The Kanna: Recovering Deletion Addict

Flickr, my new obsession

2009-04-30T16:39:00.003-04:00

Flickr site

My favorites:
Illumination

Everything is golden now

Extravagance and futility

I need to stop it with the pompous titles (but as Eddie would say... "Oh come on, it's so much fun though")

2009-04-19T23:46:00.002-04:00

Contrary to what any of you might think, I don't actually hate anyone. It's not in my nature to.

2009-03-29T10:37:00.005-04:00

Last night, I dreamt that I was cruising on a highway through Shanghai; neon lights streaking, wind flaring, car rushing past the infinite columns that overwhelm the ancient landscape and attest to the rise of the fastest growing economy in the world. Shanghai Restoration Project, itself an awkward child embracing old and new, was pouring forth from the speakers. The millions of people who carry out their lives amongst these skyscrapers, amongst this insomnious, vibrant city... what were they doing at the moment I passed them? What were their consummate aspirations as they live out their lives? How did they contribute to the collective pool of karmic suffering and euphoria called humanity? But none of that concerned me now. I was escaping to my own inner serenity. As I drove off into the distance, wind still beating against my face, I stood up, eyes fixed on the horizon, and began to take flight.

Last night, I dreamt that we had each found our own sense of peace.

2009-02-28T10:17:00.001-05:00

New goal for 2009: learn how to say exactly what I need to say, at the right time to say it.

And I thought Aerospace Engineering was Difficult

2009-02-22T09:49:00.003-05:00

But I'm so glad I'm not a pilot trying to land at these airports:

http://worldaviationjournal.blogspot.com/2008/03/top-10-most-dangerous-aircraft-landings.html

(P.S. If you're bored, log into Google Earth, search one of these places, and then log into the flight simulator (version 4 or later) and try to land at them using the F-16.)

2009-02-15T16:34:00.000-05:00

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Whew!

2009-02-14T23:59:00.003-05:00

I've survived through another "most dreaded day of the year" intact! (with just a couple jabs from my parents how they want grandkids / jab from my grandmother on how she wants great-grandkids. Pesky family.)

Hurrah!

Ale Mary Full of Taste

2009-02-08T23:55:00.002-05:00

Great article in the New Yorker detailing the rise of craft brewing in the United States.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/11/24/081124fa_fact_bilger

Notable Quotables:

"[Dogfish Head Brewery] is to Budweiser what Bouillabaisse is to fish stock."

"The King of Beers, once served in splendid isolation at many bars, is now surrounded by motley bottles with ridiculous names, like jesters at a Renaissance fair: SkullSplitter, Old Leghumper, Slam Dunkel, Troll Porter, Moose Drool, Power Tool, He’brew, and Ale Mary Full of Taste." (Reminds me also of Palin and her kids' names.)

“When a brewer says, ‘This has more hops in it than anything you’ve had in your life—are you man enough to drink it?,’ it’s sort of like a chef saying, ‘This stew has more salt in it than anything you’ve ever had—are you man enough to eat it?’ ”

"His forefathers worked hard making wine, he recently wrote, 'so that I might have the opportunity to produce a superior beverage.'"

"He made a stout with roasted chicory and St.-John’s-wort ('The world’s only antidepressant depressant,' he called it). While other brewers were dyeing their beer green for St. Patrick’s Day, Calagione brewed his with blue-green algae. 'It tasted like appetizing pond scum,' he says. 'The first sip, you were like, ‘Wow, that tasted like pond scum. But you know what? I kind of want a second sip.’ '"

"When he and Calagione aren’t making beer, they sometimes perform together at the pub as a beer-themed hip-hop duo called the Pain Relievaz (sample lyrics: 'You’re the barley virgin that my malt mill will deflour')."

“At the same time that they’re making this relatively hoppy wanna-be craft beer that exists only to confuse the consumer—so that they can be culture vultures—they are running ads that say that the darker a beer is the more impurities it has. It’s beer racism.”

"I saw signs for beers called Goat Toppler, Chicken Killer, and Old Headwrecker, Incinerator, Detonator, Skull Annihilator, and the Obamanator."

"Every beer is a brewer’s invention to some degree—a combination of ingredients that could never be found in nature. A barrel of crushed grapes, left to its own devices, can turn into a crude sort of Beaujolais nouveau. The winemaker’s job is mostly to prod the process along. That isn’t true of beer. For grain to turn into an ale or lager, it has to be malted, cooked, strained, cooked, strained, fermented in a barrel, and sometimes again in a bottle. 'Mother Nature makes wine,' Calagione likes to say. 'Brewers make beer.'"

A Black Man in the Great White City

2009-02-02T23:56:00.004-05:00

(click on the picture for full size)

A collage of pictures taken in D.C. (mostly Georgetown store windows) celebrating Obama's victory.

Cambio. Changement. Cambiamento. Change.

2009-01-26T21:13:00.005-05:00

1.20.09

Un millar de ángeles caerán del cielo

2009-01-09T00:35:00.005-05:00

My friend Marc Costa I Sitjà keeps a great blog in which he discusses the intricacies of life and being human in such wonderful prose that it makes me want to go learn Spanish. His most recent post is gorgeous; I'll post the original Spanish as well as English translation here:

El placer de repetirse; ponme cuatro notas Johnny, y dale, dale, dale, dale, otra vez; somos animales. De pequeño me gustaban mucho las ballenas. Un día como hoy, después de darlo realtivamente duro a la piscinal, no vayamos a sentirnos grandes y exagerados. Uno se retira a la otra, una espécie de piscina tranquila, calmada con agua más caliente, uno se tumba, y poco a poco se introduce en el agua; me ahogan los pensamientos.

Vivimos en un mundo en el que la gente cada vez canta menos y gritar en un mundo lleno de Ipods sigue siendo un absurdo, la cuestión es que a diferencia de la palabra vulgar, la palabra cantada tiene una propiedad perturbadora, que deja inquieto; se nos puede narrar la historia más triste jamás escrita y contada, pero si la melodía es alegre... ¿Cómo se nos va la letra de la cabeza? ¿Porqué somos tan humanos si luego la música se lleva la letra a paseo? No en vano bajo el agua viven las ballenas y no hablan, cantan, dejarían de hablar algún dia al ver que lo de cantar surgía más efecto. Además, resulta que debajo del agua el sonido tiene una mayor velocidad que en el aire. En vano gritaremos en el agua; una de las pocas cosas que nos diferencian de las ballenas es que sus cuerdas vocales calzan para mojado y las nuestras para seco, y eso de la interfase es demasiado complicado; mejor no probarlo nuestros gritos, como nosotros; se ahogan.

Y allí estás mientras -tanto, mientras todo este tanto, sólo tienes fuera del agua la nariz y los ojos. Notas como el agua es más cariñosa contigo que el cariño que nos puede dar una madre, una madre sólo tiene diez yemas de dedo, el agua tiene tantas que no queda pliegue de nuestra piel que no toque que no mime. Y entonces la sientes....

...Es la vida de nuevo, aquí con una pizca de cuerpo fuera del agua, aquí sí hay que respirar, se te incha el pecho, sientes la presión del agua, y sientes como dentro de tí, hay aire y en otro vaivén como ese del corazón que a veces por la noche nos hace sentir tan vivos, lo hace de nuevo.

En el cielo están con el cuello en el agua.

English translation (with the help of Marc): (The bracketed words are inserted for the ease of understanding the translated version)

The pleasure of repetition (play me four notes Johnny, come on, come on, come on, come on, again); we are [all] animals. When I was a child I used to like whales a lot. A day like today, after having relatively given it all in the swimming pool, I am not feeling great and, [rather], enormously overstretched. I retire to a kind of pool with quiet, calm, and warm water. I little by little ease myself into the water. I drown in my thoughts.

We live in a world in which people sing less; vocalizing and shouting in a world full of iPods becomes an absurdity. However, unlike the spoken word, the sung word has a property of disturbing us that can leave us restless. We can tell the saddest story ever told or written… but if the melody is cheerful, how can the lyrics just vanish in hidden corners of the mind? Why are we so human if the music is a vehicle to [mask the true intent of] the lyrics? Not in vain. Underwater where the whales live, they do not speak; they sing. We may stop speaking someday if we realized that singing had a greater impact. Moreover, underwater the speed of sound is faster than it is in air. Yet, we scream in vain underwater: one of the things that differentiate us from whales is that their vocal chords are fit for wet environments and ours only for dry -- and that stuff about interfaces is far too complicated; better not to try shouting: just like us, they would drown.

And yet, there you are. [Such is your place in life]. Meanwhile, and [by that] I mean all that while, nose and eyes are the only part of you [that must stick] out of the water. Note that the water is more affectionate than the affection a mother can provide; a mother can only embrace with ten fingers. Water envelops you so that there is no fold of skin left untouched. And then you feel it...

… it is that sensation of being alive again. As you re-expose a bit of your body outside the water, it is necessary to consciously breathe. You tighten your chest, you feel the pressure of the water, feel it within you: air fills and inundates the inside, it's just another pulse again just [as that of the] heart which sometimes at night makes us feel so alive; again, you grasp that feeling.

In heaven, all are submerged with their necks in the water.

2009-01-03T04:39:00.002-05:00

Life is complex. Much too complex.

. . .

Ann Arbor is a fantasy. Nothing more.

2009-01-02T21:43:00.000-05:00

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/12/things_fall_apart_the_centre_c.html

Huh?

2009-01-02T12:19:00.001-05:00

This doesn't make any sense.

2008-12-30T01:50:00.003-05:00

"When did we get so old?"

My friend asked me, watching the fight while taking another drag of his cigarette.

I took another drag too.

It's a horrifying thought, being able to reminisce about the "good ol' days", when we aren't even old, and it wasn't so long ago. Is this what a quarter-life crisis feels like?

I can't find joy in the things I used to enjoy. I can't relax knowing that in the back of my mind, there's always work to be done. The rote gears of programming and calculation must be turned. Machinery needs to be oiled; yes. If it stops running it rusts. Is alcohol the solution? No. It can't be anymore. In college, it was the status quo. Out of college, it's alcoholism.

Cigarette, Yes. Smoke patterns in the air. I wish all of life were this abstract: the ability to discern shapes out of nothing. The ability to fabricate out of mere shadows and apparitions. No, but life is not mere dreams. Life is hard, calculating, gritty. Everything is based on empiricism, research built on research built on research. Nothing can be proved without something. Numbers, facts... these are what support our technological foundation. These are what are real. As Sagan said, "we live in a society exclusively built on Science and Technology in which hardly anyone knows about Science and Technology." How do I succeed in my field? Know Science and Technology. Simple, machine-like precision.

But we aren't machines, are we? Are we cogs? Yes, they train us to process like silicon boxes. But why do I still feel emotion? Why is it that I need something more visceral? Is our innate capacity to love a weakness? Sometimes it seems as such. Distractions from our real goals: productive members of society. Drops in the sea of erudition. Ripples in the ocean of progress.

Study, solve, sleep, eat. Study. Solve. Sleep. Eat. Every wave brings me closer to steely indifference. Gears turning into the infinite expanse of time.

... I need to get some sleep.

Dear Neighbors,

2008-12-21T01:52:00.003-05:00

Thanks for your thoughtfulness in putting a Christmas card in our mailbox, though we hardly know you. However, please don't let your generosity be a medium by which you can remind others how they could burn in hell if they don't worship your religion. Please be reminded that not everyone thinks like you, or comes from the same cultural background. In fact, our diversity is what makes us human. I hope you can ruminate over this a bit before you decide to "spread the gospel" all over again next season.

All the Best,

Kan and the Roommates next door.

Reactions in the Arabic World to Bush's Shoe Incident

2008-12-16T23:52:00.002-05:00

All of these are quite amusing and deserving:

"When it became evident that George Bush, the outgoing US president, is incapable of understanding all that is being said about his rash policies, in all the languages of the world, it was necessary to invent a new language that Bush might understand, and it was the language of shoe-throwing."

- Ghazi Al-Dada from Syria's Tishrin

"Iraqi journalist Muntadar al-Zaidi's shoes have made history. The shoe he threw at Bush will always haunt [the president] even after he leaves the White House, and will upset him whenever he remembers the incident. This is the end of all tyrants who shed the people's blood and despise human rights in order to achieve their arrogant aspirations."

-Musib Nuaimi from Iran's Al-Vefagh

"He [Bush] never expected that the expression of opposition to reach this level of intensity, particularly knowing that, in the oriental tradition, shoes are associated with contempt and dirt."

- Yusuf Al-Kuwaylit in Saudi Arabia's Al-Riyadh

"This is a farewell suitable for a war criminal and terrorist who led the world towards moral degeneration, terrorism and violence for eight years. The scene of the shoe being thrown is the only one that is suitable for US President George Bush. This is a free Iraqi expressing the feelings of the Iraqi people."

- Mustafa Al-Sawwaf in Gaza's Filastin

This is a warning for the United States' new era. Those who will follow Bush's policies will receive the same farewell at the end of their term in office. Hopefully, Barack Obama will realise that, deep inside, Arab and Muslim peoples wish to bid him farewell with flowers at the end of his term in office.

Ra'uf Shahuri in Lebanon's Al Anwar

Et tu, Programme?

2008-12-13T16:59:00.001-05:00

FINALS.

:-(

My reach is global, My tower secure. My cause is noble, My power is pure.

2008-12-12T05:04:00.004-05:00

My favorite PostSecret post of all time:

To the bigots and fear-mongerers of the world: please kindly go hibernate in your trailers/stay in a coors-light-induced drunken stupor/aim your guns at the faces of old white men for the next 4 years. Or 8.

Seasons are changing, waves are crashing, and stars are falling all for us

2008-12-10T03:27:00.003-05:00

"I see a thousand hills crimsoned through
By their serried woods deep-dyed,
And a hundred barges vying
Over crystal blue waters.
Eagles cleave the air,
Fish glide in the limpid deep;
Under freezing skies a million creatures contend in freedom.
Brooding over this immensity,
I ask, on this boundless land
Who rules over man's destiny?"

- Mao Zedong

Taken at Poquoson, VA on 10/27/07

2008-12-09T22:25:00.003-05:00

Belgium Series, Part 5:

It's good to be the King.

Taken on 5/24/08 at the Vorstenhuisplein in the Park van Laeken, Bruxelles, Belgium

Belgian Trappists

2008-12-08T00:48:00.003-05:00

Trappist Monasteries: Purveyors of some of the best beers in the world
(Clockwise, from left bottom): Rochefort 10 (Abbaye de Notre-Dame de Saint-Rémy, Quadrupel, 11.3% ABV), Chimay Grand Réserve (Abbaye de Scourmont, Belgian Strong Dark Ale, 9% ABV), Orval Trappist Ale (Abbaye de Notre-Dame d'Orval, Belgian Pale Ale, 6.9% ABV), Achel 8° Brune (Brouwerij der St.Benedictusabdij de Achelse, Dubbel, 8% ABV), Westmalle Trappist Tripel (Abdij der Trappisten van Westmalle, Tripel, 9.5% ABV), Westvleteren Bruin 12 (Sint-Sixtusabdij van Westvleteren, Quadrupel, 10.2% ABV)

Not pictured: the 7th Trappist abbey which produces beer, Bierbrouwerij de Koningshoeven in The Netherlands

Dejected

2008-12-07T12:42:00.003-05:00

Belgium Series, Part 4:

Why so serious(ly old)?

(McCain '08!)

Taken behind the Institut von Kármán de Dynamique des Fluides in Sint-Genesius-Rode, Belgium: an old sports center closed since 2001

Oud Beersel

2008-12-06T11:08:00.003-05:00

Belgium Series, Part 3: Beersel Castle dates back to the 13th century. It's been modified and modified again since then. What ghosts and stories still haunt its ramparts? How many feet have stepped on its bricks to cause such wear? What scent of the past is still contained within those walls?

Taken in Beersel, Belgium on 5/18/08

Stoic

2008-12-05T03:33:00.004-05:00

Belgium Series, Part 2:
"Yo soy el constructor de las estatuas. No tengo nombre.
No tengo rostro. El mío se desvió hasta correr
sobre la zarza y subir impregnando las piedras.
Ellas tienen mi rostro petrificado,
la grave soledad de mi patria."

- Pablo Neruda

Statues on the facade of the Bruxelles City Hall
Grand Place, Bruxelles, Belgium
Taken on 5/17/08

Arrival

2008-12-04T10:17:00.000-05:00

This is an attempt for me to reconstruct (somewhat) chronologically my time in Europe and all the best pictures that I took.

Belgium Series, Part 1: Amongst all the dense foliage and ancient cottages, I thought: "wow, what a veritable garden. What dream have I planted myself in now?"

Taken at Rue de l'École 20, Rhode St. Genèse, Belgium.

2008-12-03T16:10:00.000-05:00

Autumn Sunset.

Taken 11/7/08 near the town of West Friendship, Maryland on the MD 144 Scenic Route.

I AM A DELETION ADDICT

2008-12-02T19:34:00.000-05:00

Deleting Facebook, Flickr, Blogs... I can never stick with anything. They're all gone, wiped clean in a fit of rage.

This is my attempt to rectify what I've done wrong, to recover my old blog, Joyfully Lost, bit by bit, word by word, a picture a day.

Let's see how long I can hold out for. 365? Probably not. But it's worth a start.

Here's the first day's picture:

Things light anew.

Cafe Quetzal, Gent, Belgium.