procrastination is a sleazy one-night-stand

(Note: I have nothing against one-night-stands per se, as long as both parties are aware and have no expectations beyond the next day.)

You go out looking for her. Not any her in particular, just a her. Any one will do, really, anyone to take your mind off things and lose yourself for a while. You latch on to the first that shows any sign of interest, any spark that this might be fun. You get things going ASAP; the bad moments shock you into wondering what exactly you're doing, while the good ones lull you into thinking this might be more, at least until you shake yourself back to reality.

The next morning, you're hung over and looking for your clothes. And your life is still there, patiently waiting for you, exactly how you left it last night. Procrastination afforded you a few hours of wasted entertainment, but life beckons. Back to the keyboard.

(155)

quand une image vaut un mot

Je me suis payée un trip pour ma fête.

J'ai reçu une nouvelle caméra numérique en cadeau, quelque chose que j'attendais avec impatience. Il y a près d'un an que ma caméra est morte, et en plus, elle était tellement compliquée à programmer et à manipuler que je ne m'en servais presque jamais. Ça fait donc des lunes que je ne me suis pas amusée avec une caméra.

Puis, j'ai découvert le blogue Trois choses, ou un groupe se donne trois mots clés par semaine et chaque membre doit produire trois photos. Ce ne sont pas des professionnels, et je ne m'y sens pas intimidée comme je le serais sur le site qui l'a inspiré, dpchallenge.com

M'sieur Alexandre m'a gentiment accepté, et je devrais "uploader" mes photos de cette semaine dès que la dernière sera prête (j'ai déjà CIBLE et SI, mais il me manque MOI...) En attendant, je vais publier ici ma série de pratique, c'est à dire ma première séquence de photos, inspirée des mots de la semaine dernière:

SOL / POIL / NOIR

SOL : OK, j'avoue, celle-là n'est pas hyper-inspirée, mais j'aimais bien la texture et l'idée de la verdure qui prend le dessus sur l'asphalte...

POIL : Mon doux, celle-là, c'est l'histoire de ma vie. Avec des chiens (au pluriel), des chats (au pluriel) et le vénérable pinch de mon chum, j'avais l'embarras du choix. Je vous présente donc Ti-Monstre, mieux connu sous le nom de Orange, le doyen de la population animale de la maisonnée, et deuxième en tout après moi (hé oui, il a même plus d'ancienneté que mon chum!) Encore là, j'aimais la texture de son poil blanc et puis, il est tellement pas enclin à rester sur place pour qu'on le prenne en photo, le Orange !

NOIR : Ici, encore, plein d'idées (tiens, ça aussi ça peut être noir!) Mais j'ai choisi ce concept, pour voir si c'était convaincant de faire une photo intitulée "NOIR" qui n'a rien de noir comme tel : voir si noir pouvait être pâle, finalement. J'aime bien.

On verra bien si je réussis à prendre "MOI" de façon publiable...

aaaarrrrgggggghhhhh, ok, ok, I give in

I now have a Facebook profile.

I'm not sure what's worse: having three friends, or looking for people I was once friends with and lost track of over the years, trying to reconnect in a feeble attempt to up my friend count. Mind you, in my search, I have found two people I'd really like to reconnect with. I'm just going to wait until I have a few more friends before I do :-)

And, just as these blogs are fairly anonymous, my Facebook profile does not have my full name. Hey, maybe I'll lose out on the chance that people from my past won't be able to find me, but at least neither will my boss, prospective employers or clients. That's just not somewhere I want to go. At this point in my life, my professional persona and my social/private life are distinct, and I'd like to keep it that way.

(152)

more dreambits

We (about 2 dozen of us) had just completed performing in a music competition, and we were awaiting the judges' decision, waiting patiently in the convenience store on the corner of my street. Yes, it seemed like the normal thing to do. We discussed and praised each others' performances and engaged in some mindless chitchat. All the while, customers came and went as usual. That is, until a gun-toting thug came in and tried to rob the store till, and took us all hostage as a matter of course. We thoroughly outnumbered the guy, but no one made a move, even though the door to the backstore was wide open and offered a great chance for more than half of us to escape. I was the only one who made an attempt. I was wearing a bag slung over my shoulder, and someone pulled the strap and held me still. We stayed and waited.

Across the street, cop cars appeared, sirens blaring; we thought we were saved. They set up a perimeter that seemed too far from us and...facing the wrong way. Yep, they were encircling the restaurant on the opposite corner and completely ignoring us. They screamed and gestured to the patrons inside, then boom. The entire restaurant exploded, the roof shooting straight up and crashing spectacularly seconds later, as the dust began to settle. That finally shook us out of our stupor; we ran out by both exits, into the sunlight.

---

I was in a hotel room with a coworker, who was in advanced labor. It soon became apparent that all the people milling about me and myself were the midwives. It was chaotic, no one had a clue, yet this was what was expected...and things turned out just fine.

---

Another hotel room, maybe even with some of the same people - who knows, it was dreamt the same night. I was attending some sort of conference and during the proceedings, a frog jumped onto my leg, clinging to my pant leg about halfway up my shin. It was quickly established that this was a highly poisonous species (can frogs even be that harmful to humans?) and that I shouldn't disturb it. We finally figured out where it had escaped from and who it belonged to. Its owner didn't have anything to carry it in, so I was summoned to simply make my way back to his hotel room with the frog on my leg, so it could be returned to its enclosure. Which I did, crossing the crowded lobby as people discussed plans for the afternoon and what would be on the lunch menu of the hotel buffet.

---

The more I write these things, the more I feel the need to post a disclaimer: this is what I remember. No, I don't do drugs and I don't eat spicy food before bed. I'm just weird that way.

(483)

exercises for the wordless mind

telling / twenty / energize / stylist / problematic

Twenty minutes to go. The situation was quickly shifting from problematic to outright dire. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry; he wanted to be anywhere but here. But Perez knows divas can't take on the red carpet singlehandedly, especially not this train wreck. There was just no telling what she could dream up next to further derail her now-faltering career. Her team of stylists stood at the ready, and he had to lead them. Except he just couldn't think. He ducked in to the nearest trailer; one coke/MDMA bump with a Red Bull chaser later, he felt energized, refreshed and fuckin' invincible. Time to roll.

towel / burner / stingy / unravel / sponge

Her world was unravelling, that much was clear. That stingy prick had sponged off her for months, while she put her big dreams on the back burner. But when her finances had taken a turn for the worse, he'd taken the first bus out of her life. She clung to the notion that the answer was be 42, and she always knew where her towel was. At that point, those were her only certainties.

bribery / cohesive / prove / slope / down

Somewhere along the way, things stopped making sense. His once-cohesive world view fractured into tiny little jagged shards that rained down hard and broke his skin. What exactly had started this tumble down the slippery slope of insanity? Was it his father's rejection? Was it his meager attempts at reconciliation, lubricated by financial windfalls that amounted to bribery? Was it his mother standing mutely by, unable or unwilling to shelter her child? And did any of his own ensuing acts of random horror prove that deep down, they had been right all along? He smiled and banged his head softly against the padded wall of his cell.

(316)

writing prompt: perfect moon

What is perfection, anyway? I thought it didn't exist, not on this plane of existence at any rate. Not among my species, I'm afraid to say. Yet Mother Nature rolls on, in a continuous state of dynamic equilibrium. I don't know enough to state whether this constitutes perfection, but hey, the system works, at least until we come along to muck it up. But I think it is the closest thing to it I will experience in this lifetime.

So, perfect moon. The moon is perfect, always, with its pockmarked surface and smooth orbit. I'll pretend to forget how it has already been polluted by the debris left behind by the various missions, both manned and unmanned. Our footprint there, sadly, is already larger than Armstrong infamous imprint. *sigh*

But the moon shines on, looking down on all of us, but particularly those who live in the night's velvety embrace. Some days, she appears to claim the sky before the sun has even retreated, her face gleaming pale. Other times she mimics her nemesis, by hanging low over the horizon and taking on a golden glow. From a shy sliver to her full basking face, waxing and waning, she returns our glances and rules our oceans from afar, a protective parent gently but unequivocally guiding our steps. She holds fast over our inner workings as well, our emotions surging and retreating like the tides. Maniacs and monsters bay to her, as do I. I humbly acknowledge my inner beast, who finds her constant presence as soothing as the Egyptians seemed to find the rising of the sun. My existence depends upon her cool glow as much as upon the warming kiss of Râ. I bow to the perfect moon.

(289)

american bash

...'cause I wouldn't go so far as to call it great. Thin overall, sometimes borderline irrelevant, with some bright spots.

First off, the fatal 4-way. I'll grant it was time for Miz & Morrison to lose the belts, even though they remain undisputedly the best tag team on the WWE horizon. But to give the belts to Hawkins & Ryder? To me, that's painting themselves into a corner unless it's meant as a transition reign. We'll see where they plan to go with this. One positive sidenote: dressing Hawkins & Ryder in different colours is a good idea; at least I can tell them apart now. And maybe they'll actually develop individual personalities.

Matt Hardy vs. Shelton Benjamin: see my post "the value of unexpectedness" dated July 14. It was an OK match, but I thought they didn't flow as well as they used to back in the day. No emotional interest whatsoever.

Mark Henry vs. Tommy Dreamer: I must admit I haven't watched a single episode of ECW since Kane dropped the belt and was drafted back to Raw. Tony Atlas? Colin Delaney? Yawn. Even less interest than the previous match. Time to turn things around.

Y2J vs. HBK: Finally, something to keep my attention. For a moment, I thought they were heading down the "but is it real?" route the minute Shawn started clutching at his ribs, but they played it fairly clean. I cheered throughout, except when we got close-ups of Y2J pursing his lips (someone slap him for me), and even harder once the blood started pouring. Viva evil Y2J!

Two non-match related comments: first, great Summerslam ad. Second, interesting survey question, which added up to "So, who's the best heel?" Glad to see Vickie's victory here.

Michelle McCool vs. Natalya Neidhart: How awful is that belt, anyways? It's pink, it's bedazzled, it's shaped like a butterfly. It looks like a Bratz accessory! I can't seriously see Natalya holding something so ridiculous. Let's see if Michelle can be taken seriously with it. Dull match, even though I have previously given props for girls using submission moves.

CM Punk vs. Batista: This redeemed everything else. It's another one of these great combinations: Punk forces Batista to move faster, Batista makes Punk put all his weight behind each move. I loved the back and forth; I was hoping Punk would retain, even though I am an Animal lover at heart. Kane's interference was perfect: Punk keeps the belt, at no cost to Batista, and Kane remains involved at championship level. I also enjoyed how they used the shot taken from the downed cameraman in the replay of Kane's attack - it was like the missing end shot from the Blair Witch Project. Great job.

JBL vs. Cena: I honestly can't remember the last time I enjoyed a JBL match. Oh look. This wasn't any better. The moves were clunky; the stunts were only so-so and predictable from a mile away. Psycho Cena doesn't do it for me.

HHH vs. Edge: I was actually expecting Vickie to "excuse me" her way into changing stipulations or something, right from the get-go. When it didn't happen, we were actually treated to a match - no gimmicks, no constant interference, no crooked refereeing - a real match. A good one, at that. We all knew it was too good to be true, so the arrival of Alicia Fox with Vickie right on her heels, was unavoidable. But it was good, other than the fact Alicia needs to learn to start doing backhanded maneuvers BEHIND the referee's back. As to the spear, what can I say, except Eddie must be so proud of his mamacita.

I can't wait 'till next week to see how things develop. I was quite entertained when Edge and Vickie had broken up; the hell she could stand to put him through...I thought that hadn't been explored to its fullest. I guess there more to come. So things ended on a high note, after a highly uneven card.

(669)

writing prompt: 10-minute stroll

Dudley bolts out the door, as always, in full defiance of my authority and anything Cesar Millan may think. He barely pauses to look before bounding down the first three steps, even though he steadfastly refuses to go down stairs inside the house. Into the grass for a quick sniff n’ pee, then off again to street level. The crabgrass and other various weeds that make up the greater part of my lawn (I use the word reluctantly) get a copious amount of testosterone-induced canine fertilizer; the rocks in front of the hydrangeas are a popular spot. After a few minutes of frantic circling and close inspection of the yard, we can proceed.

The walk to the corner of the street is often inelegant, with Dudley pulling left and right. But by the time we reach 20th Avenue, exactly one house over from mine, he settles down into a civilized walk by my side. I try to keep myself between him and the road traffic, but sometimes he gets confused; other times he just gets distracted by an appealing smell. On the other hand, he’s really good at not going around the wrong side of telephone poles and the like, and at circling me and tripping me up in the leash. He’s by no means perfect, but then, neither am I.

Street corners are notorious message boards for neighbourhood dogs, and I do allow him some leeway to partake in communication activities, but not too much. We turn right on Blvd. du Lac, down to Lakebreeze. That particular corner is always the height of sniffing interest. I wonder whether there a bitch in heat nearby; other times, I catch myself wondering whether he smells his mom. I know, I know, he wouldn’t recognize her as such – but I would. Around the curve we go, passing the house where my lost cat was found when I was seven. The house has undergone so many renovations since, it’s almost unrecognizable; I doubt it’s the same owners, but I still silently send my gratitude to the lady who called on that fateful day in 1980. Losing Lita was one of the hardest events of my adult life. Would it have been simpler back then if Dixie had never been found after wandering off?

We cross Sunnyside and pass the house of a lady who also owns pugs. Once upon a time, we met on the corner as I was walking Dave; we talked about dogs until Dave got bored and peed on my foot. Once in a while, we’ll duck in to the little lot dressed up as a park and go to the water’s edge. Dudley has learned that dead fish that wash ashore are not for him to stick his nose in. Does he enjoy the sensation of sand between his toes as much as I do? I so often wish we spoke the same language, to share what goes on behind those big brown eyes. I feel the love, that much is clear, as are the messages he conveys with his tail, his mouth and his ears. But they are but pictograms: I long to understand the subtleties of his experience.

Lakebreeze ends right across the street from the house where my best friend lived when I was a child. Her parents still live there, and I sometimes see her brothers too. We turn back towards home. This part of the walk is contained by a sidewalk and Dudley’s growing fatigue, so it’s fairly straight and narrow, except for the crab-apple tree that provides new olfactory sensations in late summer. The sidewalk ends at 18th Avenue. Just beyond, there are a number of cracks along the edge of the pavement that radiate out into the street. Last year, a city worker spray painted circles around the areas to be repaired; the paint has faded, and still the cracks endure. One day, the perfect profile of a pug appeared to me in these cracks. I told Pat about it, and he thought I was crazy. I even took a picture; as soon as I get my camera, I will try to take a picture of Dudley in the same pose (it may be difficult to convince him to look away, though.)

We round the corner of 20th Avenue and he sniffs urgently at all the same places as when we first walked by here in the other direction. Soon, we’re turning onto our street, and he recognizes home; all civilization once again escapes him as he storms up the stairs. His brothers and father are most often barking at the window by this time. Walking them all together is impossible. Walking certain combinations works well, but sometimes, it’s nice to have some one-on-one time. No competing for dominance or for mom’s attention. Back in the house, off comes the leash, and Dudley heads straight to the water bowl for a drink before settling down for a well-deserved nap.

(827)

writing prompt: there is no music

Writing prompt: There is no music. What sound inspires you? What living music makes your heart skip a beat? (…) Name your melody.

I once read the story of a long-term care facility somewhere that had adopted a cat. The cat would spend most days wandering the halls, but whenever a resident was at death’s door, he would jump on the person’s bed and purr, as though to accompany them to the gates of the afterlife. The cat was so reliable that whenever he settled down like this, they would summon the family to the resident’s bedside. Should it come to pass that my death comes at the end of such a decline, I can only hope to go like that, simply because the cat’s purr is the most soothing sound I know.

It’s a vibration, perfectly attuned to the hum of the universe. Its power is primeval and resonates deep within my being. It warms me from within better than any fire. Like ocean waves lapping at the shore, its meditative rhythm slows my breath to its pace. It calls forth blissful memories of comfort and home, of my mother stroking my hair, of being rocked to sleep, of pure, entire love. If my last experience in this lifetime is to feel a cat purring by my side, then I will have been truly blessed.

(203)

writing prompt: dreaming in colour

Do I dream in colour? The first obvious answer is of course. Why shouldn't I? It's not like there are technological limitations to my dreams (thank goodness - how awful would that be?) Then again, is there really colour in dreams? Colour is a visual perception, as are contour and light, which are often blurry and diffuse even in the clearest of dreams. I'm not entirely sure the mind recreates them. Our reaction to them and the feelings they evoke are present, though - at least they are when they play a prominent role in the story the mind is working through. Otherwise, just like I know who is standing next to me in my dream without ever turning to face them, I know the sky was blue and my jacket was black and silver, simply because my mind fills in the blanks for me. I think the brain is quite prone to cutting corners and adding unperceived information when it expects things to be so.

In my baby book, my mom recorded that I was fascinated by the coloured balloons falling from the ceiling of Bert and Ernie's room on one particular episode of Sesame Street. I called out their colours, apparently oblivious to the fact we had a black-and-white TV at the time. [Aside: Instead of writing "black", I wrote "bland." Hmm. I wonder what that says about me.] I can't say I recall, and I suspect I may have been mimicking Ernie's delight, but it isn't impossible that I really was perceiving the colours, if not outright seeing them.

I keep looking at the prompt: "Dreaming in colour." That's a word-for-word translation of the French "Rêver en couleurs", which more or less means to "dream on", i.e. to fantasize about things quite unlikely to happen - winning the lottery or, in Pat's case, a silver Mustang GT convertible with black racing stripes and red leather interior. Other than the lottery, which I rarely play, I dream of working from home, of losing weight, of fixing up the house, and so on. Maybe it's because I'm the sole contributor to the household income, but my dreams, for the most part, are fairly attainable (I hope.) I have to force myself to dream really big. Maybe it's because I'm a pessimist, who would rather be pleasantly surprised than sorely disappointed. Maybe it's because I'm content with what I have.

On the other hand, I really would like to have the house clean by the time my vacation ends...now that probably is "dreaming in colour."

(420)

the raven and the ferret

I don't remember exactly how I stumbled upon Word Ferret, but I must admit I enjoy it tremendously.

Since I've been having difficulty these days putting pen to paper for any stretch of time, I decided to try out Eliza Dashwood's writing prompts, to see whether I could get the blood pumping and the words flowing.

Actually, I think it turned out pretty well - please see the next three posts and let me know what you think.

(78)

some calisthenics, because I'm out of shape

unacceptable / pathological / service / democratic / assume

During his service, Jim was told that defeat was unacceptable, that their mission was to help ensure democratic rule of the tiny island nation. He always assumed they were doing the right thing for the right reasons. Unfortunately, political and military leaders are, more often than not, pathological liars.

tune / cart / exam / knot / quarter

He tried to whistle a tune to calm his nerves. No luck. He looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. A quarter to one. His stomach was in knots. He'd dreamed of this day for so long. And by the end of the afternoon, he was gonna be allowed to drive more than just scooters and golf carts, if he had any say in the matter.

counterculture / cream / smoke / PIN / deny

Where had she gone wrong, she wondered, as she stirred extra cream into her Starbucks latte. She lit up a smoke the minute she was out the door; she relished her last rebellious stance. She had a SIN number, a PIN number, more passwords than she could ever forget, and a new "smart" ID card that held her deepest biometric secrets. It was no use denying it: one of the 80s counterculture's greatest icons had fallen prey to the Man. She had been absorbed into the System.

cell / dynamite / kit / nausea / doll

She huddled in the dark alley, waiting anxiously to rendez-vous with her contact. The stench of urine was overwhelming. She fought back a wave of nausea and watched passerbys from the shadows: an elderly couple, a gaggle of boisterous teenagers, a stressed-out executive on a Blackberry, a harried soccer mom and her child, dragging behind her a limp rag doll. How it would all change. When Stavros arrived, he would provide the last element for their bomb kits. Once assembled, they would detonate with forty times the force of dynamite. Their cell may be the smallest of the network, but they were certainly going to make an impact.

In six, these days: I'm still the only one rowing.

Today: Some itches are better left unscratched.

(368)

this is progress?

My bank has recently been updating some of their ATMs, and the new printouts have me somewhat peeved.

Old size: 7.9 cm (3 1/8 in.) by 11.1 cm (4 3/8 in.) = 87.69 sq. cm
New size: 6 cm (2 3/8 in.) by 15.5 cm (6 1/8 in.) = 93 sq. cm

OK, so they're wasting 6% more paper with every printout. Lovely.

You will also note that the width has been reduced by 25%. However, they did not change the template of the printout, which means the text is also reduced by 25%, and there are great blank expanses of paper at the top and bottom. To add insult to injury, they've gone from all caps to lowercase letters, making most text less than half the size it used to be - it's down to barely 1 mm high!

In an age where the aging population has finally gotten the hang of bank machines, and environmental concerns are at the forefront, my bank has chosen to swim against the current. I'd switch, except a) they'd never notice, and b) the competitors are no better, really.

(186)

touchy subjects shouldn't equal hysteria

There was a kerfuffle in the media last week or so about the decision to award the Order of Canada to Dr. Henry Morgentaler, a pivotal player in the legalization of abortion in Canada. Just so we're clear, I stand on the pro-choice side, but I will admit that some women abuse the privilege, either by using abortion as birth control or by demanding one at an advanced stage of pregnancy for no other reason than having taken that long to come to a decision. But I digress.

Dr. Morgentaler stated he was proud to have been able to contribute to the decline in crime rate since abortion was legalized in Canada. (Wow, I'll admit that was arrogant.) This prompted Richard Martineau to throw another of his indignant hissy-fits. He wrote that Dr. Morgentaler was passing judgment on all unborn babies and that they wouldn't all have turned out poorly. Well, OK, let's start at the beginning: Dr. Morgentaler never made such a blanket statement, and didn't actually imply anything about anybody. But let's follow that train of thought anyways:

• Would "unwanted" babies be more likely to be abused/neglected/left to their own devices as they grew up? Probably.
• Would "unwanted" babies be more likely to perceive they are unwanted and develop self-esteem/identity/rejection issues? Probably.
• Would these issues be more likely to push them towards gangs, particularly as a way to recreate a sense of belonging that doesn't otherwise exist at home? Probably.
• Would these issues be more likely to lead them towards drugs and other emotion-numbing addictions? Probably.

The issue is economic as well: parents, especially young people, otherwise forced into having a child, may turn to crime as a way of paying the bills for a family they couldn't afford. So while all of these "probably"s certainly don't add up to all cases, they certainly represent a possibility that is averted with the legalization of abortion. Sorry Mr. Martineau: Dr. Morgentaler might not be the most eloquent or charismatic guy, and that soundbite might sound awful, but his argument has merit.

On a side note, I'd also be willing to wager that we could all find someone who's received the Order of Canada over the years and whose stance we find offensive, whether from a religious, political or social point of view.

(387)

reading other people's writing on how to write

At lunch, I googled “writing fan fiction” to find tips that may help me in the process. The first site I found sought to be informative and user-friendly, and the text was broken into chapters that flowed well. I believed the writer’s advice simply because she proved she mastered her craft. Apart from the obvious grammar/punctuation issues, she covered plot lines and characterization, and emphasized the writer’s mindset throughout the process as being of prime importance in writing successfully.

I returned to my Google results page and selected another site which seemed promising. It offered a series of checklists of things to do and things to avoid. Unfortunately, as a web page, it was visually unappealing and harsh to read (with lime green titles on a black background, the white text surrounding them took on a pale shade of pink.) Then, as I read, little mistakes popped up: an “it’s” where an “its” should be, an “effect” where it should read “affect”. There was the occasional apparent contradiction, such as one page suggesting keeping commas to a strict minimum, and the next stating to use them to guide the reader’s eye. Throughout the site, I kept thinking “Physician, heal thyself.” It was distracting from the points the writer was trying to make, some of which were entirely valid. The author had taken great pains to tabulate the use of various words and devices among a number of celebrated authors, but I think the statistic that stood out the most was simply to write one thousand words per day. Dipping below this threshold generated “mental apathy”, I believe it was. That’s something I am inclined to believe, being presently stuck in it midst. Now I just need to fight my way back. Out, out, damned mental apathy!

But seriously, these sites, for all their qualities and faults, did provide some useful insights for the completion of my story. Wish me luck - I gotta go write.

(324)

story in progress

There I was, thinking I’d be able to write more once school was out. Now, one month later, I’ve barely done anything. Maybe life got in the way; maybe I’m just making excuses. But lately, I’ve had a story that’s been bubbling up unannounced. It started with one paragraph that actually came to me in a dream, or rather in that time/space between dreams, when you’re neither asleep nor awake, that unlocks all kinds of secrets. When my alarm went off, I grabbed pen and paper and jotted it down as best I could. Now I’m faced with the difficulty of filling in the space around this paragraph, which describes a single instant. I fear that I will encounter the same difficulty as I have in drawing – getting the main subject right is relatively painless, but filling in the background is arduous, and getting the two to gel can be hellish. Hopefully, I’ll be able to stretch my words forwards and back and sideways, like rolling out a pie crust, to creep across seconds until the story is complete.

(179)

en français

On m’a demandé si je bloguais en français. J’ai du répondre non. C’est en partie parce que j’ai créé mes blogues comme moyens de pression sur moi-même pour me faire rédiger sur une base régulière, et que le travail que je remets est presqu’entièrement en anglais; la pratique que je m’impose m’est donc plus utile dans la langue de Shakespeare. Cependant, je dois avouer qu’il pourrait être intéressant de bloguer dans celle de Molière. C’est juste que je trouve difficile de trouver le bon ton, le juste milieu; je ne veux pas nécessairement écrire comme je parle, mais je ne veux pas sombrer dans le snobisme linguistique non plus. On dirait que les mots me manquent plus facilement; ou est-ce que c’est la crainte de me faire reprendre dans la langue que je sens moins bien maîtriser ? Pourtant, je sais que mon français est très bon, mais le fait demeure que je n’ai pas étudié en français depuis le secondaire (si loin déjà !) et que je suis certaine que bien des subtilités m’échappent encore.

J’en veux aussi à tous ceux qui m’ont nargué dans ma jeunesse de « retourner dans mon pays », alors que je suis née à l’hôpital Fleury, qui m’ont catégorisée de « petite anglaise » à la simple vue de mon nom alors que je n’avais pas encore prononcé un seul mot (sans accent d’ailleurs)…à tous ceux qui disent que c’est la faute aux anglais si le français se perd, mais qui se fâchent lorsqu’on souligne leurs erreurs de grammaire souvent si élémentaires…ce sont aussi ces petits gestes de rejet qui relèvent de la xénophobie qui me poussent à me retirer dans mon monde anglo. D’un autre côté, je devrais simplement revendiquer ma place, toute bilingue soit-elle. Je remercie donc mon ami (que j’encourage aussi à lancer son propre blogue!) de m’avoir fait réfléchir un peu sur le sujet et je lui promets de…(merde ! Comment dit-on « to post » ?) …d’écrire en français plus souvent dans mes blogues. Voilà.

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the value of unexpectedness

I haven’t written about CM Punk’s championship victory on Raw a few weeks back. It was beautiful, it was unexpected, and it was exactly the type of thing the WWE should do more often to ensure week-to-week ratings. Surprise us. Make us wonder what you’re going to do next. It takes more creative juices, but it doesn’t cost a million bucks a week.

A lot of viewers have become too jaded; people are so busy watching the man behind the curtain, they’re forgetting to watch the show. It’s like the movies: beyond the cinematography, lighting, costumes, and so on, there’s a story just waiting for you to suspend disbelief. But again, that can be tricky when the quality is lacking.

On to last week. Waaaaaaay too much JBL; glad to see Kane still involved at main event level. Cena’s stooping to new juvenile lows – Triple H was right when he said Cena’s fans would be in bed by the time the main event rolled around. And that’s sad because the guy has skills often beyond what a lot of people give him credit for, IMHO. Last but not least, while I have no qualms with Y2J’s heel turn, I’m having a hard time with the relatively soft-spoken, reflective approach. I want my loud, funny, sarcastic, rockstar Jericho back. (And don’t get me started on HBK’s band-aids as an indicator of eye injury; they’re almost as funny as Christian’s bloody towel from a few weeks back!)

On a side note, JR objected to the speculation that Mark Henry was awarded the ECW title due to race issues. Apart from the fact he’s been there forever and has never been deemed worthy of a half-decent push, and that I believe he’s among the more dangerous super-heavyweights around, let me just say this: how can I not be tempted to think that when Kofi Kingston is crowned Intercontinental champion at the same PPV, and if Cryme Tyme gets involved in main event action that same week? Leave Shelton Benjamin to rot to prove me wrong.

And one last thing: did anyone else see the irony in Cena hiring Cryme Tyme against JBL to reprise the role the APA once held? I miss the cigar smoking, poker playing, goddamn-it there’s a door Bradshaw. *sigh*

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collected dreambits

A bunch of dreambits, in no particular order:

I was seated at a lone picnic table in the middle of a vast field, or rather, a vast expanse of well-kept grass. It wasn’t golf-course, painted-on quality, but it certainly didn’t have that tall-grass feeling to it. I was watching an air show; as jets flew overhead, the wind rose and I felt a chill. Seated next to me, the Undertaker lent me his jacket.

My dad was called upon to investigate a plane crash for the military; was it an accident, or something more sinister? IRL, my father was an aerodynamics expert, so the concept isn’t too far-fetched, but I guess this is what happens when I watch “Seconds from disaster” before going to bed.

I remember seeing my cubicle, whose walls are light beige (don’t get me started), covered with spots where flies were swatted, some with the flies still stuck there. Of course, I have a history of flattening flies and mosquitoes onto these walls with my notebook, so that they do leave a mark that I then treat with Tide to Go – but that was twice over the span of eighteen months, not fifty or so at a time, as I was seeing.

I was chatting with colleagues at the top of the stairs over the cafeteria where I work, when a woman came up to me, fully expecting me to know who she was. When my blank stare confirmed I had no clue, she prodded me by reminding me she was my mother. Even then, the recognition was faint at best.

I was having dinner with a group of friends in someone’s apartment. As the meal was being prepared, we were having a discussion over red wine about the merits of vegetarianism. In the kitchen, there were two large pans – one containing a live chicken, the other a live goat. I couldn’t bear to kill them myself, or stand to watch someone else do the deed – I burst out crying in great sobs to the girl who was my best friend in high school (and whom I haven’t seen since.)

I was standing on the north side of Cathcart Street, between McGill College and University. The street was undergoing serious repairs, and its surface consisted of gravel in great crests and troughs along the length of the street. A few other people were trying to cross, but when we tried, sometimes the ground was solid, and sometimes people sank to their waists as though in quicksand. People already on the south side of the street were stopped and watched us, shouting out directions of where the ground was safe and trying to extricate the unfortunates. I managed to work my way across without sinking, simply by keeping moving at a good clip.

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forgive me blogosphere, for i have sinned

It has been two weeks since my last post. Ah, I could go on making excuses, about how summer is just so delicious, how my freelancing has really picked up in the last month, how I've got a story brewing to post on fanfiction.net, how Pat had surgery last Friday to repair two broken metacarpal bones...but that's all they'd be - excuses. So instead, let's move forward, with a little something I wrote last June 18, but that I never got around to posting.

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Yesterday, the sky was crowded over the street where I live, as this year’s hatch of mayflies took to the air in a desperate but dignified bid to cram as much breeding and flying and just plain living as possible into their oh-so-ephemeral existence. Their swarm cloud was thousands-strong, hovering and undulating among the cedars and pines. For a while, a robin perched on a power line in their midst, turning over an interesting tidbit in its beak. Before long, it presumably retreated to its nest for the night, leaving the sky to the mayflies. I sat on the stairs with my hoody pulled up, to avoid the occasional mayfly landing in my hair. They didn’t even pause to mate: one would keep flying upright, the other would line up underneath and curl up their abdomen. Unfortunately, I don’t know which is which, but the resulting union lost its grace in flight, often hurtling down, tumbling out of the sky; at best they looked like drunken bumblebees until the two parted ways. The supple limbs of my Japanese lilac also served as a crash pad for overenthusiastic couples too otherwise-occupied to remain aloft. It was a quiet spectacle that made the evening sky hum; already, the darkness creeping in signaled the end of the show, and I’m sure their death knoll was beginning to toll. I sat, the sole witness to their lives’ singular majesty.

This morning, a single mayfly alighted by my front door knob; by tonight, it will be over for another year.

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