public art

This one may actually make a smidgen of sense. Saturday's Gazette had an article on public art, or the lack thereof, and Montreal's lagging commitment to enhancing public spaces and encouraging artists.

I quote one Saskia Siebrand of Mosaika Art and Design, who says, "There is a lot of mediocre mural art that's done in the graffiti type of style. It might be nicer to have something with a bit more artistic value."

Well now, that statement irked me for a number of reasons. Actually, the article as a whole had me saying "yeah, but..." throughout. Let's go over this concept:

• This person, first and foremost, is the co-founder of a company who specializes in mosaics for public spaces. Selling your services is one thing, and saying Montreal needs more is fine, but attacking styles of art that are different than what you propose is ignorant at best. On appelle ça prêcher pour sa paroisse.

• The quote itself is odd. Is it taken out of context. Did she praise the graffiti murals that are well done further in her interview, which was subsequently cut? Or, as I suspect, does she simply not see the value of spray paint?

• More artistic value? How exactly does one gauge that, anyway? Monetary value? Time and materials? That's exactly the kind of art elitism that makes people abandon museums and inaccessible art forms.

• Next question: has it dawned on her that by putting down the aforementioned awful graffiti murals, she's indirectly knocking the building owners who commissioned them, and that they might yet own other buildings that require beautification?

• Has is occurred to her that perhaps these murals were specifically chosen because of their hip urban youth appeal, something that the mosaics on her website certainly cannot claim? (Mind you, I'm not knocking them at all; some of them are stunning. The pond reminds me of Monet and the birds are spectacular. But they do convey an entirely different art experience than graffiti-style murals and will speak to a whole different audience.)
  

• Given that everyone involved in the article agrees that more thought and resources should be allocated to public art (which they will be in coming years), shouldn't the focus be on the areas that have given no thought to art, rather than those who have, albeit in a manner deemed "mediocre"?

Lastly, the article asked a series of rhetorical questions on how Montreal could develop into an art capital, and one of the items was to encourage homeowners to beautify their homes. Hmm. Let me think: I seem to remember a man in St. Leonard (I think) who painted the flag of Greece on his garage door, only to be ticketed by the city. It was an eyesore, they said. What if everybody did it, they said. What would happen to the poperty values, they said. He took the city to court, and lost. I believe he was planning to appeal the decision, last I heard.

So are they saying that if everybody did it, it would be OK? Who would be the arbiter of good taste, anyway? A lot of folks enjoyed watching Weird Homes on what is now slice. But how many of these self-same people would react negatively if most of the folks featured on the show, the ones who dared to carry their art outside, moved in next door to their Plateau triplex? It all sounds great, until somebody tries it, and the collective Big Brother raises its ugly head, sending in the taste police. So we have a beige and grey city. Blech.

(602)

writing prompt: i knew there was a reason why i hate snow

I haven't loved snow for years. Since I was about eleven, actually. I will always remember one particular Christmas Eve. Pretty much since I outgrew Santa Claus, family tradition had it that we got together at our house on Christmas Eve, went to midnight mass (except for my father, who had a nap on the couch in the meantime), came back to enjoy my mom's and my aunt's great cooking, and unwrapped our presents at two or so in the morning before heading to bed. Even though we were at home, and our guests were my mother's sister and her husband and two kids, we all dressed up for the occasion. Nice dresses, nylons, dressy shoes - the works.

So this particular year, my mother, my aunt, my two cousins and I crammed ourselves into our sky blue Toyota Corolla and headed out to church, about a mile away. The evening was grey and heavy, but not too chilly. We attended midnight mass and skittered out of church an hour later, anxious to get home and start the festivities. I use the term skittered since that's pretty much what we all did the second we set foot onto the front steps. The freezing rain probably began to fall the second we were all inside, for by the time we emerged, it had already stopped, leaving the entire town coated in a thin sheet of ice.

I should mention that my home town has a hill at one end and a dip in the middle. My mother was always a skittish driver, but this was simply beyond her abilities. We tried one road; fortunately, we were completely alone when he failed to make it up the hill and proceeded to slowly skid back down to our starting point. We tried another. This time, it was my mother who backed off, convinced that we would be unable to control the car's descent and that we were doomed to smash into the old train overpass if we tried. She parked the car back in the church parking lot and declared that we were going to have to walk home. In our dresses, nylons and dress shoes.

We slipped and slid along as best we could, until we got to the parking lot right in the hill where the train passes overhead. At this point, I had begun to understand my mother's fear; I wasn't sure I would be able to make it down that short stretch of sidewalk without doing a faceplant. So much so, in fact, that I pulled my winter jacket as low as it would go under my bottom, and simply slid down the hill without the benefit of a Crazy Carpet. It ruined my nylons, but I was otherwise intact. My mother and aunt had a go at it standing up; if memory serves me correctly, one finished on her derrière as myself, the other had at least a hand on the ground, and may have completed the maneuver facing backwards. The boys instead opted for crossing the street and tramping down the low snowbank that had accumulated there on previous nights. Other than the incline on the other side of this dip, the rest of the trip was uneventful, other than the fact that by the time we got home, our fingers were numb from grabbing any railing, post or icy surface we could to stay upright.

My father had a bemused look on his face when he saw us walk in, and asked us what had taken us so long with a smirk. Nonetheless, the fire in the fireplace may have been the cosiest I've ever experienced, and the rest of that particular Christmas went off as planned, without a hitch.

So what does this have to do with snow? Well, not much at first glance. But it marks the start of my not appreciating winter as a whole. I could also relate the times I tried skiing, or snowboarding, or the time my mother broke her wrist when I tried to teach her to skate. Let's just leave it at "I'm not made for winter climes." If I could hibernate, I would. If I could have a beach house in the Caribbean, I would.

Tonight, my plans have gone awry; I'm waiting for the tow truck to come pull my car out from its forty degree angle in the snowy ditch (although, now that I look at it, it's not a ditch, it's simply the other side of the snowbank.) And as I stand here by the side of the deserted road, I remember: I knew there was a reason why I hate snow.

(777)

ooh, ooh, ooh...groovy new word prompts!

On one of the NaNo forums, someone posted a link to oneword.com, a site that gives readers exactly one minute to write about the word that pops up at the top of the screen. OK, so I'm hijacking it for my own purposes and will post my text here instead. Here goes:

WORD: gentle

More than anything, he enjoyed her touch. There was something about how she approached him, and stroked his skin, so tender, so gentle. No words could convey the same emotion, the same depth of connection and commitment than a simple stroke of her fingertips. He loved her, and she loved him - that much was apparent from the tips of her fingers.

Hey, that was fun! Let's do another!

WORD: satellite

She couldn't remember what it was like before he came into her life. She had felt hopelessly adrift in a sea of despair. He was her rock, her anchor; he was her everything. In fact, her existence, which had been so lonely before, had found its meaning in being a part of his. He was earth, and she was his satellite, in constant elliptical orbit.

Nifty!

(191)

I really should post a warning, so...WARNING

This is the week before the start of NaNoWriMo. My goal is to increase my daily word count to reach a level equivalent to what I'll be writing for the next month.

Therefore, I would like to suggest that anything I have written since, oh, last week or so, and anything I write from now until, well, December 1st, is liable to make very little sense, since it is full-on freewriting with only one aim in mind, that of upping my word count. Therefore, please forgive any horrid grammatical, spelling and syntaxic aberrations that may pop up every other line. It's quantity over quality time.

Don't worry, it'll be over before you know it, and hopefully, I'll have if not a novel, then at least 50,000 words of a novel under my belt. Maybe I'll even share - if you're nice.

(141)

Cassandra

She shut down her computer, its fading lights reminiscent of her dimming interest in her career, or at the very least, her part in this particular corporation's future. She pushed away from her desk, swung her faux leather executive chair to face the twenty-fourth floor windows of her corner office, and looked out on the city that her company virtually owned. Try as she might, she just couldn't be bothered.

Perhaps it was the time; it was late, and she felt the tiredness creep into her bones. But no, that wasn't it. No amount of sleep, save perhaps a quick and merciful death, could refresh her outlook on things. She had slowly slid down the slope of cynicism, and there was no escape. She wondered where her youthful, idealistic self had gone, and why it had been replaced by this drone with an infallible sense of futility. She hated being cynical; she hated it even more when people indubitably proved her right.

Enough was enough.

For a moment, she cursed the fact that skyscrapers weren't built with windows that opened. Not that she would throw herself to the sidewalk far far below; that had never been her scene, and she doubted any amount of corporate indoctrination could push her to such insanities. On the other hand, she would have greatly enjoyed just dangling her feet over the ledge and feeling the breeze at this altitude. She immediately thought of the 911 calls and the cries of "Jump!" barely reaching her from below that such odd behaviour would undoubtedly provoke.

She swiveled back to her desk and pulled out an old, chewed-up #2 pencil from her desk drawer. Ripping a page from her legal pad, she began to write in long slanted strokes. She poured her emotions onto the page, explaining in great eloquent passages why she could no longer keep her position as Vice President of Human Relations for the world's third largest computer chip manufacturer. Most of it had to do with the fact there were no human relations to be experienced anywhere within said firm. Once the sheet was fully covered in blue ink, she rose, crossed the hallway with the page tightly clenched in her left hand, and gently inserted it into the shredder in the copy room. It made a satisfying crunch as it annihilated her seventy-second resignation letter. She shut the lights, closed her office door, locked it to ensure the safety of the crucial human relations secrets of the third largest computer chip manufacturer, and headed for home, where at least, a small gray cat awaited and cared.

(434)

writing prompt: who am i?

I am god, or rather, goddess. I cause the sun to rise and to set, and to return the next morning. I threw the moon in its orbit, and I sprinkled the stars, some would say at random, but I know better. I know all. I am magnetic north that points the way, in some ways, I am the way. I am the waves of amniotic fluid that gives life, I am the raging waves that destroy without even slowing. I am the wind that picks up dust and molds it into man, I am the knife that cuts out a rib to make him woman as companion. I am the earth they all walk on, this world and all others, for I hung them in the sky. I am father time and mother nature, the background and the pacing depend on me. I am. I create. I destroy. I begin anew. I am the writer.

(156)

the Glama-Haas

I'm sorry, that was the funniest thing the WWE has come up with this year. Sadly, it may also be his best interpretation. I'm not sure whether that's worse for Haas or Phoenix.

So I guess that at a time when the wrestling itself is having a hard time, with a number of big names on the sidelines, and a few feuds that aren't connecting the way they should, I will be nice and mention that their humour has gotten back on track lately.

(So far, second place goes to Miz/Morrison for "Are you fifty? No, I said, are you fifty?" Third is probably some Santino quip - you've got plenty of choice.)

While I'm at it, the Jesse & Festus + mariachis + Maria storming by Carlito & Primo is worthy of mention. It kinda brought me back to the days of the Rock and Shaun Staziak. Oh, and one last shout out: Jeff Hardy saying Morisson was as interesting to listen to as watching paint dry - then seeing him appear randomly in the background with a paintbrush, or staring at the wall. To quote Hurricane: just sayin'.

(185)

writing prompt: Yana's collection

Note: This prompt was also picked up from Blogger's just updated blog listing. I didn't manage to click on the link before it faded. I apologize to Yana and her true collection of whatevers for what I have warped them into. Here we go:


She leaned down by her bed and reached beneath it, groping in the dark for her memory box. Her knuckles brushed against the corner; she shifted slightly and gently pulled her treasure out from its darkness. She smiled, a wide grin bordering on the giggles, and plopped back down on her plush bed. She blew on the box lid and wiped the box with her sleeve before setting it down on her pink bed covers.

She lifted the lid with great reverence, in honour of the value of the box contents. Not only did they represent her dearest possessions, but they had also been that of their previous owners. Some may have said that all of these were stolen; she would be adamant that they had been willingly given and that, once given, it would have been rude for anyone to claim them back.

One by one, she pulled them out, and her thoughts went out to the boys - her boys - and the times they had shared. She enjoyed the feeling between her fingers, the lingering warmth, the slick surfaces as she turned each over with great care. She almost dropped one when a knock at her bedroom door shattered her reverie.

"Yana, honey? Dinner will be ready soon." Ever since they had that now-infamous conversation earlier this year, her mother knew better than to try to open the door. Besides, she knew full well it would be locked. Privacy was very important to a young lady, after all.

"All right, mom. I'll be down in a minute," she answered brightly. She paused, listening to her mother's footfall fade as she walked back down the hall, before turning her attentions back to her precious secrets.

For a moment, she thought the one she held still throbbed. For her, of course. Before packing them back away, she pulled them out and lined them up in succession on the edge of her bed. In her haste, she forgot to lay out a towel - oh well, she could always throw everything into the laundry after dinner. It always did please her mom to see her do chores unprompted, too.

Eight little hearts, all in a row. Many a teenaged girl aspires to amass so many, but most draw the line at a virtual collection. Yana was not your run-of-the-mill girl, however. Hearts that were declared hers could never, would never, be pledged to anyone else, ever. Yana made sure of that. She hummed to herself as she packed up her bounty and returned it to its shadows. She almost skipped down the hall to dinner; admiring her collection never failed to lift her spirits.

(444)

10-minute word war

With a sigh, she finished the last page of her favourite novel, with its dog-eared cover and curled pages. That may have been the last thing she could actually savour in this life. A corny B-series vampire novel by a virtually unknown author, who had died of a heroin overdose in a strip motel somewhere off highway six on the outskirts of Orlando. Her favourite book, and its brilliant characters, seemed just as doomed as she. It was time; she had decided this a long time ago, but she wanted everything to be just right. And tonight, it would be.

She picked up her great-grandmother’s inky wool shawl and draped it across her shoulders. There was a chill in the crisp October air, and she sure as heck wasn’t going to spend her last minutes shivering. She gave her bedroom one long, last look. Everything she wanted immediately read was on clear display, and everything else was set in its perfectly orchestrated layout. Stage one was perfect. On to the next step.

Just around the corner from her room, the master bath. She had convinced her parents/boyfriend in a tremendously odd request to have everything tiled in glossy while three inch squares. Oh, and a roman bathtub with lion’s paw feet. Somehow, this was how she pictured it and this was how it was going to be.

She glanced in the mirror; her freshly-set ebony hair reflected the harsh halogen spotlights in the ceiling. She wasn’t sure whether by the time they’d find her, she would have slipped into the water and ruined the effect, but on the odd chance that she would still be in position, she set her long curls with her mother’s hot rollers. How quaint, how old-fashioned, how vampire pinup.

Slowly, she began to disrobe, again paying so close attention to where every item was to be lain. Her clothes per se weren’t of tremendous importance, they just served to enhance the setup. She did, however, pull own her lavender satin robe and her best lingerie. Once she had set these last pieces on the chair by the bath, she started the water, as hot as she could bear it. At the moment she entered the water, she thought it would redden her skin, and she frowned. She consoled herself in that she wouldn’t be found for hours, so her usual pallor would have time to return. She sank deep into the tub, taking care not to wet her hair. With a rapid flick of the wrist, she slit her wrists and laid back with her arms overhanging the tub’s edge. Her blood flowed freely, seeping into the grout of her perfectly tiled room.

It was a successful escape; she was found the next morning, in exact accordance with her wishes.

(465)

goal before bed

In honor of what NaNoWriMo is likely to be, I figured I would find a way to reach my goal of 50K by the end, not of the week, but of this weekend. At the same time, I wanted to write at least those 1,667 words on both weekend days. So here I am, 2,090 words later, just 110 words or so short of the finish line I had drawn in my head. The same one I figured I would never reach this weekend; lo and behold, there it is, just a few lines away. So while I Want to Work for Diddy plays in the background (am I the only one who is amazed that that plus-size African-American lady made it so far ? I remember coming across the show in the first week or so, and thinking there was no way in heck she would survive. Yet there she was, in the final four! But I gotta admit, her dismissal was a glorious bit of karma. But I digress.), I keep rambling away to make sure that my fingers reach over that invisible line in my mind.

Done. Time for bed.

(194)

writing prompt: white

The frozen expanse extends in every direction as far as the eye can see. Any motion, any word will mar than even smoothness, speech rippling across the field like a harsh winter North wind, footsteps dimpling like the pockmarked scars of an acne-ridden teenager.

Yet if I stand very very still and hold my breath, it is my very existence that is put into peril. In fact, we are in a life-or-death struggle. Any gesture or speech on my part is directly reflected like an attack on my enemy, the white sheet.

So to be the victor, I must make my adversary bleed. In this case, the puddles that gather across the white expanse are ink - sometimes regal blue, sometimes China black, and yet other times, when I'm feeling particularly ditzy, a snide attack of glitter gel in multicolour hues.

It was once said that the white page is God's way of showing us what it was like to be him. I think that's a highly interesting point of view, simply because it accurately reflects the infinite possibilities that lay ahead. A blank sheet can remain as is, can bear a single, microscopic dot, a line, a drawing, a sketch, a word, a sentence, a slogan, a paragraph, a story, a picture, in short, anything the mind can conceive.

The question becomes not what can I do with this, it is rather where should I go from here? Of the myriad possibilities, which one do I choose? Where is the path, not the only path, but the one I select, thee one to get to well, wherever. Is that the correct way to select the path, by first determining where the destination is? Or is the path itself worthy of judgment?

In the end, I don't believe the destination should be the focus; then again, neither should the path. I believe that the motion itself is what counts. The resulting words on the page, or the drawing, or the story or grocery list or whatever, are merely the aftereffect of what's important. It's the crysalid that the butterfly leaves behind, but it is not the butterfly itself. The butterfly has long flown, the moment is past, and the experience has been taken in. Well, at least hopefully, I was paying attention while it was happening, and I wasn't too too focused on where I was putting my feet.

(401)

All Hallows' Eve

I love Halloween. Always have. Hell, it’s the celtic New Year, the day when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, and the one day when normally functional adults are allowed to go hog wild and dress up as their weirdest, wildest fantasies. Not to mention all the glorious candy.

So today, Pat and I went shopping for Halloween costumes. Pat had seen this gloriously awful old-school chicken outfit in the shop window; we pulled it off the beat-up mannequin, he tried it on and voilà! One down.

There are approximately nine rows of women’s costumes on hooks, and of the maybe 300 costumes, only a fistful were available in my size. After trying on a few, I realized it was for the most part absolutely hopeless. They were almost all variations on the ragged dress – a post-fight little red riding hood (with huge slashes across the chest so my boobs were falling out all over), a little miss muffet covered in spiders (essentially the same costume but in shades of blue with awful arachnids on both boobs), a pirate wench (same costume, this time in brown), and I turned up my nose at Supergirl and Batgirl in really icky vinyl. Which in retrospect is a good thing, since Jillian was wearing said Batgirl costume in the Diva’s costume contest.

So which ones did I like? Well, there was a groovy queen of spades (largest size medium), a Ms. Freddy Krueger (largest size medium), a Renaissance harlot (largest size medium), and actually a couple of men’s costumes that could be retrofitted to someone with more curves. Where does that leave me? Well, I still have a few days to see whether one of the costumes I liked are available in my size in other stores. Otherwise, I’ll have to fall back on the two ideas I had during that brief moment when people at work suggested we should dress up. (Of course, everyone has long since choked. Wusses all, I say.)

I won’t reveal my ideas, since I may yet put one into effect: let’s just say one is a character from one of the year’s coolest games, and blissfully retro to another period in my life, while the second is the main character of a classic film, and the look mostly depends on judicious application of makeup. Both are a tad on the obscure side, but that’s ok. Although, really, in Quebec, other than in the West Island, who has heard of little miss muffet? Stay tuned.

(423)

on differences

Cyber Sunday was never my favourite PPV, and this year, somehow, it's gotten worse.

Was it the fact that voting was restricted to the US audience and that it was a paid system? Was it the Big Show telling Kozlov he'd never get in because he wasn't American? Was it because the Big Show was right?

For a company that prides itself on criss-crossing the world and being watched across the planet, for a company that in an acknowledgement of its international appeal changed its audience program from WWE Nation to WWE Universe, where on earth does this restrictive, America-centric navel-gazing fit in?

Yes, once upon a time, USA chants had their place. But, really, in 2008? Actually, it goes back further than that, back when Chris Benoit was announced as being from Atlanta, because he was a babyface, but Edge has always been, and probably always will be from Toronto. (Then again, if you want to keep Benoit, have him. But I want Jericho back. He is a heel, isn't he?)

Sometimes I think I just don't understand this longing for division, for independence, for being standalone. Oh look, we're different, and I'm better. Hm. Right. So really, can't we just all get along?

(205)

one week to go

And I'm still a little over 2,000 words shy of my target, which was to reach 50,000 on my blog before NaNoWriMo rolled around. That shouldn't pose a problem for this week, considering I haven't been counting some of my other posts, such as PPV predictions and the posts I've logged onto the NaNo forums. Am I making excuses again?

Then again, the evening is still young, and I'm nowhere near tired yet, so there is yet a smidgen of hope. No, I jest, I won't wrack myself in the next hour or so. So you think you can dance is on.

I'm a really, really awful procrastinator. Even when I'm fully aware I'm engaging in it, I refuse to pull away. It's always a choice, I gather...why must instant gratification be so gosh darned gratifying? I guess that's something else I've learned: to do NaNo with any degree of success, flip the laptop Internet switch off until the word count is attained. There. I said it. Whether I actually do it next week is, or at least may be, a whole nother story.

(184)

post cyber sunday analysis

OK, I was really out in left field with some of my picks.

First off, Mickie James as Lara Croft wins? Why do I suddenly doubt the integrity of these surveys? Am I too cynical to think being Cena's off-again, on-again has its advantages? Or is the WWE Universe really made up of aging geeks?

Glad to see Rey pick up the win, but it made for a face-heavy PPV.

Obviously, I haven't been paying enough attention to the online war of words between Miz/Morrison and Cryme Tyme. So be it, it was OK.

Santino: but, but, wait...wait...how come no one got smashed with the GUITAR??? And really, once you know that the Honky Tonk Man is Jerry the King Lawler's cousin, you can't help but notice how much they look alike!

Considering I haven't been watching ECW, I give myself part marks for that match: who knew Evan Bourne was so big these days? Very interesting match.

Nailed the Undertaker match, and the Trips one (my money is still on Hardy for the Rumble.)

And wow, I was so wrong, there I was thinking we weren't anywhere done with Jericho! Sincere congrats to Batista, for my totally favourite upset of the night. Yay Dave! And it's so nice to see Stone Cold in such great shape. *waves* *throws beer*

cyber sunday picks

According to my local PPV provider, Cyber Sunday starts in 5:34 as I type this, so here we go, quickly:

WWE Diva Halloween contest: don't get me started on Halloween costumes, please. It doesn't really matter anyhow.

Pick the tag teams: Gee, I guess I haven't been paying much attention, since I hadn't even noticed this match. Punk and Kingston vs. Team Priceless. Champions retain thanks to dubious tactics.

Santino vs. old-timer: Probably Piper, but any of the three will be ridiculous. The Honk-O-Meter will not die.

ECW CHampionship: Matt Hardy pulls off the upset over Finlay. Although Evan Bourne would make for a great match.

Kane vs. Mysterio: No holds barred, Kane with the win.

Jericho retains against all odds against Batista, with Stone Cold reffing.

Undertaker over Big Show in a Last Man Standing.

HHH over Jeff Hardy.

It's on.

writing prompt: take a walk

The sound of his footfall was muffled; the wind had picked up, and a storm was coming in. His strides were long and regular, like a heatbeat, or a metronome. The brewing storm was a better reflection of his inner turmoil than the clear spring day it had been when he first set out. Whenever he got upset, or needed to figure things out, he would go for a walk. The fresh air and the mere motion of his body somehow invigorated his senses and made sense of situations that sometimes appeared completely devoid of sense. On he walked, up the hill and past the Joneses, then down again into the valley.

What exactly had gotten him going this time was a matter for debate; while his brother may claim that he had said absolutely nothing to make his elder upset, the fact of the matter was it was fairly obvious from his tightly pursed lips and his ebony glare that he had in fact been provoked in some way.

Off he went, past the Smiths' and the Allens' and the Greenes', never taking his eyes off the edge of the road. He'd been an angry child; it had been his mother who suggested he take a walk to clear his mind, rather than punching the other boys in the schoolyard. He had taken her advice to heart, and had in fact never been in a physical confrontation since. Whatever his mind processed during that time, it seemed to work, although it did make him a fairly taciturn young man.

Past the church and the town square, past the school he once attended, past the other Joneses (unrelated to the first family.) The wind was biting now, and as he walked, he dug his hands in his pockets. He gave no thought to turning around; it appeared he wasn't at least half-through working out today's demon.

He reached the old Simpson farm and passed by without so much as a glance. A few years back, he would have walked the distance just to see Victoria's smile. But those days were long gone. In the pasture, a palomino horse whipped its tail and took off at a canter, attempting to escape the impending downpour. Of the two, he seemed to be the only one aware of his surroundings. The young man pressed on, oblivious.

Not even the first few raindrops shook him from his ambulatory stupor. But soon, the rain fell in great sheets that lashed at his cheeks. That finally pulled him from his reverie. He had been walking for six hours; he was caught in a storm, night had fallen, and his problem still weighed heavily on his heart. He pulled up the collar on his coat, and walked on.

(462)

writing prompt: his brother Charles married soon after

This prompt was actually the title of a blog that was just updated on blogger. Unfortunately, it lead to a scam non-blog. On the other hand, I thought it made for a cool writing prompt, so here we go.

Albert, the eldest son, had already been married for a few years when the war broke out. Charles had been steadily seeing Marie, the mayor's daughter, for several months. He had been happy as a budding businessman in the small town of Oakville. Until he got the news, that is. He opened the letter with the news he'd been dreading at the kitchen table in his parents' home. He'd been drafted. That precipitated things. With the mayor's blessing, Charles married soon after, pledging his undying love to beautiful Marie. He left for the front lines only weeks later. He would never return, leaving Marie a grieving 19 year-old widow heavy with child. Marie herself would perish in childbirth, leaving young Charles James to be adopted by Albert and his wife Edith.

So much tragedy had befallen the family over such a short period of time. But with the country at war, they were only one of the hundreds of families who'd befallen similar fates. Widows, orphans, men who'd returned so changed as to be strangers to their loved ones, abject poverty, pangs of hunger - so many sorrows. Yet they soldiered on, convinced by their governmental leaders that these sacrifices were worthwhile, that liberty and life itself was at stake. They believed, and they suffered.

With Albert head of both a rapidly growing company and a large household, Charles a ghostly victim of the horrors of war, and Emily set to marry a wealthy neighbor, which would ensure the entire family's security, only Harold was left to ponder his uncertain future. A bout of polio had left him lame in the left leg, so the army wanted nothing of him. Such rejection had been a common theme throughout young Harry's life, and if he were to reveal his deep, dark secret, he would surely be disowned by the very people who raised and cared for him when he was ill. His parents were god-fearing people, and they could never be made to understand this desire he felt. No, there was simply no way to explain to them, for them to understand, that their youngest son felt an unnatural attraction to Jeffrey, the young man who lived down the street and worked at the bank.

(415)

what i've learned so far this evening

In just over 50 minutes, I managed to write 1448 words. That's not quite the required daily 1667 words to achieve NaNo status by the end of November, but it comes close. Mind you, I'm still writing. If I can throw things down like I have on the various topics I picked up along the way, I might just be OK. So I really should get back to making sure I have a good solid outline; that way, when I do get started, I'll have plenty of word prompts to keep me chugging towards that goal.

On the other hand, I've also realized that I write much slower in French than I do in English. Is that coincidence? Is it related to the fact I translate into English far faster than I do into French? Is it because the two English texts were writing prompts, while the French one was more of a short op-ed piece? Who knows. I'll have to look at it more closely, but for now, let's just say I am content to be writing my novel in English. With quite a bit of Spanish thrown in for show (not that I have much of a choice, but I hear that adding a glossary is a wonderful way of boosting word count. Yay!) and the mandatory touch of exoticism. Olé!

(224)

NB: There - now I've reached 1672 words.

une fille dans les buts du Canadien

début: 23h40 pm

Voilà le titre d'un article publié sur le site de lcn.canoe.ca cette semaine. Alors que Corey Price, gardien #1 du Canadien de Montréal était affublé d'une grippe, l'équipe d'entraîneurs ont choisi de faire appel à Kim St-Pierre, gardienne des Stars de Montréal et de l'équipe féminine canadienne, le temps d'une pratique. Je ne m'y connais pas beaucoup en pratiques au niveau professionnel, mais il paraîtrait que ça va mieux avec deux gardiens. Bon. Parfait.

Pourquoi est-ce que le titre de l'article me dérange tellement? J'utilise moi-même le terme "fille" assez souvent pour décrire à peu près n'importe qui du sexe féminin de mon âge ou plus jeune (ok, je refuse de vieillir, mais ça, c'est un sujet pour une autre fois). Cependant, à le lire ou l'entendre dans la voix d'un commentateur sportif, ce n'est pas ce "fille"-là que j'entends. C'est celui comme dans la phrase "tu lances comme une fille" ou encore mieux "tu cours comme une fille". Ce n'est pas une question d'âge, c'est une question de "pôvre petite, faut ben lui laisser une chance". Pourtant, je suis sûre que les Carbonneau et Melançon qui l'ont appelé en renfort ne la percevaient pas comme ça. Le reporter non plus, peut-être. D'un autre côté, remplacez "fille" par "noir" ou "extra-terrestre" et vous comprendrez peut-être mieux l'effet que j'y vois.

Pourquoi ne pas simplement avoir mis son nom. Ce n'est pas comme si la fille s'appelait Claude, et que ça aurait pu porter à confusion. Kim St-Pierre, c'est juste quatre lettres de plus, c'est pas assez pour bousiller un titre. Au pire, une femme. Mais une fille, ça sent le mon oncle qui tapote la tête de sa petite nièce à Noël. J'aime pas.

Fin: 23h49

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writing prompt: why are you crying?

Start time: 11:17 pm

I had been waiting for this day for a year, almost exactly to the day. In a closer timeframe, I had been in a virtual tizzy ever since Scott confirmed that he could work on my back tattoo on Sunday, around 11 am or noon. It had meant I had to stand up an old friend for a brunch date, but so be it: it was a small price to pay.

I got there and we started talking about selection, layout and such; after a brief fling with tracing paper and masking tape, we agreed upon placement and we were set to begin. My adrenaline was already coursing through my veins, and it was about to get worse. I settled into the chair as Scott revved up his machine, in sync with the music wafting through the convention hall. As soon as he touched my back, I remembered. What it really felt like to get a tattoo. A lot of people will tell you it's not big deal, depending on placement. As for me, I handle short-term pain, like getting a piercing, really well. It's as though by the time my mind wakes to what is going on, I can consciously say, "It's OK, it's over", and my body settles down again. Tattoo is different; I knew I was in for approximately three hours. It hurt. Most of the time, it felt like someone scraping insistently back and forth with the corner of a razor blade. OK, so it's a set of closely packed needles - same difference. Actually, what I really can't stand is the outlining, with the finer needles. That sends my adrenaline through the roof, as my body tries to compensate for the overload of sensory information it is receiving.

Unfortunately, I have a really weird reaction to adrenaline overload: I want to cry. There is absolutely no emotion behind it - my body has this really weird instinct to want to sob. Big heaving sobs, the likes of which I haven't emitted in public in well over three decades, I would assume. I really can't explain what it is, but I realized it was the adrenaline when the first two times I ever did speed, I had the exact same reaction. A good three-minute bout of bawling set me right back on my feet. So at the first break, after two birds it was, I believe, I went into the hall washroom, locked myself in one of the stalls, and as silently as I could, let my body's natural reaction take over.

I hiccupped and wiped my reddened eyes, trying to keep the wailing to a minimum. After about the aforementioned three minutes, I pulled myself together and headed out to the mirrors, which this convention hall is so abundantly blessed with, and began to admire my back. As soon as I did so, another lady, dressed in the finest pinup regalia, turned to me and asked whether I was OK. Oh gosh, someone had heard me. I'd managed to ebb the flow of tears, but I wasn't sure I was back to speaking level yet. "Why are you crying? Is it because it hurts?" she asked gently.

"Not even," I replied. "It's the adrenaline that makes me cry." That last bit came out as a sob again. Oh no, how embarassing. "I really can't explain."

She smiled at me, as she continued to wash the red grapes she had brought in one of the sinks. I'm sure she must have thought I was certifiably insane, but she didn't let on. I begged a handful of grapes off her and managed a pretty put-together smile. I thanked her for caring, but mentioned I should be getting back to my tattoo artist. She smiled back and we parted ways.

I lasted the next two hours in more or less reasonable shape, although I think I seriously caught Scott off-guard when he saw tears streaming down my cheeks. At least I wasn't racked with sobs, so he could keep working. By the end of the day, my ravens had taken flight, I was out my tattoo budget, and I was entirely content. See you next year, Scott.

End time: 11:35 pm

(701)

writing prompt: make a wish

Start 11:05 pm

There's nothing quite like those three little words to bring out the best, and sometimes, the worst in people. Somehow, we all want to believe in the magic of blowing out birthday candles, or breaking a wishbone, or the zillion other little suprestitions that otherwise normal, rational people succomb to. When I'm in that situation, part of me is always amazed that I'm not being more cynical about it, and that I lapse wholeheartedly back into child-like mode, quickly scanning my mind for what the best possible wish could be. That's the bit I consider the worse in people: I get so greedy when I'm about to make a wish, as if this silly gesture was truly going to be physically rewarding.

A few years ago, I would have told you that the only wish I made was for Lita to come home. God, how I miss that little dog. But no, I actually wouldn't have told you, since that may be the single cardinal rule of wishes - if you tell, it won't happen. I could never quite figure that out. How else is it supposed to work? I mean, the well-meaning people around you just may have the power to see your wish realized, but if you won't ever divulge what it is, how should anyone ever know?

I also wonder about the association between wishes, wish rituals, and prayer. What exactly is the difference between the two, if only that the first is pagan at best and merely superstitious at worst? Does the fact you are addressing a wish to some unknown power-that-be make it stronger, or more likely to be effective? Yet studies have looked at whether the power of prayer does actually exist, even in cases where people, believers and non-believers alike, don't know that they're being prayed for. Gosh, there's just so mych about the minute workings of the universe that we still don't have a clue about. And probably never will.

The good side of wishes? Well, those that are expressed, and that people rush to grant. Like the Make-a-Wish foundation; what a brilliant idea. Can't say that if I were in the position of being the wish granter, like a number of celebrities often are, I would be able to follow through. Man, that takes a certain level of simultaneous involvement and detachment I'm not sure I could bear. I mean, I wholly understand that it is a small price to pay to make a child happy, but the accumulation of such memories must be something else. It's a little reminiscent of the Green Mile; you gotta take ona little of the other's illness and find a way to carry on.

End time: 11:15 pm.

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writing prompt: the empty glass (bis)

There. It was over. She shut the door behind her, leaving the world outside to fend for itself while she took a minute to breathe. Ever since the accident, she’d been running herself ragged, trying to hold the family together and consoling distant relatives who suddenly felt afflicted by the loss of a man who, just a few weeks ago, was barely worthy of receiving their Xmas family newsletter. Her head swam. She leaned her forehead against the cool door and pulled off the multicolored scarf he’d given her. Her coat was too dark, too dreary, too corporate for who she was, he’d said; he’d given her a toque, scarf and mittens set that he thought better reflected the woman he’d fallen in love with. She’d initially balked at the mittens, that is, until retaliation called for a well-packed and expertly-thrown snowball; that had finally convinced her, and she’d worn them ever since.

She kicked off her boots like a cranky child: her swollen belly drastically affected her mobility, and she preferred a messy foyer to walking to the sofa and having to mop up the slushy puddles she would invariably trail in. Tonight, especially tonight, everything could wait. The only one who’d mattered was gone. She dimmed the lights and waddled to what was now her bedroom. She reached for the doorknob and paused for an instant as yet another memory of a now-distant past flashed across her mind. She pushed open the door and absently flicked on the lights.

On his night stand, or rather, on the night stand that stood on what had once been his side of the bed, a water glass glimmered in the soft light. She sighed. How often they’d had hat particular debate. When they’d first met, she’d boldly declared that she could never date a “glass is half-empty” kind of guy for very long, that it could never last. Yet it was that exact complementarity that brought them together, hr cheery outlook brightening his biting cynicism. Sometimes, they’d continue to argue until one of them drifted off to sleep; “it’s half-full,” she’d whisper dreamily. On their last night together, she’d let him win – the glass was half-empty.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared hard at the night stand, blinking rapidly. He had set his lips to that glass. She leaned over and picked it up, bringing it close to her as though cradling a steaming mug of hot cocoa on a frigid morning. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to pick up the lingering scent of his cologne that still clung to everything he’d touched. With reverence, she brought the glass to her lips; it trembled in her unsteady grasp as she lifted it. Slowly, she let the still water wash over her tongue and down her throat. She pulled the glass away and held it at arm’s length. This time, the glass was completely empty, and it would never be full again. At this realization, she hurled it against the wall and watched it splinter into thousands of shards that rained onto the carpet. She flung herself back across the bed and wailed.

(531)

writing prompt: the empty glass

He sat, protectively hunched over his glass, at the far end of the bar, in the shadows, away from the flashing lights of the under-crowded dance floor, its under-whelming and under-dressed dancers. He turned his back on them, keenly aware that their collective alcohol-fueled giddiness and lack of inhibition represented an unexplored galaxy in his personal universe, one which he seemingly lacked the will, the power or even the knowledge to travel to. So he did his best to ignore them; after all, you cannot miss something whose very existence you refuse to admit.

He sighed and focused on the shelves behind the bar. The mirrored wall would have reflected a painful reminder of the company he so willingly scorned, along with his own sorry portrait, had there not been shelf upon heaving shelf of stocked bottles, each one glistening in the low light, beckoning with a different poison, selling a different illusion. As a youth, he’d been partial to beer, for the sheer amount that could be purchased from unscrupulous vendors on a poor student’s shoestring budget. On the other hand, its effects paled in comparison to that of some of the bartender’s bounty – the smooth burn of whiskey, the dry sigh of gin, the nothingness of vodka.

And oblivion was precisely what he was after tonight. He peered into his glass and frowned: a lone ice cube was itself fading into nothingness. He grunted, perhaps the only attempt at communication he had made since taking up residence at the end of the bar. There was no immediate response in his vicinity. Perhaps he had reached oblivion after all, just as one attains nirvana, and there was simply no “him” left to acknowledge.

He raised his head, not bothering to brush the ebony hair from his eyes; he shifted on the barstool and peered over his shoulder. On his right, the bartender, a tall strapping fellow with an engaging smile, leaned over the counter with a knowing flirtatious smirk and whispered into a short brunette’s neck. Something fairly obscene, he presumed, since she lowered her head, covered her mouth and giggled. In better light, she probably would have blushed furiously. “Whatever happened to bros before hos,” he thought, quickly calculating that he had tipped the young man far more than the young lady could conceivably spend in an entire evening and still stand upright. Her green doe eyes sparkled. The bartender was going to leave with her, and he was out of service. On this particular night, that would not do.

He stood, steadied himself on the bar’s old-fashioned brass railing, and leaned over to pull up the first bottle absentmindedly left on the counter. Jim Beam. In other circumstances, he might have smiled. Instead, he just sat down unceremoniously, dumped the puddling ice cube onto the floor, and set about tending his own bar. He debated whether to even use a glass, but a speck of vestigial propriety piped up from deep within. He obliged, pouring himself what had to be at least a triple, the amber liquid sloshing against the smudged glass wall. “Oblivion, here I come,” he thought, bringing the glass to eye level in a silent toast, then to his lips as he threw his head back.

(542)

by the way

Disclaimer: I'm not a huge fan of Microsoft. I considered shifting to Ubuntu as an OS. I use OpenOffice for whatever documents I write for myself and will not share, or whatever will never be printed (for some obscure reason, the conversion between OO and MSO just craps up all the formatting, particularly the line and paragraph spacings. Oh well.)

Bill Gates announced the startup of his new think-tank, bgc3. It has the coolest logo I've seen in a looooooooooooooooong time. Logo of the century, so far, I would say.

I really need to settle down and develop my company's logo, web layout, etc. I can only aspire to such cleverness, on my budget, as opposed to bg's.

very very random bits

Well, I guess that puts me right in NaNoWriMo-land: typing randomly just to up my word count :) On the other hand, my "Effective Communications" professor would call this the computer equivalent of freewriting, I presume. I have to admit, it was a totally fun class, even though it implied dragging myself up MacTavish for thirteen weeks. It did get me writing, including some character descriptions of random people who caught my eye on the train. Like the fifty-something year-old drunk who got caught sipping his beer from a paper bag (I'm not sure where he was going - he seemed like such a downtown core type of hobo) and had to call his mom to come pick him up at...oh what the hell is it called, it used to be Val-Royal...whatever. Or inversely, the very upper-crust lady executive with the pearl necklace, tapping anxiously on her blackberry the entire ride from Central Station to Roxboro.

I don't really miss the train, particularly a) at rush hour b) running for it c) missing it by thirty seconds and having to wait for an hour. I will make an effort in coming weeks, though, as I must remember to make it downtown for the NaNoWriMo get-together/write-in in the Second Cup at Central Station. I keep remembering it's on Wednesdays...usually on Thursdays. Oh well.

In other news, if anyone out there was reading my canine worries from yesterday, it appears that whatever was ailing old Droz has been, uh, cleared. In the middle of the night, my boyfriend went to get him two cheeseburgers from McDonald's, which he promptly gobbled up. This evening, he partook in the (canine) family meal, returning a little later to polish off any leftovers. In orther words, he seems back to his old self. With any luck, he will have learned from his experience and not keep putting odd things in his mouth...oh, but who am I kidding? The big goof will never learn, and that's half of his charm.

In other news, I discovered OneNote this evening, after someone on the NaNo forums raved about using Google documents to organize his/her notes and outline. It also reminds me of Evernote, freeware that I picked up along the way but whose organizing functions I never quite mastered to my satisfaction. Is it procrastinating when I'm actually doing something useful? Sure, because there's a freelance contract I just haven't really gotten into. There is time yet.
Isn't there always, in the end? Well, yeah, except in November ;p

It's Cyber Sunday this weekend, and I really couldn't care less. This is the one PPV I've just never gotten into, and this year's lineup is so-so at best. The people's "choices" don't really feel like choices at all, and there is no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that I would pay for a selection that is only marginally better than "none of the above." Will I buy it? Probably, just in case Orton returns, and because Stone Cold is gonna show up. Otherwise, if recent shows are any indication, both major champs will retain, I don't care about ECW (sorry!) and the divas' costume contest or whatever? *yawn* That reminds me, I need some sleep. 'Night all.

(551)

developing a habit

Writing every day. Seems simple, but to a professional procrastinator like myself, it amounts to a far more insidious task than in originally appears.

OK, here we go with excuse number one. I've also been getting these wild bursts of crazy energy in the evenings, which I've been using to propel my NaNoWriMo outline. It also means I've rarely been getting into bed before midnight; while that seems almost meek by my old standards, it really is an hour or so later than my usual over the past year. Add a little bit of freelance work on the side and the NaNoWriMo forums, and you've got the makings of a not terribly productive, or even prolific, writer. Oh, and wars to increase our value on facebook's Friends For Sale application receive far more attention than they should. I'm beginning to think that the best way for me to reach 50,000 words come November 30 is to turn off the internet as a whole. Luckily, on my laptop, that's just a flick of the switch away.

To add to the various things floating around in my head, my best office buddy has quit, and will be leaving on Halloween. I'm surprised she's lasted this long; lord knows a number of us have been asking how she manages to cope with her boss for a while now. She has this beautiful zen-like quality I admire tremendously, but it would appear even it has run out of steam. I can only wish her the best and insist on keeping in touch. This is one of those times when you actually say those words and mean them. She's planning on taking a good break from work, and she's aware I'm doing NaNoWriMo (in fact, she may be one of the maybe three people who might get to read my novel), so we know contact will be sparse at first. I am sincere in saying that I will not let her fade away into that "yeah, we used to be close coworkers" category: I think of her as a friend, and where she works, if she works, should have no bearing whatsoever on that fact. It is only as I wrote this last paragraph that I realize her last day will be All Hallows' Eve; I wonder if she realizes the marvelous symbolism behind it all. Note to self: discuss Celtic mythology with her. The only upside I can see is that it will free up most of my lunch breaks: if I bring my laptop to work, or even just a flash key, I can eat at my desk and type with my free hand! 50,000, here I come.

So what's my excuse this evening? Don't have one really, unless you consider my eldest dog (a seven year-old pug, or should I say simply Droz from my previous post) looked really lethargic this evening, not even bothering to fight with his sons for food. So that's been on my mind for the past few hours, although now it looks like he's had some sleep and feels a little better; he lapped up kibble from my hand without being asked twice. That's my boy. Dudley pulled the same kind of stunt a few months back; I'm thinking they may have picked something up the floor that wasn't entirely edible, much to the dismay of their digestive systems. It's certainly a trait that runs in the family. We'll see what tomorrow brings, I guess.

Man, it's past midnight again, and I have to wash my hair tomorrow; although it's nowhere near as long as it once was, it's still thick enough that it takes forever to dry, and by that time, I've lost all feeling in my fingers. Off to bed, where I will probably look at the drawing I purchased as part of the Art Montreal Tattoo convention and think it could be an incredible starting point for some funky pirate story. I gotta take a picture of it (oh shoot, I still haven't taken the pictures for the Trois choses blog, for the prompt that I put up. Nice going, there, champ.) and post it here. Then I'll have to write about it. But not tonight. My dreams beckon.

(707)

fevered dreams

When I was a child, I would have a recurring dream every time I felt ill. The circumstances would always shift slightly, but the gist remained unchanged over the years.

I would be lying on the sofa or in a recliner. It was almost always at home, though. I would be so, so cold, deathly cold, chilled deep into my bones. In the other living room recliner, my father would be sitting quietly, watching TV. In a heap by his feet, a blanket, one that seemed to radiate warmth from within. All I want is to wrap myself in the blanket, but for some reason, I do not rise to get it myself. I ask my father to give it to me. I get no response. I ask again, but it's as though he can't hear me...or I'm not really there. I focus back on the sofa or recliner, and it's as though all my senses are heightened: I see everything magnified tenfold, and I am made aware of every single detail, all textures and patterns.

In the case of the sofa, it's an old chesterfield, very long - maybe even a four-seater, although that may be distortion from my childhood size talking - in burgundy. My dad's recliner was in the same thick-woven material, while the recliner I was in was a dark charcoal gray with a patchwork pattern in mostly warm colours, again with the thick weave on the chair arms. Yeah, I know, it was the seventies; I can't explain it otherwise. Opinions on said furniture were quite varied: I clearly remember my first cat, miss Lady Butch, thinking it was an absolutely lovely substrate for sharpening her claws.

Everything is in slow motion, the better for me to experience it all. But there is absolutely no sound other than my unheard requests. I'm still cold, and nobody hears me.

I always thought it was an odd dream, but its creepy underlying meaning only became apparent to me as I grew older. I think back, and I don't believe I've had that dream since hitting puberty - which coincidentally, is when I started experiencing migraines. Which leads me to two conclusions: 1) that was a really sucky trade-off, could I have the dreams back? and 2) if I'm still around then, will the dreams come back when I hit menopause, or will the migraines endure?

Incidentally, and pretty heavily off-topic, the only time I've experienced the same kind of "whoa, trippy" heightened sense, particularly of sight and touch, was after ingesting magic mushrooms. (A shocking admission, I know.) What the link between my brain working through some kind of internal electric storm and food poisoning is, I have no clue. But, from a purely observational standpoint, the healing process appears to be highly similar. Go figure.

On the other hand, while I toss and turn during a migraine episode, I seldom dream, and when I do, its shadows don't remain imprinted in my memory. I think my mind is just too busy weathering the hormonal clusterfuck to bother entertaining poor little me with pretty pictures and crazy storylines.

(523)

prompt: some like it hot

Last week, the maples that make up the last little wooded area on my home town’s territory made their last stand, their vibrant red hues blazing in defiance of shortening days and plunging temperatures. Raging against the dying of the light, it seemed. This week, their leaves have turned crisp, no longer softly rustling in the breeze; now they crackle and crunch like the chrysales of so many butterflies flown south in search of sunlight and warmth. How I wish I had wings like the geese, to lift my head and take to the skies. It’s a common wish, one I hold dear year-round, but one which intensifies every October. I can imagine their sore shoulders and their struggle to continue, lest the cold and snow catch up and trap them mercilessly with no access to food or water to fuel the next stage of their journey. But are their bodies as sore as my heart aches once the last days of Indian summer have gone? Oh, to be a bear and sleep my way through winter, waking only once the suns’ rays begin to feel warm on my skin once more. To dream of warmer days through the bleakest of Februaries.

The forecast calls for snow for many areas of the province tonight; just the thought makes me want to cry. And to those who would have me embrace the season, I will say I have tried skiing and snowboarding, and I have absolutely no sense of equilibrium on a slope. I'm much more effective on a flat surface, but ice skates give me blisters the size and colour of loonies within an hour or so (and no, it's not that they aren't laced up tightly enough - I've had them laced by a college-level athlete, with exactly the same results. It's just something about my arches, I guess.) So that leaves me with what? Cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and ice fishing? It's just not my thing. So I batten down the hatches and wait for the storm to pass, finding comfort in warm blankets and hot chocolate, and dreaming of May.

Oh. Wait. Oops, it appears that the original writing prompt had more to do with chili than with...chilly. In that sense, I must agree that spices are trips. As far as my taste buds are concerned, I'll try anything once. Call it extreme culinary sports. Although, I must admit, there comes a point where the peppers are so strong that all that remains is heat. Just like an overly bright light is completely blinding, spices can completely obliterate any surrounding flavours. That's where I draw the line, personally, not because I can handle the heat, but because there's more to the dish before me than just heat (or at least, there should be.) So put a dab of wasabi on my sushi, add some jalapenos (now, where the heck did the tilde go on my laptop?), a touch of habanero, or the smoky smoothness of chipotle peppers to my quesadilla, and mix up your smoothest curries. I'm in. (Although on second thought, my stomach also wishes to mention that a dish of butter chicken will do just fine, too, in a pinch.)

(537)

word prompt: sick puppy

I owe a sincere debt of gratitude to a sick puppy, one without whom my life would be significantly different, and I wouldn't have experienced one of the most dramatic events of my life.

Back in early September 2001, I worked at an independent pet store, one in a chain of two. The owner arranged to have a litter of eight-week pug puppies delivered half to one store and half to the other. When they finally arrived, the last one in the back of the carrier had been ill and looked really miserable. He was quickly swept away for a clean-up, then set up in his own cage to recuperate a little bit. By the end of the day, he had slept almost non-stop, and refused any canned food, which is usually a hit with the most stressed-out new arrivals. Given the non-refundable investment the puppy represented, my boss asked me to take him home for the evening to watch over him and hopefully, get him to eat a little something.

It should be mentioned that I had been pestering my boyfriend for a Boston terrier for a while, to no avail. I called ahead to let him know we would be having company for the evening, and the grumbling commenced. Since I have a cat, and my house wasn't particularly puppy-proof, I decided to set up a crate in the bathroom, which in my house is usually warm and cozy.

When I got home, I st down the crate by the door and went to the bathroom to set up a newspaper floor mat, scoop out a little moist food and pour a bowl of tepid water. I returned to the living room to find my boyfriend on the sofa, cradling the puppy on his arm as he would a baby, and cooing at it gently. OK, so the boys hit it off well. We relocated as a unit to the bathroom, where pup promptly sniffed at the moist food, shifted to the water bowl, took one lick and walked back to us. He certainly seemed more lively than he had just a few hours before, so what could it be? Out of sheer scientific curiosity, and because it was the only thing we hadn't tried, I pulled out a little bit of kibble. He watched me intently as I offered a dry morsel, and pounced the second I set it down before him. Turns out the little bugger just didn't care for moist food! After a good meal and the subsequent puppy mess, he lazily retreated to his crate, circled once or twice, and promptly fell into a deep, snory puppy sleep.

At this point, most people assume that the puppy never returned to the store, and that this is how the story of my first dog ends. Except it isn't. And in hindsight, I can't explain why on earth things unfolded as they did, considering that my boyfriend announced as pup and I headed out the door the next morning that we could have a dog, as long as it was a pug. Nonetheless, the two of us returned to the store, where pup rejoined his sibling in the front window. I remember selling him a day or so later, to a young couple who, upon learning that his birthday was June 24, named him Baptiste. His sibling having been sold a little earlier, we were out of puppies in the window. We called the other store, who had plenty to share, including two more puppies from the pug litter.

Shortly thereafter, the puppies arrived. I picked up the crate with Baptiste's sibling, and pulled out a chubby male, probably the largest of the litter. The folds of his skin shifted under my fingers, his velvety ears flopping, and he looked at me for the longest time with his chocolate eyes - feisty little dominant fellow, this one. Then he snarfed, that thing that pugs do, halfway between a sigh and a sneeze. Stick a fork in me, I was done. My manager negotiated a better price with the boss, and he came home with me. It took a little while to decide on his name; we were at Jardino's in Laval when we settled on Droz. But that's a whole 'nother story.

(721)

what's good for the goose...

...apparently, means naught for the gander.

In today's Journal de Montréal, they held a "man-on-the-street" type poll concerning Nicholas Sarkozy's comments regarding Quebec and Canada. It was unanimous: he was out of place, he should not concern himself with our internal matters, and he should concentrate on running his own country. How odd that an entire generation or two warmly embraced Général de Gaulle when he did the exact same thing, only with a separatist bent.

Tough noogies folks: either both are relevant, or neither are. You can't have it both ways. Sometimes, the blatant and unapologetic hypocrisy of my fellow human beings blows my mind.

I also read in the paper that certain scientists were beginning to think that our species is in decline, seeing as our reproduction patterns in no way represent a natural drive towards perfect adaptation. Some days, I think that's a good thing.

On other days, I know it is.

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inner democratic turmoil

Yesterday was the federal elections. I pondered long and hard about this particular vote, something I hadn't done often before. I live in a town that is fairly split along linguistic and federalist/separatist lines, with a slowly growing franco side as the city develops. However, we are but a drop in the bucket in a riding that is overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the neighbouring town. A town who has historically voted yes/Parti Québécois/Bloc Québécois. But also a town whose mayor, incidentally, was running for office as a member of the Conservative party.

Which is what got me thinking. Would their healthy support for their longtime mayor mean enough of a shift that we would be represented by a Conservative? Hmm, hard to say for someone who tends to hold her nose in the general arena that is politics. A coworker of mine was/is a diehard supporter of said mayor was convinced that victory was not only within reach, but almost a given.

So, what to do? I considered taking part in that vote-swapping facebook group, but then my unhealthy levels of cynicism wondered whether that was putting too much faith in the honesty of fellow participants. Then, I did what I thought I would never do: for a moment, and I can't even say it was a brief moment, for it took up part of election day, I considered, I mean gave serious thought, to the idea of voting for the Bloc representative. If that isn't a significant indicator of just how terrifying I find the prospect of a majority Conservative government, I don't know what is. And yet, there it was, a singular prospect for my perusal.

Then, my cynical side took a nap, and I had a moment of glorious honesty, if somewhat tinged by merciless optimism. I figured that voting negatively or preemptively was disgracing the honor and duty it was as a member of a democratic society. That, in fact, voting for the candidate whose ideals I admire and who I would truly want to see lead the country was the only honourable thing to do. So, as I crossed the lawn of a local grade school I once attended, I resolved to actually put an X next to the person who best represented my admittedly limited political views.

After having been dutifully carded by the two ladies at my polling booth (it really was like being carded at a bar. Notwithstanding the fact you just handed over a voter card and your driver's license, can you actually recite your address by heart? Really, just like old times. But I digress.), I walked to the gloriously unceremonious foldout cardboard “booth” meant to afford me some level of privacy as I performed by basic civic duty. Same old #2 pencils like you find at golf courses. My hand trembled for a second, as paranoia from the last referendum meant an X could never be quite perfectly centered or even. Nonetheless, I marked by ballot as cleanly as I could, folded it back, and proudly marched back to the two ladies at the table. Alea jacta est. The die, or in this case the vote, was cast. I could no more add or subtract from it without spoiling the ballot, which would have been for naught. Instead, my federally-allocated amount of (oh, I forget how much it is) will be allotted to the party of my choice. The elder of the two, the one with graying roots, cleanly ripped off the tear-off numbered portion of my ballot and ceremoniously removed the sheet of paper covering the ballot box slot before solemnly proclaiming I could officially deposit my ballot in the box.

After completing the ritual, I turned on my heels and walked out into the autumn air, heavy with smokers who crowded the door, even on a warm sunny afternoon. On my way home, looking up at the coroplast signs lining the streets, I wondered whether I had made the right decision. Time would tell.

Time did, in fact, tell. Early in the evening, the CBC announced that the Bloc candidate in our riding was elected. Looking at the number of polls returning, I wondered whether they hadn't gotten ahead of themselves. After all, even with an early commanding lead, did they know whether any of those results were coming from his home turf? If not, a massive groundswell of support could easily shift numbers back to the Conservatives' advantage. In the end, though, the trend was maintained and ou neighbouring mayor was soundly defeated, much to my coworker's chagrin, I would assume. I actually cheered when I saw the numbers. So mark the date of October 14, 2008 on your calendars, because such things, I hope, will not occur again. Although, if yesterday's elections are any indication, history will be repeating itself.

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no news is, well, no news

And that's not good.

The good news is I finally got a laptop, which means the last of my NaNoWriMo excuses just dried up. The wireless network is halfway working (the laptop half, that is; the desktop is being stubborn, even more stubborn than its owner, who has just about thrown her hands up in despair.)

So here are a few tidbits that got written along the way, but weren't posted due to...let's just call them my issues, shall we?

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While searching for employee engagement program suggestions online, I found a blog post that stressed the importance of action; specifically, for managers to prefer small actions over large-scale plans. The last bit essentially said, “Take a look at that to-do list and all those future plans, determine one small step you can take towards those goals, and take it.” That may just have been the key that finally sent me shopping for my laptop. It serves a dual objective: on a professional level, it is a useful tool that will help me grow my business, and on a personal level, it represents the last standing excuse I had to not try NaNoWriMo this year. It’s more than a single step, it’s a small skip. Now let’s see if I can keep up with my feet.

I will give myself a smaller target for this month, one which should (technically) pose no problem: to reach 50,000 words on my blog (the equivalent of a NaNo project) by Halloween. I’m only 10,000 or so words away; still, life has a way of throwing successful distractions my way. My other goal of any importance is to find a way to successfully hold the laptop and the cat (if not the cats) on my lap simultaneously. That hasn’t happened yet. Right now I’ve got Timmy lying down along the crease between my legs, and the laptop perched at an odd angle between my right knee and the Lazyboy arm. That will not work over the long run.

Ohh, UFC 86, Rampage vs. Forrest…highly distracting.

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Bless Tina Fey’s heart. She’s simply brilliant as Sarah Palin. Hopefully, her gig will only last for another month.

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Tomorrow is the “Pattes de l’espoir/Paws for Hope” fundraising walkathon for the Canadian Cancer Society. I think it’s a really neat event since the actual walker is your dog - you’re just along for the ride. Besides, it’s one of the rare times my dogs have ever received mail (other than the veterinarian’s Xmas card.) So tomorrow morning, I will wake up far too early for a Sunday morning, pack Dudley into the car and make my way to Bois de Belle-Rivière to enjoy the crisp autumn air with a pack of other canines and dog-owners united for a good cause.

All right, in my particular case, I support this walkathon for entirely selfish reasons. With the number of people affected by cancer slowly sliding from one out of every three to one out of two, and losing both my parents to cancer, as well as a number of aunts and uncles, in my case, I’m afraid it’s not a question of “if” I ever have to face cancer, it’ s a question of “when”. Hopefully, when that day comes, there will be some answers and some support. Until then, I walk.

Sometimes, it makes me wonder when people ooh and aah at the fact I take part in these types of activities, or that I volunteer. Um, hello? Opportunities abound; there are slews of great causes out there, and most if not all can always use the help. It’s in the paper, it’s online, it’s everywhere you take the time to look. I look at it like this: you can donate money, or you can give your time. Personally, I try to do a bit of both. But, for Pete’s sake, people, pay it forward.

Which reminds me of a new “reality game” called Akoha, which calls on people to “play it forward.” I’ve registered to be a beta tester, but it hasn’t panned out yet. Otherwise, the public launch is planned for next year. It just sounds like a fun way to do good around you, and if it raises a little awareness at the same time, all the better. I’m so looking forward to taking part!

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