H does not see me as I see myself.

Maybe I confuse mastery with intent, and dilettantism with impulsiveness. Maybe it’s all a matter of semantics.

I walked home from downtown and shopped at TNT on the way. I was standing in the checkout line, and noticed that the people ahead of me had a whole shopping cart overfilled with oversized packets of shrimp crackers. He looked a bit like David Cronenburg,  she was a teeny Asian woman, and I assumed they were shooting a film or something (though is David Cronenburg at a stage in his career where he has to go out and pick up the props for his films?).

Ahead of these two were two other people who had two hand baskets filled with packets of wasabi peas, nothing but packages of wasabi peas. $200 worth of wasabi peas.

I wonder what these people do with these bags of snack foods…Something odd, I bet.

Speaking of odd and snack food, I bought Mauve Mousse (purple yam) Pocky today. As you can see, the packaging is very girly. Rob/Bob (my ex) tells me that yams (and blueberries) are a good source of natural estrogen. Maybe I'll buy a package for Rob/Bob (my ex).

Walking past International Village, across the street from TNT, I saw some art installed in the huge normally empty cavernous space on the main floor. The UBC Fine Arts Grad Show is there until next week. Some of the work was amazing in a good way, some was amazing in a not so good way. There was an impressive pen and ink drawing on four sheets of 4’x5’ paper. Also there was a huge portrait on 8’ wide paper, maybe 6’ long in blue bic pen of the Right (diss) Honourable, Stephen Harper. It was part of an installation about being Canadian that included some Moosehead beer boxes, Moosehead beer empties and camping chairs. The drawing is more impressive than the installation.

At every art show I look at some of the work and I have to ask "Why?" and then I remember my other concise motto: "Because you can is not a good enough reason."  This is all I need to say.

Halfway between TNT and my house is the produce store where the wall-eyed woman works. I dropped in to buy some oranges, and she was there. She looked glad to see me, though it’s possible that she didn’t quite recognize me until I said "M sai doi," (I don’t need a bag.) which she taught me how to say. Then she would have known it was me for sure.

Another customer who spoke Cantonese came in after me, and I walked towards the exit. On the way I found some sugar peas that needed to come home with me, so I went back to the counter. The Cantonese speaking customer was still there and it looked to me like the wall-eyed clerk was happily gossiping with her. I put my peas on the scale and the Cantonese speaking customer left. The wall-eyed clerk watched her go, then when she was almost to the front door, the clerk patted me on the hand. When I looked up I was surprised to see that she had her nose wrinkled up in distaste and she was moving her head and mouth in the universal sign that indicates that you don't like someone because they natter and talk too much.

Then she said, "She talks too much."

I smiled. I didn’t know how else to respond.

Then she said, "She makes too much noise. I don’t like noisy. You like noisy?"

I shook my head and said, "No, I like quiet."

She nodded happily and said, "Me too."

Then I took my peas and I left. I think she likes me.

9:00 pm: CM, my voodoo practitioner friend, just left. He dropped in to give me his new phone number. I had seen his request on Vancouver Freecycle for donation of a computer and printer for his co-op, so I gave him the printer that I rarely ever use. He joked that he needed a bag to carry it in because the police would stop him if they saw him, a black man, carrying a printer. I said that if they were going to stop him they would stop him even if he were carrying the printer in a bag, and that I would stay near the phone in case he needed me to vouch for having given him the printer. He was okay with that, but I gave him a bag anyway.

We were going upstairs to see the baby guppies, when out of the blue, he complimented my overalls. He said they made me look brave.

Oddest yet, but third time’s the charm.

Look Sharp, The Chair Is Still Behind You

A couple of months before Erin moved out she started doing volunteer/intern work at the Video In. As far as I know, she has continued to do this work.

A week or so before Erin moved out there was a note on the table: "My new boyfriend is very fat and he broke the chaise lounge up on the roof. I'll replace it." She did replace it, but she left the carcass to rot in the garage.

I thought of restringing it with ropes or something, but I never got around to doing iit.

There was a request on Vancouver Freecycle, for a busted down chaise lounge to be used in a performance then destroyed. I contacted the person and she figured out that it would be okay for their needs (she's willing to restring it with Duct Tape) and we arranged for her to come and pick it up.

When she got here I asked what performance it would be used for and she said, "A group out of Chicago, during the signal to noise festival. Have you ever heard of the Video In?"

I laughed and told her that the person who had sat on the chair and broken the slats was the boyfriend of Erin, a volunteer at the Video In. This young woman had just met Erin...

The chaise lounge will follow Erin to the Video In. She can run but she can never hide. What a small world the Vancouver Art and Re-use Scene is.