Just discovered this short student film (!) starring Peter Gabriel and Charles Durning. I wish I could find it in higher quality, but you'll get the idea from this, regardless. Clocking in at just under ten minutes, it is a neat little piece of cyberpunk noir. Enjoy -
29 June 2009
24 June 2009
Victory is mine
For the past year or so, Kira and I have been increasingly conscientious about composting our food scraps. This has been, on the whole, a positive experience, and it has been pleasing to see the subsequent reduction in our weekly flow of garbage that gets hauled away from the curb.
I say "on the whole," however, because composting is not, at the end of the day, a bed of roses. The song of the lonely composter is, at best, bittersweet -- a mixed melody of virtue and sorrow.
I sing, dear reader, of fruit flies.
It started with the advent of warmer weather a few weeks back. We have been keeping a small, charcoal-filtered scrap bin inside near the kitchen trash cans. When preparing food or slicing up fruit to put on our cereal for breakfast, the location of the pail made it easy to get rid of the bio-waste as it was being generated. Throughout the cold months pf winter, this arrangement worked just fine. Come the summer, though, things started to change.
Without being too graphic, it got to the point where every virtuous lift of the lid on the small bio container brought its own "reward" of a small cloud of very active -- and hungry -- pests. It didn't take long for the strawberry tops and banana peels, doing their fetid business in the small green pail, to become a breeding ground for these harmless, but quite annoying, swarms.
What to do? What to do? Both Kira and I have been trying to avoid harsh chemicals lately. Allergies, general health, and a host of other concerns leave us leery of fumigating rooms or zapping the little bozos directly. We both, my wife and I, have been on a "home remedies" kick of late, and I was curious if there was a more "old world" solution to the problem then resorting to the wares of DuPont and Dow Chemical.
Turns out there is. After a little thinking, and some digging on the internet, I came up with this: take a shallow dish, fill it with a dash of port wine, stretch some cling wrap over the top, and poke a small hole in the middle with the blades of a scissors.
Some of you who know me, reading this, may recall that I have a particular fascination with the theme of monkey traps. Being a theologian, I think a lot about the workings of systems, and I am particularly interested by systems that are powered to deliver results on the basis of "lowest-common-denominator" operations. That is to say, I like systems that are so elegantly simple that they continue to work even when they are in what is known in the biz as a "failure condition."
For a system to work, even while its failing, requires the sober understanding on the part of the designer of some factor, outside the system, which can be depended upon to deliver a satisfactory result, regardless of the condition of the system. In the case of the monkey trap, that consistent factor is the short-term thinking of the monkey. Because the monkey cannot let go of the immediate desire to have the fruit or the nuts in the bottom of the trap, it gets caught -- and held -- by its own fist, refusing to let go of the treasure in the trap.
This fruit fly catcher functions using the same principle: the files are smart enough (and driven enough by the scent of the sweet, sweet wine) to get in through the hole, but they have no capacity whatsoever to get back out again.
The first morning, after laying the trap, there were ten flies floating in my little scarlet sea. Two days later, there are thirty, and I no longer spot pests on the wing here in the house.
Given all the catastrophic failure we have seen recently, I am encouraged by this. With a little thought and planning, systems can be designed to incorporate failure into their flow, so that even when they aren't directly "working," they can still work. Part of this, I think, involves a willingness to let go of active control, and to allow passive factors to operate.
Passive factors are not nearly as glamourous, of course. It would probably be a lot more macho and satisfying to grab that can of D-Con and zap each individual winged beastie in turn. But there's a lot of ways that that macho crap can fail, and pretty quickly. Can't be everywhere at once, in the first place. Second, the little pests might outbreed me, and develop a resistance to the chemicals. And finally there is the worry that I and my loved ones might not be as resistant to the chemicals as the bugs are (an ultimate sort of system failure, this).
What I love about the port-wine trap, in contrast, is that none of these factors drives the success of the system. All that matters is that fruit flies keep having a mad lust for fruit juice -- and I think its fair to say that nature is on my side with that one.
Take my advice, O reader: build to fail.
I say "on the whole," however, because composting is not, at the end of the day, a bed of roses. The song of the lonely composter is, at best, bittersweet -- a mixed melody of virtue and sorrow.
I sing, dear reader, of fruit flies.
It started with the advent of warmer weather a few weeks back. We have been keeping a small, charcoal-filtered scrap bin inside near the kitchen trash cans. When preparing food or slicing up fruit to put on our cereal for breakfast, the location of the pail made it easy to get rid of the bio-waste as it was being generated. Throughout the cold months pf winter, this arrangement worked just fine. Come the summer, though, things started to change.
Without being too graphic, it got to the point where every virtuous lift of the lid on the small bio container brought its own "reward" of a small cloud of very active -- and hungry -- pests. It didn't take long for the strawberry tops and banana peels, doing their fetid business in the small green pail, to become a breeding ground for these harmless, but quite annoying, swarms.
What to do? What to do? Both Kira and I have been trying to avoid harsh chemicals lately. Allergies, general health, and a host of other concerns leave us leery of fumigating rooms or zapping the little bozos directly. We both, my wife and I, have been on a "home remedies" kick of late, and I was curious if there was a more "old world" solution to the problem then resorting to the wares of DuPont and Dow Chemical.
Turns out there is. After a little thinking, and some digging on the internet, I came up with this: take a shallow dish, fill it with a dash of port wine, stretch some cling wrap over the top, and poke a small hole in the middle with the blades of a scissors.
Some of you who know me, reading this, may recall that I have a particular fascination with the theme of monkey traps. Being a theologian, I think a lot about the workings of systems, and I am particularly interested by systems that are powered to deliver results on the basis of "lowest-common-denominator" operations. That is to say, I like systems that are so elegantly simple that they continue to work even when they are in what is known in the biz as a "failure condition."
For a system to work, even while its failing, requires the sober understanding on the part of the designer of some factor, outside the system, which can be depended upon to deliver a satisfactory result, regardless of the condition of the system. In the case of the monkey trap, that consistent factor is the short-term thinking of the monkey. Because the monkey cannot let go of the immediate desire to have the fruit or the nuts in the bottom of the trap, it gets caught -- and held -- by its own fist, refusing to let go of the treasure in the trap.
This fruit fly catcher functions using the same principle: the files are smart enough (and driven enough by the scent of the sweet, sweet wine) to get in through the hole, but they have no capacity whatsoever to get back out again.
The first morning, after laying the trap, there were ten flies floating in my little scarlet sea. Two days later, there are thirty, and I no longer spot pests on the wing here in the house.
Given all the catastrophic failure we have seen recently, I am encouraged by this. With a little thought and planning, systems can be designed to incorporate failure into their flow, so that even when they aren't directly "working," they can still work. Part of this, I think, involves a willingness to let go of active control, and to allow passive factors to operate.
Passive factors are not nearly as glamourous, of course. It would probably be a lot more macho and satisfying to grab that can of D-Con and zap each individual winged beastie in turn. But there's a lot of ways that that macho crap can fail, and pretty quickly. Can't be everywhere at once, in the first place. Second, the little pests might outbreed me, and develop a resistance to the chemicals. And finally there is the worry that I and my loved ones might not be as resistant to the chemicals as the bugs are (an ultimate sort of system failure, this).
What I love about the port-wine trap, in contrast, is that none of these factors drives the success of the system. All that matters is that fruit flies keep having a mad lust for fruit juice -- and I think its fair to say that nature is on my side with that one.
Take my advice, O reader: build to fail.
20 June 2009
Gives new meaning to the phrase, "celery stalk"
When I lived in Atlanta, years ago, the bathroom in my small apartment had a window. The tub was an old clawfoot tub, and it was set out from the wall, so the landlord had installed a wraparound shower curtain that ran all the way around the tub, obscuring the window.
One day, while cleaning, I pulled back the curtain to find that an ivy vine from the outside wall had worked its way through the window sash, and was extending several inches into the room. As it extended, it was not attaching to anything. Instead, it was just suspended in air, as if it were reaching toward the shower, to grab.
Say what you will about Al-Qaeda. For my money, that mute tendril of intrusion was as terrifying as any Hitchcock film. You northerners might not understand, but down here, we've got kudzu, and kudzu will freakin' eat your car.
At last, I have found someone who shares my fears. Watch, and be edified, citizens.
(It seems to have an ad attached to it - apologies!!)
One day, while cleaning, I pulled back the curtain to find that an ivy vine from the outside wall had worked its way through the window sash, and was extending several inches into the room. As it extended, it was not attaching to anything. Instead, it was just suspended in air, as if it were reaching toward the shower, to grab.
Say what you will about Al-Qaeda. For my money, that mute tendril of intrusion was as terrifying as any Hitchcock film. You northerners might not understand, but down here, we've got kudzu, and kudzu will freakin' eat your car.
At last, I have found someone who shares my fears. Watch, and be edified, citizens.
(It seems to have an ad attached to it - apologies!!)
16 June 2009
The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie
Today, in the parking lot of the post office, I observed a family (with a small dachshund, no less), driving a Volvo with truck nuts.And I thought, already in my horror:
What if this is not irony?
An historical Rhyme
I made this up in the shower this morning. Sing to the tune of "London Bridges Falling Down":
In a duel you lost your nose
lost your nose
lost your nose
Now it's made of brass and gold
Tycho Brahe!
Don't blame me. Blame Wikipedia.
In a duel you lost your nose
lost your nose
lost your nose
Now it's made of brass and gold
Tycho Brahe!
Don't blame me. Blame Wikipedia.
10 June 2009
The 23rd Grand Illusion
Once, many years ago, I lived in my mix tapes. For me, they were an art form; a style of communication better than a written letter (back when we used to write letters). What was wonderful about the medium to little teenage me was the ability (the hope, at least) of conveying not just semantic meaning, but emotion. Like all teenagers, I was inarticulate about feelings when it came to using mere words, but I found I could achieve something like communication through a collage of sounds. I wooed with mix tapes. I worked out anger with mix tapes. I found the possibilities that arise out of juxtaposition and combination. A few cubic inches of plastic and iron filings were my palette. Into this space, which was not a real space but rather a space of the mind and the ears, I painted and collected and assembled sound.
What I found then, and find often now, was that this language of assembly and sound was not (as Wittgenstein cautioned against) any sort of "private language." The assemblages on my mixes spoke to me, certainly, but the only reason I really found them useful was because I believed they would speak to others, as well. To the high school crush to whom I could not bear to reveal my feelings, I could give a mix tape. The mix was crafted and constructed to convey without literal conversance. The mix spoke a secret language of Gnostic inference and ghostly symbols, but it was never meant to be indecipherable. The whole point was for the assemblage to be deciphered.
Years later, I find that I am still bound to those crushes who have remained in my life, no longer or never as lovers, but as friends, by these secret languages. An old acquaintance (for whom I never made a tape, though I am certain she was offered many by others) once said that she did not trust the medium of the mix tape: "They are always political; they always mean to say more than they are." Precisely.
Assemblage is powerful. Assemblage accomplishes, and its accomplishment is always and often unintentionally greater than the elements assembled. How is this so? The answer is not in the elements, or even in the assembly. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are interpreters and meaning-hounds. In psychology, the word apophenia is used to describe an overly heightened state of pattern recognition, where the sufferer seems to be seeing connections in every unrelated thing. If we take a step back from the precipice of pathology, however, we find that each of us benefits (it would be hard to say "suffers") from this condition. Without a certain level of the apophenic, a good game of chess would be impossible, negotiating city streets would be a nightmare, and we would never be able to locate a loved one's face in a crowd. We differentiate and combine, and in that process we associate and imagine that which is not there, but should be. We connect the dots, we fill in the colors among the spaces and the lines, we find new things. For the majority of humanity, this is simply what we do. Hence the articulate inarticulate joys of the mix tape, given and received.
What I found then, and find often now, was that this language of assembly and sound was not (as Wittgenstein cautioned against) any sort of "private language." The assemblages on my mixes spoke to me, certainly, but the only reason I really found them useful was because I believed they would speak to others, as well. To the high school crush to whom I could not bear to reveal my feelings, I could give a mix tape. The mix was crafted and constructed to convey without literal conversance. The mix spoke a secret language of Gnostic inference and ghostly symbols, but it was never meant to be indecipherable. The whole point was for the assemblage to be deciphered.
Years later, I find that I am still bound to those crushes who have remained in my life, no longer or never as lovers, but as friends, by these secret languages. An old acquaintance (for whom I never made a tape, though I am certain she was offered many by others) once said that she did not trust the medium of the mix tape: "They are always political; they always mean to say more than they are." Precisely.
Assemblage is powerful. Assemblage accomplishes, and its accomplishment is always and often unintentionally greater than the elements assembled. How is this so? The answer is not in the elements, or even in the assembly. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are interpreters and meaning-hounds. In psychology, the word apophenia is used to describe an overly heightened state of pattern recognition, where the sufferer seems to be seeing connections in every unrelated thing. If we take a step back from the precipice of pathology, however, we find that each of us benefits (it would be hard to say "suffers") from this condition. Without a certain level of the apophenic, a good game of chess would be impossible, negotiating city streets would be a nightmare, and we would never be able to locate a loved one's face in a crowd. We differentiate and combine, and in that process we associate and imagine that which is not there, but should be. We connect the dots, we fill in the colors among the spaces and the lines, we find new things. For the majority of humanity, this is simply what we do. Hence the articulate inarticulate joys of the mix tape, given and received.
08 June 2009
Where the Hell have I been?
Okay. So apparently I am the last human in Hipsville to have heard of the Athens, GA band Now It's Overhead. Oh, my goodness, but I find them enjoyable in a dark and moody sort of way. Check out the vid, kids. Howl.
05 June 2009
Halifax Dispatch
The water in the lakes and in the ocean is always cold here. That is what my wife told me before I got on the plane. Now, banking at below eight thousand feet above the little finger lakes surrounding the final approach to Halifax airport, I believe her. Even from this height, the water looks cold. And clear. I can see the bottoms of the lakes, we are so low now. It is actually quite an uncomfortable way to arrive somewhere, this low to the ground while still in the air. The descent is bumpy. I am glad to be on the ground.
Ahead of me in the border control line a man juggles and drops the duty-free bottle of Scotch he had carried from the airport shop in Newark, where we all got on the plane. In the brisk aroma of the aftermath the man, a religion scholar like myself (most of us were, on this flight), opined simply that "Shit happens."
Every time I fly North, I get the old Thomas Dolby song, "Flying North," stuck in my head - partly because it is a catchy song, and, well, I'm flying North. If you've never heard of Thomas Dolby, you actually have. He's the dude that did "She Blinded Me with Science, back in the '80's, and everybody has heard that. If you've never heard "Flying North," however, don't feel bad. I am one of six people on the planet that has actually heard that song (We have a club, which meets semiannually, usually somewhere in the tropics, like Tahiti).
There are no seagulls in Halifax. At least none that I have been able to find. Again, my wife tells me that this is likely because Halifax is so far North. Same basic reason, for the birds and the water. North. I am wondering if this also would account for the wireless internet reception, which is spotty, it seems, no matter where I go.
Everyone makes eye contact here. Most people smile when you walk past them. If you say "hello," they respond in kind. Evidently, no one here has gotten the Great North American Memo on Standoffishness, which seems to have such a firm hold on the lower 48. Needless to say, for the next two days, I am, for almost the first time, not out of place. These Nova Scotians seem to engage, quite naturally, in behaviors for which I have been scolded and teased for over three decades. Friendliness. Who knew? It is a reasonable substitute for the lack of seagulls.
Apparently, according to a debate I read about in one of the local free papers, Halifax has one adult club where topless dancing is permitted. Only the club is not actually in Halifax; it is in nearby Dartmouth. I noted this because the debate reported was over whether or not local entrepreneurs should be allowed to open Halifax's second topless adult club. Which will not actually be in Halifax, but rather (again) in nearby Dartmouth.
Last night I took myself out for dinner. I had the Surf and Turf at a local establishment that came highly recommended. It was a very pleasant meal. It is reassuring to know that, much like the skill of riding a bicycle never really leaves you, I can still navigate the innards of a crustacean. That being said, the Turf was a lot better than the Surf in this arrangement. When I comented about this to my wife, she reminded me that, traditionally, Maine lobsters are considered superior to Nova Scotian lobsters, whose meats are used primarily in derivative dishes such as bisques.
As a side note, I find myself wondering how my wife seems to be so confidently knowledgeable about the ways and means of Haligonian geography and lifestyle. I think it is because she went to Alleghany College, and received a very good liberal arts education there. Memo to self: start college fund.
This is, without a doubt, the most socially pleasant conference I have ever attended. At the reception last night I was invited to join tables of scholarly strangers who, apparently, just liked the looks of me and wanted to say hello. I am not used to this; I am used to the much more bellicose receptions at the American Academy of Religion. Everybody has an angle there (even me), and the Memo is in full effect. Not so in Halifax, and, perhaps, by extension, not so in the Catholic Theological Society of America. The proof of the pudding will come at next year's conference. Not for the first time are the hopes of a continent riding on the sturdy shoulders of Cleveland. O, sainted land of the Great Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and the Flats, do not fail us again.
I can only imagine, from the examples I have seen, that the kilt is a difficult fashion choice to accessorize. All or nothing, really, the kilt is. Can't be half-assed about it. Not, at least, without looking a lot sillier than you look already, wearing the kilt. One of the many reasons Alec will always have my undying respect. That man can wear the devil out of a kilt.
Halifax has a surfeit of art galleries and used book shops. Both are a great pleasure to me, but I have not seen many patrons frequenting any of the ones I have visited. However, it is clear that both the galleries and the bookshops have been in place for a good, long while. Now that's an invisible hand I can believe in.
It interests me that the online spell check system for Blogger flags "pungence," which is a perfectly good word, and one I had considered using in a paragraph above (the one referring to the broken bottle of Scotch), but seems to bat nary an eyelash at "Haligonian." Obscurity, like rank, hath its privileges.
Halifax is an hour ahead of Eastern Daylight Time. I have never been in such a timezone, and I think it is adversely affecting me. When going to Europe, the shift is so dramatic that everything is naturally unnatural. Traveling across the US is a known quantity, so I don't think my body has trouble adjusting. But this slight inching ahead in time is just unnaturally natural enough to completely bollix up my circadian rhythms. I am a night owl by nature, and that is a recipe for dead-of-night disaster here in Halifax.
Speaking of disasters, there is no need to mention that a great many of the victims of the Titanic disaster are buried here in Halifax. I have searched in vain so far, but I am still hopeful that before my visit is over I will locate the grave of Leonardo di Caprio.
I got up last night and wanted to wash my hands. The warm water took a very long time to reach the tap. This is because the water is always cold this far North.
This morning, waiting for my taxi to take me to my airport departure, Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" played over the in-house stereo system in the hotel. I found myself warmed and, by turns, a little tearful.
My Father, thanks to the Army, traveled the world, though he had little taste for the circumstances he was in and what he saw. My Mother cared little for the world outside America, but America she loved fiercely and explored fiercely, at least when she was younger. In both cases, I know of these travels mostly through the pictures I have inherited. They sit in my well-ordered boxes now, these photos of my parents - pictured here together, here singly - along with nameless faces and locations I can only hazily identify by landscape and geography. I find myself wishing I had the stories behind those photos.
Somewhere between my Father's forced marches and my Mother's hermetic isolation, there are my travels. It is, I think to myself, a wonderful world. Halifax ain't bad, either. Here, in my own way, are the pictures.
Ahead of me in the border control line a man juggles and drops the duty-free bottle of Scotch he had carried from the airport shop in Newark, where we all got on the plane. In the brisk aroma of the aftermath the man, a religion scholar like myself (most of us were, on this flight), opined simply that "Shit happens."
Every time I fly North, I get the old Thomas Dolby song, "Flying North," stuck in my head - partly because it is a catchy song, and, well, I'm flying North. If you've never heard of Thomas Dolby, you actually have. He's the dude that did "She Blinded Me with Science, back in the '80's, and everybody has heard that. If you've never heard "Flying North," however, don't feel bad. I am one of six people on the planet that has actually heard that song (We have a club, which meets semiannually, usually somewhere in the tropics, like Tahiti).
There are no seagulls in Halifax. At least none that I have been able to find. Again, my wife tells me that this is likely because Halifax is so far North. Same basic reason, for the birds and the water. North. I am wondering if this also would account for the wireless internet reception, which is spotty, it seems, no matter where I go.
Everyone makes eye contact here. Most people smile when you walk past them. If you say "hello," they respond in kind. Evidently, no one here has gotten the Great North American Memo on Standoffishness, which seems to have such a firm hold on the lower 48. Needless to say, for the next two days, I am, for almost the first time, not out of place. These Nova Scotians seem to engage, quite naturally, in behaviors for which I have been scolded and teased for over three decades. Friendliness. Who knew? It is a reasonable substitute for the lack of seagulls.
Apparently, according to a debate I read about in one of the local free papers, Halifax has one adult club where topless dancing is permitted. Only the club is not actually in Halifax; it is in nearby Dartmouth. I noted this because the debate reported was over whether or not local entrepreneurs should be allowed to open Halifax's second topless adult club. Which will not actually be in Halifax, but rather (again) in nearby Dartmouth.
Last night I took myself out for dinner. I had the Surf and Turf at a local establishment that came highly recommended. It was a very pleasant meal. It is reassuring to know that, much like the skill of riding a bicycle never really leaves you, I can still navigate the innards of a crustacean. That being said, the Turf was a lot better than the Surf in this arrangement. When I comented about this to my wife, she reminded me that, traditionally, Maine lobsters are considered superior to Nova Scotian lobsters, whose meats are used primarily in derivative dishes such as bisques.
As a side note, I find myself wondering how my wife seems to be so confidently knowledgeable about the ways and means of Haligonian geography and lifestyle. I think it is because she went to Alleghany College, and received a very good liberal arts education there. Memo to self: start college fund.
This is, without a doubt, the most socially pleasant conference I have ever attended. At the reception last night I was invited to join tables of scholarly strangers who, apparently, just liked the looks of me and wanted to say hello. I am not used to this; I am used to the much more bellicose receptions at the American Academy of Religion. Everybody has an angle there (even me), and the Memo is in full effect. Not so in Halifax, and, perhaps, by extension, not so in the Catholic Theological Society of America. The proof of the pudding will come at next year's conference. Not for the first time are the hopes of a continent riding on the sturdy shoulders of Cleveland. O, sainted land of the Great Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and the Flats, do not fail us again.
I can only imagine, from the examples I have seen, that the kilt is a difficult fashion choice to accessorize. All or nothing, really, the kilt is. Can't be half-assed about it. Not, at least, without looking a lot sillier than you look already, wearing the kilt. One of the many reasons Alec will always have my undying respect. That man can wear the devil out of a kilt.
Halifax has a surfeit of art galleries and used book shops. Both are a great pleasure to me, but I have not seen many patrons frequenting any of the ones I have visited. However, it is clear that both the galleries and the bookshops have been in place for a good, long while. Now that's an invisible hand I can believe in.
It interests me that the online spell check system for Blogger flags "pungence," which is a perfectly good word, and one I had considered using in a paragraph above (the one referring to the broken bottle of Scotch), but seems to bat nary an eyelash at "Haligonian." Obscurity, like rank, hath its privileges.
Halifax is an hour ahead of Eastern Daylight Time. I have never been in such a timezone, and I think it is adversely affecting me. When going to Europe, the shift is so dramatic that everything is naturally unnatural. Traveling across the US is a known quantity, so I don't think my body has trouble adjusting. But this slight inching ahead in time is just unnaturally natural enough to completely bollix up my circadian rhythms. I am a night owl by nature, and that is a recipe for dead-of-night disaster here in Halifax.
Speaking of disasters, there is no need to mention that a great many of the victims of the Titanic disaster are buried here in Halifax. I have searched in vain so far, but I am still hopeful that before my visit is over I will locate the grave of Leonardo di Caprio.
I got up last night and wanted to wash my hands. The warm water took a very long time to reach the tap. This is because the water is always cold this far North.
This morning, waiting for my taxi to take me to my airport departure, Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" played over the in-house stereo system in the hotel. I found myself warmed and, by turns, a little tearful.
My Father, thanks to the Army, traveled the world, though he had little taste for the circumstances he was in and what he saw. My Mother cared little for the world outside America, but America she loved fiercely and explored fiercely, at least when she was younger. In both cases, I know of these travels mostly through the pictures I have inherited. They sit in my well-ordered boxes now, these photos of my parents - pictured here together, here singly - along with nameless faces and locations I can only hazily identify by landscape and geography. I find myself wishing I had the stories behind those photos.
Somewhere between my Father's forced marches and my Mother's hermetic isolation, there are my travels. It is, I think to myself, a wonderful world. Halifax ain't bad, either. Here, in my own way, are the pictures.
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