I finally got my computer, and have the weekend to spend setting everything up.

Let’s talk geek.

Processor: AMD Athlon 64 X2 (Dual-Core) 4400+

The sexiest stock heatsink I’ve ever seen. Notice the dense fins, and the symmetrical copper heat pipes. I didn’t dare take it off the cpu for a picture. One time, after I pulled the heatsink off a P4, I noticed that the processor was stuck to the bottom while the processor lock was still in place. The thermal paste had caked and turned to glue. The edges of the cpu were chipped and a few pins were bent, but I carefully put them back in place and it still worked.

This one is an AMD though. It’s clocked at 2.2 GHz, with two megs of level 2 cache (one per core). Even though it can almost be considered unreasonably expensive, I went with a dual-core processor because I wanted something that could handle both single-threaded and multi-threaded apps. All the reviews I read said that the Pentium Extreme Edition chips were slightly better for the latter but much worse for the former, so this marks my first foray into the use of an Advanced Micro Devices processor, at work or at home.

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The last part came in from back order today and they’re running the burn overnight, so it’ll be ready for me to pick up before the weekend.

It’s the most expensive system that I’ve ever bought, but also the most guilt-free. At home, I spend the majority of my time at the computer — I use it to write, manipulate photos, render video, play games, communicate with friends, watch movies, listen to music. I could survive on my current system, but I could also take advantage of an even better setup.

Some of the parts may be a little excessive, but why not go all out? I only know a few people, such as Trolley, who could appreciate a top-of-the-line system in the same way. Ever since Intel announced their lineup of dual-core processors in the first quarter, I’ve been saving my money, keeping track of the parts I’ve wanted. By the time AMD announced their own dual-core architecture, I had a complete list of components for my dream system. Most stores couldn’t even get their hands on the chips, so for two months I would periodically check for availability. Eventually, I ended up going through a corporate contact, who has his own direct contact to AMD. To boot, he gave me a discount (ranging on 15%, which is insane, considering the tiny margin on computer systems) since I’m a business client as well.

The kicker is that my work just happens to need a computer capable of handling some heavy graphics editing. The computer most adequate to handle this usage is mine, since it’s also the fastest in the office, so I get to give up my already adequate system for a better one. I got approval to order the same system that I bought myself personally. The same system that I’ve been dreaming of, planning for, and drooling over since February.

It’s getting easier to write again. Ideas are coming a little more fluidly, and aren’t quite as straining to develop anymore. Perhaps there’s been an excess of inspiration in the last while, from the music that keeps me moving, to the people I interact with, to the temperature of the season, to the words in the books that I’ve been reading with relish.

I can never seem to get it all down.

Every time I’m in there, I want to buy something, anything. I want uneven, hand-made chopsticks, and wine glass identifiers. Transparent coasters that form designs when stacked. Milk frothers. Sushi rolling mats. Designer vegetable brushes. Hand-crafted Italian martini glasses. Retro wind-up desk toys.

Slave to the Ikea nesting instinct.

Her unwitting nickname in high school was Fudd (as in Elmer), because her “r”s came out as babyish “w”s.

This was partially due to the fact that she would imitate her older brother in admiration during childhood, after he developed his own impediment from an orofacial sports injury. The other, and much more severe, aspect of her impediment was a random and sudden inability to speak. No stutter, no slur.

As her speech therapist explained, it was a short-circuit in the brain, causing her to believe that a sentence was finished when she was only half-way through saying it. The only problem was that she would get stuck on a word. On good days she simply couldn’t repeat it, on bad days she couldn’t speak at all. Most people thought it was brought on by a rather traumatic series of events brought on by her supposed friends in high school. The wascals.

I always found it endearing, but she never cared for it. One of the tricks she used to get by was to take her time in saying a word. E-nun-ci-ate. It was like massaging the tension from a muscle, and slowly, she would be able to speak again. Another trick was to imagine being in a comfort zone, which was her room, to relax when she was flustered.

I’ve always found that girls share some intrinsic bond with their rooms. It’s almost as if they’re following an evolutionary nesting instinct, and their rooms become their homes. A place to grow and be safe. Along with the carefully lined-up books and the random pieces of jewellery, the hidden cache of photos and the purposefully placed candles (some of which must never be lit), are the characteristic quirks.

In time, Christie’s comfort zone became the walk-in-closet of my room. She was old enough to make love, but simultaneously too young to stay overnight, so we would spend most of our time in there, the place where we could reach out and feel the walls around us, confined to the intimacy of the enclosure. We spread out the blanket, lit the candles, and closed the door.

After a while, the humidity would build up, and this was no more apparent than in the winter when we would crack open the door and tangibly feel the chill on our skin. Opening the sun she called it, as the daylight sharply spilled on the blanket that covered us. It was the only place where we could shut out the world, the only place that felt like night.

In a relationship, sharing the night is more important than sharing fluids. Falling asleep with someone is an acceptance of trust, a way of saying that we’re comfortable enough to drift into our subconscious minds. Perhaps it was the unavailability of such a ritual that’s given the night so much significance.

Having no night of our own, we had to make due. I covered one side of a cardboard panel with glow-in-the-dark stars and suspended it from the top of the room. The panel was large enough to fill the vision, and in the darkness the closet became a microcosm of the starry sky. Even in the middle of day it was near blackness, and we’d lose track of time, huddled under the blankets with her sleeping at my chest, or lying there face-to-face, talking while I ran my fingers through her hair. Sometimes, all we would do was get together and nap.

And eventually, Christie didn’t have much trouble speaking anymore.

Over the weekend, with the cozy comfort of my duvet, I finished reading the Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz. The story took me by surprise. I had no prior knowledge of the plot, characters, or themes, so I had the luxury of reading without the taint of another opinion. Even as a teenager, Duddy has the ambition to pursue his dream of owning a huge plot of land before he’s even legally allowed to own it, but he loses his humanity in the process. It was a fairly galvanizing story, something I’m not sure I could say if I knew more about the book before reading it. It’s his drive, his initiative that I admire.

Yesterday, I started The Republic of Love (on the recommendation of Karen) by Carol Shields. Even though I’m only through the first chapter, I can already tell that Shields knows what she’s talking about. She knows how relationships disintegrate, knows how people think, knows how our daily lives are a reflection of the moods we have and mindsets we wear. I’m reminded of Khalil Gibran, the Lebanese philosopher and author of The Prophet who wrote as if he understood love and the spirit on a completely different level. Even though he never met the love of his life face-to-face (they knew each other through publications), their collection of love letters shows an understanding and harmony deeper than any other two people I can think of.

It always makes me wonder: how much of an author’s writing is from experience and how much is from imagination? The details, subtleties, thoroughness of the characters they develop, expressed in the ingenuity of the words they use must be from more than mere understanding. Would Frost have been able to write his rural poetry without moving to New Hampshire, spending his time there as a cobbler, farmer, and teacher? Would Irving have been able to write from the perspective of a teacher at Bishop Strachan, without first watching the girls in their plaid skirts being picked up by their wealthy parents? Even in the preface to A Hero Of Our Time, Lermontov admits, “others delicately hinted that the author had drawn portraits of himself and his acquaintances” and brushes this off as a “threadbare witticism”, but could he really have created such an amoral anti-hero without a lump of burning indifference in his chest?

The new Coheed And Cambria single (song starts playing after the Flash intro) completely knocks me off my feet. I suspect that the new album will be darker, moodier, and even better produced than their last. I’m not the only one who’s reminded of Kashmir by Led Zeppelin, with the chromatic chord progression and orchestral backing, but the similarities end there.

Can’t wait until September.

I wasn’t planning on writing another part of this series until I asked John for his opinion. He was extremely hesitant to commit but eventually opined, with earnest consideration of his words.

His most significant insight was that I may be hastily passing judgment on something that I’ve only begun to experience. “It’s time, not the awareness of our accomplishments, that teaches us what’s seminal”, he put it. I find it difficult to disagree. After all, I have no idea how important the last year will be. All I know is that it’s been important up until now.

I always trust what John says. Like a preacher, he speaks the truth. It’s good to have a friend who can keep me in check, who can give me some perspective. Perhaps I’ve been looking a little too hard for meaning. I want to believe that these things have changed me, made me a better person.

But only time will tell me for sure.

The Trinary Maturity Series

1. Introduction
2. The Job
3. The Girlfriend
4. The House
5. (In)Conclusion

Nothing says summer like a juicy, tender, melt-in-your-mouth steak. And to have a friend cook it for you?

Well that’s even better.

Megalomania is watching a man with a brain in a jar court a woman who laughs like a mule, and believing that it’s the story of one’s life. Weakness is losing a thought to a pretty face. Concupiscence is the interpretation of awkward roughhousing as a prelude to fucking. Jealousy is wondering why one never had the same opportunity, and acceptance is realizing that one did.

In the end, it’s not the situations we relate to, it’s the hopelessness of being stuck with the decisions we make. Of being caught between the risk of settling, and the fear of not doing any better.

Happiness is freedom from both.

I also dressed down, and stole a drink from work. Two of my best friends finally met each other. They got along famously, better than any of my other friends in the past. I supported one on the biggest decision of his life. The other told me that I had always been her hopeful out of the round of interviews for my job, over a chicken sandwich and some onion rings. I learned the four Cs of diamond appraisal, and saw a carbon spec through a loupe for the first time.

I met two cats; one rolled into my lap while playing Double Dash with the best kids in the world. A family inspired me, and I dared to dream of some day having my own.

Some days I wake up and I feel like I’m ready to conquer the world. Other days I wake up and I’m too diffident to even answer my phone at work or at home. Most days I’m stable.

Here I am, trying to get another entry down, but there’s a movie playing on OMNI.2, one of Canada’s premier multi-cultural channels. Although the programming of OMNI.2 is aimed for 22 different ethnocultural groups in 20 different languages, Saturday nights are always in Cantonese. Almost just as invariable are the romantic comedies of Hong Kong cinema that they broadcast around this time.

It makes sense of course; studies have shown that by 2017, visible minorities will top 50% in Toronto and Vancouver, with Chinese people making up over 500,000 of that percentage. Add to this the growing fascination of younger people with the Asian culture, and recent flicks from Hong Kong are the perfect way to build a strong market presence.

Unfortunately, the movies are mostly trite: a collection of predictable, saccharine love stories with little artistic intent, and the one on now is no different. I have to admit though, as simple as these movies are, they still affect me. When I see the characteristic neon building signs, homely food stalls filled with wok hey, and claustrophobically busy streets of Hong Kong again, I’m filled with a certain inexplicable romanticism.

And I can’t seem to get over it. All I want to do is go to Hong Kong again and share the experience with someone. An experience that’s heart-racingly poignant, like the adolescent memory of a first date, when you’re building up the courage to hold someone’s hand. Perhaps, like Humbert Humbert in Nabokov’s Lolita, the memory of my childhood has frozen something in me. A memory that’s beautiful.

Simply, purely, beautiful.

I’m only awake now because I’m too used to waking up at half past six on workdays. A mug of Hong Kong milk tea (made with condensed milk for extra creaminess) has always been my weekend comfort food, but I ran out of loose leaves a few weeks ago. Usually, I sit at my desk and write after breakfast, finishing off the tea from breakfast, but instead I’ll be going to my music for inspiration.

I’ve run into a string of good music lately, or maybe I’ve just been hearing things in a different way. None of my playlists seem relevant again. More details when I have more time.

It’s good to be sober.

In the last year of high school, I was called into the guidance office for some direction in choosing a post-secondary institution. The councilor, a very, very Caucasian man, went through the features of each university, noting especially the ones with nice campuses. In an effort to save his time, I explained that the esthetics of a university were of no consequence to me, because they wouldn’t affect my life. Apparently this was a different approach from other students, whom he believed decided on the direction of their education through a desire for lush lawns and big dorm rooms.

I’d always believed that I’d feel the same way about a house as a campus. Give me enough room for my computer with walls thick enough to crank my music and I’ll be happy, I used to say. While this may still hold true, I’ve discovered that I’m even happier with a nice place. I finally understood that councilor, four years later, after changing universities for a brief post-graduate stint. The new campus was big, modern, and inspiring; quite a difference from my previous university with its brown buildings and constant construction.

It’s the same when comparing a rented place of residence and an actual house. A house begets security, and in turn, a sense of confidence. There’s a distinct feeling, every day, waking up in one’s own home. Knowing that every paycheque is going towards some equity, a little piece of property I call my own. Having a comfort zone, a place that I don’t have to deal with anyone I don’t want to. A place where I make the rules, not having to answer to landlords or security.

It was the process too, that helped me grow. Aside from the common sense of owning a house as a long-term investment, I was inspired (or should I say “driven”) to move because of a roommate. After one particularly childish conflict, I decided more than four months before I actually had time to look, to buy a house and take Trolley with me. We moved in before the lease was up on the apartment.

I went through the entire process myself, knowing nothing at the start. I had never done anything on this scale before, and while it may seem trivial to those who have been initiators their entire lives, this was a big step for me. It let me know that I could actually accomplish the things I want.

And that cast aside all the doubt that was holding me back.

The Trinary Maturity Series

1. Introduction
2. The Job
3. The Girlfriend
4. The House
5. (In)Conclusion