National Punctuation Day

September 24th is National Punctuation Day. This day celebrates the the use of proper grammar. Here's the website http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/ . They have a punctuation Haiku contest, which I have entered in with relish.

This a Haiku I wrote to honour diversity of punctuation, as it is used most commonly by those of a younger generation.

They’re versatile ;)

Defining :) thoughts, speech and age,

Gracing “texts”—and prose :-)

Bliss

Bliss: n. perfect happiness

At Swing Camp, bliss is falling to sleep with a song you’ve only heard once marching its inexorable way through your brain. Bliss is smiling for no reason, or hugging a complete stranger whom you just met three days ago. Bliss is eating dinner with the leading jazz musicians in Canada and knowing that they think of you as a friend. Bliss is seeing “old friends” that you met at Swing Camp a year ago.

Swing Camp is held at an Anglican retreat center in Sorrento, between Chase and Salmon Arm, about six hours east of Vancouver. People from Alberta, Washington, B.C. and Yukon flock each year to Swing Camp to take part in a bliss filled week of intellectual growth and music—mostly jazz. Its called “Swing Camp”, but its really all kinds of jazz and jazz-like music from the 20’s through the 60’s—and that’s too long a title.

From the horns playing scales at 7:30 AM through the jams ‘till 4:00 in the morning, each day is filled with music. The days started with a rushed breakfast and then a class in the instrument of your choice. My father and I, naturally, chose the Swing Fiddle class, taught by Paul Anastasio. However, there were a multitude of vocal classes, a plethora of guitar classes, and piano, bass, and horn classes too. From the first class, there was a non-stop selection of workshops, classes and jams from which to partake. Most people, actually the sane or amazingly talented (they didn’t need to practice), would swim in Shushwap Lake, nap in the 3:00-4:00 break or rest in any other spare moment. I however, practiced at lunch, the afternoon break and, once, at breakfast. Don’t get me wrong, this was willing, blissful and self-imposed practicing. Bliss.

From 4:00 until dinner there is a class offered called “Band Lab”. Band Lab is the quintessential Swing Camp experience. For me, this class was one of the highlights of Swing Camp. Small, on-the-spot bands quickly rehearse a song and then return to perform it for their peers. It’s a great, opportunity to play in a fully formed band or to play your first solo before an audience of supportive musicians who all know what you’re up against. The audience will cheer no matter what. Each day two “Band Lab tunes” are announced in the morning, with charts available in the Luthier Lounge. This is why, instead of taking breaks during the day, I would practice and study the “Band Lab” songs so that when I performed at Band Lab, it would be the fifth or sixth time I had played a song, not the first.

At the beginning of band lab, each song is performed by the teachers – an impromptu, usually spectacular, often funny performance. In each student’s mind a choice is made, which song do I like the feel of, the lyrics, the melody? Which do I want to play? Of course, for me, an unfamiliar key and chords that are impossible (unless you’re my father) over which to solo, trump an interesting melody and rhythm. Unfortunately the more interesting a Jazz song is, the harder it is to play successfully.

About 80 people attend Band Lab each day. We brave souls sit in sections, waiting to be chosen, organized by our role in a band (lead, rhythm, vocal, percussion, etc.). The violins sit with the other “lead” instruments. Rene Worst, bassist extraordinaire, and the teacher who runs “Band Lab”, then goes section by section selecting instruments to play in each song of the day. Usually the bands are made up of two singers, a couple of leads and rhythm players, one bass and, if lucky, a pianist and percussionist. Once a band is formed they go off and arrange the song (intros, outros, tempo, feel, improvised solos, vocal harmonies…). Usually each band has a teacher to help, prompt creativity and keep everyone on task. At five’ o’clock the bands come back together and perform their arrangement for everyone else.

Some Band Lab performances were beautiful, some were brilliant, and others were funny or cheesy. Some were struggling first attempts to solo. However, in all cases, the performers smiled and had a great time, no matter their skill level—and in all cases performers received huge, enthusiastic appreciation for their effort. I loved standing up there with my band, slightly nervous about my impending improvisation, but knowing that it would not matter if I failed completely. Watching the teachers smile as other bands performed was another highlight. For some, just getting up and quietly chunking in the background is a personal breakthrough. Those people are applauded as much, if not more so, than the brilliant, seasoned musicians. This support for everyone is typical of Swing Camp, and one of the reasons I love it so much.

Tuesday night is the teacher’s concert. Every minute of that evening is filled with blissful music that made the 5-hour concert seem to last only minutes. This really is an amazing experience—for many people the highlight of the week—and alone worth the price of admission. Picture a 5-hour concert by a group of the top jazz musicians in the world, in a small, intimate, outdoor venue… and then getting the next morning for breakfast with those very same musicians.

Thursday night is the student concert. Students put together bands and any student can ask any teacher to back them up. There were student singers backed up by Bill Coon, Rene Worst, and Michael Creber! The M.C.s are fantastic too, with witty hilarious, and sometimes crude, humour. In fact, the idea about Swing Camp “Bliss” was a theme presented at the Student Concert by Terry Hoffman while MC’ing.

Last year at Swing Camp there were only me and two others younger than 20. And last year, I was the youngest participant in the camp. This year, however, there were nine of us younger folks. I was sitting with two new friends on Tuesday night and I decided we would enter in the student concert Thursday evening. Our band would be an all-young person ensemble. My father dubbed us “Swing Camp the Next Generation”. We (that’s the royal we) immediately went out to enlist some more “young-uns”. Leevon (11!) became our bass player, Kayla (18) our singer, Maddie (16) played the French Horn, Alexa (~19) the piano and Chris (~19) was on drums ; I was the fiddle player. We chose the great standard “Fly Me to the Moon”—a song secretly about the America’s race to space.

Our Wednesday practices were hectic. The band was in the key of “C” and Kayla was singing in “G”. The vocal harmonies on the B-part were painful, and wait, where was our ending? I enlisted Reuben (a fantastic teacher) as our coach and we were finally able to play through the entire song. We practiced Wednesday evening, twice on Thursday day and performed that evening. We also had an amazing master class with master musician and teacher John Knowles.

On Thursday evening we performed ninth in the show and wowed the audience with our skills. NOT. But we didn’t train-wreck. And we had a fabulous time. I decided I like performing!

Special thanks to John Knowles and Reuben Gurr, who helped us think and act like a band, not a confused group of musicians who happened to be playing the same song together.

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On the last day of Swing Camp it is impossible to leave without being hugged within an inch of your life in the most wonderful way. Everyone exacts promises to return, vows are made to practice, PRACTICE, PRACTICE! and to write. This is a conversation I eavesdropped on delightedly:

“How are you feeling about entering the real world again?”

“Swing Camp is the real world, everything else out there is a fabrication of our imagination, and as such, only to be tolerated until we can return here next year.”

344 days and counting.

Thanks to Guy Smith, Swing Camp's wonderful photographer, for these photos.

The Perseids

A bright light split the star speckled sky. It seemed like the edges of the night sky were seared and were pealing away from the comet’s tail. The head started at one horizon and the fluorescent tail lasted until the speck of space rock had reached the opposite end of the sky. My eyes only began to track the shooting star halfway through its glorious flight; my mother witnessed the star the whole way through the sky. It was the first shooting star that could be shown to friends and still seen seconds later. Most comets disintegrate faster than a blink of an eye. If eyes aren’t in the right place at the right time, the star is missed. This space rock, the one that lit up the whole night sky, was exclaimed about for days. I discussed it with friends and there was never any doubt that we gesticulated over the same “star”.
Perchance you too were out of the city, gazed heavenward, and witnessed this spectacular comet.

Kayaking

“Look! Look! Are those dolphins? No, wait—they’re Orcas, seven of them!” I exclaimed. The Therm-a-Rest I was inflating dropped unnoticed to the ground as I raced to the edge of the cliff. My hand rose to shield my eyes from the glare of the sinking sun. Those were definitely Orcas and they were racing along the edge of the horizon—and getting closer. My poor mother, having left the binoculars with the kayaks, sprinted back down to the beach to grab that essential object for whale viewing. By the time she returned the whales were much closer to our island and were circling some rocks about 100 meters from our campsite. Hours, or rather minutes (or was it seconds?) later, the whales were near the edge of our perception. Now, the only way to see them was through the binoculars. With those lenses we saw the whales slap their tails and perform various wild acrobatics. Then they dissolved into the horizon.

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For three days, my mother and I kayaked around Lasqueti Island. We camped two nights, stayed with friends one night and nearly ran out of water. I had to forgo my hot chocolate one night, quelle domage!
Lasqueti is an island about an hours passenger ferry-ride from Parksville, Vancouver Island. While only 20 km long and 10 km wide, our circumnavigation is my longest kayak trip to date.

One of the nice things about Lasqueti Island is the profusion of wildlife that lives on or near the shoreline. As we rounded points and poked our noses around reef islands we constantly surprised and frightened the blimp-like Harbour Seals. Five or six immediately would slide, slither and fall into the water while one anxious mother hovered near a young pup who hadn’t yet fled to the sea. One mother and pup pair froze as we passed within meters of their rocky encampment. I could see the grain of their fur, pup’s spots and hear their breathy snorts.

Even though we started the expedition in rain and a very turbulent sea, the trip ended with blue skies and a heat that begged swimming. Every break resulted in a quick dive into the ocean—which produced, always, a “oh, that’s cold!” The last leg of the paddle was against a headwind, but we were able to coast into our bay amidst the delighted yelps of our dog and family as they caught sight of my mum and me.

Follow up to the UWC

The common cliche of opportunities "as one door closes another opens" does little to assuage the sorrow.

On April 29th I had an interview with the five UWC officials. We discussed my views on food politics, rules, government. Their questions tested what I believe, and why I believe what I do. Their questions were geared completely to my interests as outlined in my written application. During the ferry ride back from Victoria I hung-out with and talked with two other interviewees. They were lovely people seemed perfect for the UWC. We all wished each other good-luck. About two weeks later I received a letter that I did not make the final 25. I hope that the girls I met were included in the final 25.

Nevertheless, I am determined to make my final year of high-school interesting and engaging . If all goes according to plan, I shall take a couple of courses at Cap. U. (the local University) and some fascinating classes at Seycove, like Calculus (then I will be able to understand the complex jokes).

Confusion of Words

This morning dawned bright and cloudy. At least, that was the weather at ten o’clock, not at dawn. I leapt out of bed and eagerly began my math for the day, not. However, I did stare in confusion at different notations and graphs, but I wasn’t eager or cheerful. My worst fears have been realized: this course of math over the summer is preventing the decay of my brain. I really want to spend the whole summer reading in the sun, but this math is averting that. Woe to me.
One may not think that reading tous le temp can cause problems, but it does. A problem of being such an avid reader is that I often don’t know how to pronounce words. People in normal conversations with normal people never use a large part of my vocabulary. So, with depressing frequency (once is too many), I will say a sentence, and no one will know what I mean. This morning that mispronounced word was volition. Somehow I had memorized it as violition. Last month the word was epitome. I was under the impression that epitome was pronounced phonetically as epi-tome (tome, as in a large book). So, for those who wish to be a bookworm, think again; books cause consternation, embarrassment and are highly addictive.

SUMMER! :)

Summer is here! I wrote my last exam, the eighth, last Wednesday and now I am FREE. After an unbelievably hectic year, I now have the luxury of an entire two months of relaxing. I plan to use my time in a productive manner--reading, reading, sleeping, swimming, reading...
Actually, I do have some things that need to be accomplished. My violin playing has sadly been a wee bit lax this past year with all my homework and such. So, I intend to practice intensively to prepare for Swing Camp (we are going back!). Painting will also resume its normal place as a favoured activity.
The only "fly in my ointment" is that I will be taking Math 12 by correspondence this summer. I really shouldn't be grouching, it was my idea, but more homework really doesn't seem conducive to my health. Sigh.
As an unfortunate piece of dramatic irony, the weather here has been miserable. Ever since exams have ended, the skies have either been gray and cloudy, or precipitating enthusiastically. While enthusiasm is lauded in school, the workplace and among friends, overeager rain is a sad and sorry sight. Not to mention damp. My poor pea plants are stunted and twisted from all this frigid (temperature, like velocity, is relative) weather.

April Loooong Weekend

The second day in April has dawned dark and damp. It feels like the spring has decayed back into winter: the trees whip around in invisible eddies of wind and rain falls in large drops that sound like they could break our house. However I have hopes that even if it's raining at sea level it will be snowing at Whistler--where we intend to ski tomorrow.
It is easy to comprehend that gas is a fluid when I can see it's effects. The tree branches fly back and forth like kelp fronds in large ocean swells.
I await with bated breath an email that could decide my fate for the next two years. Over the fall I applied to the Untied World Colleges. The UWC are a group of schools around the world that take students from any country imaginable. These schools offer diversity and a curriculum geared to provide awareness of social and environmental issues and the skills to do something. There is a UWC in Victoria, Wales, Italy, Norway, Swaziland, Hong Kong...
The preliminary hurdle is the interview. Only 24 people from BC are interviewed. From across the country, only 25 Canadians will be accepted.

This is the link to the UWC in Victoria: http://www.pearsoncollege.ca/

Europe trip

When I came back from my Europe vacation over Spring Break, I had taken 2000 pictures. I went to Europe with a group from my school and we went to Paris, various towns in Provence and Barcelona. The trip lasted ten days and was a whirlwind of activity and new experiences. I had a great time. This is an imovie I made with my photos when I came back.

Spring Break

When I am tired I tend to compose anecdotes in French: it is one of my more bizarre character quirks. Over spring break I went with my school to Paris, Provence and Barcelona. So, in my jet-lagged fogged brain I was reviewing all my memories of Europe. Since I was tired, I happened to be thinking of Europe, and France, in quasi-correct French. This is what I came up with, with some help from my lovely dictionary.

Toujours, j’ai voulu voyager en Europe. La semaine dernière, j’ai eu mon souhait. Moi, et quarante-six d’autres, ont voyagé en Europe pour la vacance du printemps. Avant de voyager, j’ai eu beaucoup des idées de préconçue de la culture de la France et l’Espagne, mais je n’étais pas correct. J’ai pensé que les personnes refuseraient parler Anglais. Aussi, je n’ai pas imaginé l’âge et l’histoire de la Paris, l’Avignon, ou toutes les autres villes.
La première nuit à Paris, j’ai eu une grande surprise. J’ai compris rien des conversations dans le métro! J’ai cru que je ne comprendrais pas les conversations de temps en temps, mais pas toujours! J’ai oublié la rapidité de la langue Français. Les peuples à Paris ont été le plus impatients de tous de France.
J’ai trouve qu’il y a trois types des personnes à Paris. Il y a la une personne qui interrompt la conversation en Français pour parler en Anglais. Le problème avec cette personne est, par exemple, quand il m’a interrompu, j’ai pensé que j’ai fait une erreur dans ma phrase. Le deuxième type ne m’a pas interrompu, mais aussi il jamais parle français avec les touristes! Seulement, il parle l’Anglais avec les touristes. Finalement, il y a la personne qui n’a pas compris mon accent. Il m’a vu comme je parlais du grec.
Après Paris, nous avons pris le TGV à Avignon, et donc nous avons conduit à Nîmes. Nous avons dormi à Nîmes pour trois nuits. Je pense que les peuples en Provence sont plus gentils que les peuples à Paris. Les personnes n’ont pas parlé Anglais en Provence, mais, quand ils parlent en Français, ils parlent lentement. En Provence, j’ai eu beaucoup des conversations en Français où nous nous sommes compris.
J’ai eu seulement une conversation qu’était un désastre. Cette conversation était entre une personne avec un accent de Vietnamien et moi. Je n’ai pas compris son français, et il ne m’a pas compris. Aussi, les autres peuples dans le restaurant et mes amis m’ont ru. J’ai été traumatise pour ce jour entier.
Toutes les villes en Europe ont une grande histoire. Ici, au Canada, un vieux bâtiment a 80 ans au maximum. En Europe, un vieux bâtiment a construit par les Romains. Beaucoup de bâtiments à Paris ont construit après de la révolution de France. Aussi, chaque pont et statue ont une histoire. Il y a des gargouilles sur chaque bâtiment et des Vierge Marie partout.
Les cathédraux ont été formidables. La Sagrada Familia en Espagne a commencé dans le 19 siècle et il ne finit pas maintenant. Cette cathédrale aura la capacité pour 10 000 personnes. Le Sacre Cœur cathédral à Montemart, et beaucoup d’autres, ont les fenêtres verres colorés magnifiques.
Les repas étaient plus que j’ai espéré. Les baguettes toujours étaient chaudes et cuisiné frais chaque jour. Les croissants ont eu beaucoup de beurre et ils ont fondu dans la bouche. Pour mon petit déjeuner j’ai mangé les croissants et les pains aux chocolats. Les brioches, les gâteaux, les biscuits…oh, il n’y a pas les bonnes pâtisseries en l’Amérique du Nord.
Europe a été plus que j’ai espéré et rêvé. L’histoire, l’art, et les langues ont été une grande surprise pour moi. J’ai aimé voir les racines culturelles de Canada et des Caucasiens. Je veux retourner en Europe le plus tôt possible.

Ode to Turkey Vultures

This is another essay I wrote for Literature on a philosophical subject. The inspiration for it came from The Trip after seeing so many close up views of Vultures. Surprisingly for many people, this essay is about beauty.

I used to hate Turkey Vultures. When I was little, sitting in the bottom of a canoe, only one bird held my attention—the Eagle. All the rest were middling, not worthy of consideration. The Turkey Vultures absorbed all of my parent’s attention. When they should have been scanning the skies for my precious eagles, they would instead exclaim, “Look! a TV!” Not only did the birds fly too high for me to distinguish any details, but they also had an obtuse nickname. If the bird was as great as people seemed to think, why call it after an electronic device? I never heard anyone call a Bald Eagle a “BE”. In my mind, Turkey Vultures shouldn’t have been allowed to grace the azure skies. It never occurred to me that there were many valid opinions about beauty, and that those opinions could be transformed by experience.
“No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly,” said Oscar Wilde. However the reverse is also true. Nothing is so ugly, that under certain conditions, it can’t be beautiful. Beauty can be found anywhere, in the harshest and most repulsive conditions on earth. The pattern of light flashing off the reflective windows in a forest of skyscrapers is elegant. The ocean of lights from a city at night is one persons dream and another’s nightmare. A person helping in a soup kitchen is grace to some, but repugnant to others. Beauty can be found anywhere—even in the oil that floats on the surface of the ocean.
I often have different ideas of beauty than my family. I enjoy different music, different styles of art, and find different cultural and physical landscapes alluring. The Grand Canyon with its classic screensaver-beauty does not sing to me. Don't get me wrong, canyons are breathtaking, but they don’t anchor my soul. Instead, BC’s wild crags and densely forested islands in the raging ocean croon to me. Towering mountains with clouds snagged on the peaks, and sharp trees poking at the sky, resonate within me. Also, the jagged edges of the Polynesian Islands that slide dramatically into the endless ocean ensnare my imagination.
Compare this with my family. My grandfather enjoys realistic paintings of rolling pastureland and gardens, grain elevators and prairie landscapes. My mother finds the pale rouges and pinks of the American Southwest enthralling. My twelve-year old brother thinks the Millennium Falcon Star Wars LEGO ship is the epitome of beauty. Beauty and magic appear in alternate forms to different minds.
This past year, my family and I went on a road trip that transformed my ideas of beauty. There were very few constants, but one was the Turkey Vulture. No matter where we were, desert, beach, or small town, we would see Turkey Vultures soaring high above the land looking for carrion. In Arizona, we were privy to undulating gyres of buzzards. Driving though Mexico, we observed Turkey Vultures who perched on cacti. While camping on beaches on the Baja Peninsula, we would wake up to find three or four large buzzards surveying their domain. Nothing missed their little black eyes. I could see the infinite detail of their wrinkled red heads. Looking up when a Turkey Vulture flew above, I would be rewarded with a view of the light and dark shadows playing on their wings. I discovered these birds were a living collage of colour, texture, and motion. I also discovered that “Turkey Vulture” was too long to say—so, I shortened their name to T.V. Beautiful, eh?

School

School is hectic. All the teachers seem to conspire together to have each assignment, quiz and test due on the same day. In the next week I have two Biology quizzes, one Hamlet quiz, a Math test, a World War Two test and a debate. My time to do anything but memorize, memorize, memorize seems to have disappeared.

However, I still love school, Lit. and Biology especially. This is something I wrote for Lit after we had done a unit on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. My poem is about a modern day pilgrim.

Migrants

Flighty white birds that travel in flocks
Appear each year, with timing like clocks.
In fact, these birds are obscenely pristine,
They always and always and always are clean.
Swathed in feathers glistening with health:
These birds love preening, showing off wealth,
And flaunting their feathers—flawless and fair—
These birds, it's said, have had facial repairs.

Because these birds, they’re not what they seem.
They live for pleasure with very few themes:
Fashion, gossip, and golf courses too,
Pursuing their passions in only one hue.
Their lifestyle is rich, they feed off the land,*
Acting in ways which should really be banned.

These birds are common for birders to see.
Snowbirds are invasive, they’ll make others flee,
These birds shop at malls and fast food bars:
These birds, they're not birds! but some kin of ours.

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*Everglades, everglades, wherefore art thou, everglades?