Corax Calls

WM XXV pics

2009-04-05T18:50:00.002-04:00

Nine minutes until the granddaddy of 'em all...here we go:

Jericho vs. legends: This is such a waste of Jericho's talent. For balance sake, Jericho to win, only to get his comeuppance after thebell.
25-diva battle royal, "Miss WM": If Trish appears, she takes it. Otherwise, I can't see it mattering much.
MITB: Tempted to say CM Punk to repeat. It's a bit soon for Christian, I'm not seeing Kane get the recognition he deserves. Otherwise, there may be no stopping MVP.
Shawn Michaels vs. The Undertaker: 17-0. Nuff said.
Tag Team Unification Match: Miz and Morrison are it, and deservedly so. Sorry Colons.
Brother vs. Brother: Jeff comes out on top.
JBL vs. Mysterio: I'm hoping JBL retires to take back the announce position, and reuniting him with Michael Cole on SD, and fixing the divorce that never should have been, with the King and JR on Raw.
Triple Threat: Cena takes the belt, Edge and Show can fight over Vicky at Backlash.
HHH vs. Orton: I'd love to see Orton come out on top, but you can't have the perfect heel win the last match of the night. So Trips to come out on top and avenge the Macmahon clan.

No Way Out picks

2009-02-15T19:42:00.002-05:00

Sadly, for one of the smaller PPV's that I usually look forward to, this year's lineup is just underwhelming. Nonetheless, here we go:

Jack Swagger vs. Finlay: With the returning Christian in the wings, I can only imagine Swagger coming out on top for the more interesting feud. Swagger retains.

Shawn Michaels vs. JBL: Again, I can't really be bothered with this storyline. It's a weird moment for things to be coming to a head; where will that leave either of them for WMania? Unless things somehow get "postponed", HBK s bound to come out on top eventually.

Randy Orton vs. Shane McMahon: What does it say about your top heel when the owner's son can kick your ass? Orton on top, always and forever.

SD Elimination Chamber: Undertaker's streak make him being champion at WM too unlikely. Kozlov - don't get me started. Big Show - fun but not enough. Whic leaves Triple H, Edge and Hardy. I'm always nervous that they'll hand WM main event to Trips, but my gut says Edge, with Edge vs. Hardy at the show.

Raw Elimination Chamber: Even more stuffing than the SD version. This really boils down to Jericho vs. Cena. Cena to retain, against all odds, once more.

On the Rumble

2009-01-25T22:53:00.002-05:00

In some cases, my reasoning was totally off, but results-wise, I was pretty close, essentially calling everything but the rumble itself. So they take Jeff's belt away, but they give him the one thing he says he hasn't accomplished yet: fight his brother. Should be fun - god knows his fight against Edge was, if you exclude the presence of the Guerreros.

Melina has to learn not to sell the result of the match as she's approaching the ring. I know you're excited, honey, but take a valium.

Could someone please remove weed from the wellness program and re-hire RVD??!? His pop was off the charts, as it should be. It was nice to see MVP generate interest as well, and I thought Morrison, and the whole first 5 or 6 participants, were very interesting - fast-paced, bouncy...until of course, they decide to throw in the Great Khali and Vladimir Kozlov. Yawn.

For a moment, there, I was afraid that Triple H would once again overcome the odds and headline the 25th edition of Wrestlemania. Ho hum. But now, they've actually gone with the much-improved Randy Orton. Yay! Which reminds me - certain people have been ranting and raving about the young Debiase, seeing in him the next Randy Orton. I generally concur that he is Orton-esque, but there's one slight problem: we already HAVE a Randy Orton, and he ROCKS. On his own. No legacy needed.

Rumble predictions

2009-01-24T21:15:00.002-05:00

Hey, I've actually made it a whole day before the PPV...not procrastinating so much is kinda part of my cleanup resolution. It's about cleaning up my to-do lists, I guess. So here goes:

Jack Swagger vs. Matt Hardy: Hardy held the title for a good while, and Jack Swagger has been on a roll (from what I've seen - I'm still not totally on board ECW.) So I don't see anyone interrupting that push right away. Besides, having Matt "free" may come in handy in coming months, if the rumors are true. Jack Swagger retains.
John Cena vs. JBL: Yawn. Unlike many, the whole HBK storyline isn't really doing it for me. However, I refuse to admit that JBL could walk away with the belt, especially since Cena has a new movie coming out. Cena retains.
Beth Phoenix vs. Melina: Should actually be interesting. I'd love to see Melina coming out on top, perhaps with inadvertent assistance from Santino or Beth's new pet, Rosa whoever.
Jeff Hardy vs. Edge: This is almost as tough to call as the Rumble itself. I could certainly see Jeff retain against all odds and his attacker revealed. Besides, Edge is so cute when he's angry and bitter. On the other hand, said attacker may well help Edge recapture the gold (7 second pose, anyone?), and it would avoid having Jeff main event Wrestlemania, just in case...then again, there's always No Way Out. Well, if the face wins this, then a heel must win the Rumble, or vice versa. Edge to win, attacker revealed, setup for Jeff vs. Cage at No Way Out. (Or Cage wins the Rumble and Hardy retains, but I doubt it, since I can't imagine giving Cage the Wrestlemania main event on his first night back.)
Which means a face wins the Rumble. Although the Big Show could be funny, to face Edge. But it isn't Wrestlemania material. After last week's punt (nicely done, too), I can't imagine Orton's future right now. Maybe Jericho, or Triple H. I'm still seeing a major player/former champion taking it, maybe even a former winner. Dark horse is CM Punk.

200 posts: woohoo!

2009-01-20T18:58:00.003-05:00

Wow, 200 posts already. yay me! Onward to bigger, better things!

By the way, I've mentioned Freecycle a few times in previous posts - if you don't know about it, you gotta check it out. I belong to the Montreal, Laval and North Shore chapters, and they are all really active. OK, some people fail to get the point and will ask for, oh, a fully-loaded P4 laptop. Duh! But people are giving a lot of good things away, and it's a friendly, generous system. It's actually been an inspiration to keep giving, as I work my way throughout the house. Freecycle on, dudes!

other people's words

2009-01-20T18:26:00.008-05:00

As you know, my resolution for 2009 is to reclaim my house. From the clutter. From the memories of my parents (this is the house I grew up in and inherited.) For myself, and for my boyfriend. It's been a very long process, learning to let go of stuff, stuff with memories and stuff my parents bought, held, and cherished, clothes they wore and stuff they used. All over my home. And I've never been really good at expressing the conflicting feelings this stuff can bring up.

Over the holidays, I stumbled upon FlyLady, an organization-come-sisterhood to help people get, well, organized. Anyone who knows me knows my sink certainly isn't shiny yet (hell, it may be the last thing I do!), but the daily emails prompting decluttering and instilling the importance of routines to organize your time, if nothing else, have been useful.

We get bombarded by quite a few daily emails, including testimonials from other participants. The one from Monday really struck a nerve; in it, Kathryn describes lugging the sewing machine her mother bought her as a teenager as she left for college and across the country over several moves. Mind you, I've never moved in my whole life, but her words resonated:

I felt guilty -- not only because I was leaving projects undone but because, by not sewing, it felt like I was rejecting something important that my mother had shared with me. (...)

Every time I moved, I felt guilty about having it, about not using it, about abandoning my mother. (...) I de-cluttered around it, each time feeling worse when I saw it. Still, I couldn't get myself to put it in the car for Good Will. It felt like I was packing up my mother and taking her away. Never mind that my mother is still safe and happy in Wisconsin, that we now share a love of knitting, that she knows I don't sew anymore and that she's perfectly okay with that.

That's it, that's exactly it! Somehow, letting things go is a betrayal of people and their love. Now, my mother passed in 1994, so you can imagine how I've felt some of the things she describes, maybe worse, since mom wasn't around to tell me it was okay to let go (not that she would have - she was a pack rat herself.) I was stunned; I've read it several times over the past few days, and it still blows my mind how she figured me out and described it so succinctly.

I've added a list in the right hand column of things I have decluttered or given away, Freecycled or otherwise gotten rid of. (By the way, I'm aiming for 250 "items", which is a huge amount, considering a garbage bag full of clothes, or a box full of books, is one "item". I'm already behind, but that's OK.) One of those bags of clothes was part of my mother's wardrobe. Read back: she died in 1994. My father never went through her stuff before he died in 1998. I've been even worse. *sigh* But somehow, somewhere deep inside, something has clicked, and the sentimental attachment has started to fade, to slough off, to shed, like leaves in the fall. And somewhere, I've found the pleasure of giving things away that I know will be of use to someone else.

A box of mom's French books are leaving with a lady on Friday; when I spoke to her on the phone, she was just so excited at the idea of getting her hands on the three volumes of "La dynastie des Forsyte". I remember my mom reading those books, and now, someone else will get to enjoy them. And that, to quote a domestic goddess whose housekeeping and culinary skills I will never attain, is a good thing. Not to mention I get the cheap thrill of crossing out items in my OYS posts. YAY!

Edit, 30/01/09: Oddly enough, the lady and/or her daughter never showed. The box of books went to the next person who had inquired about them. She picked them up the day after I contacted her. I love it when a freecycle plan comes together.

OYS 5: the last of the French books

2009-01-18T15:52:00.005-05:00

I believe this little batch marks the last of the French books I want to dispose of, unless there are more in my parents' old bedroom, a room which I won't dare attack until I have the other rooms under better control. So here we go:

~~Mini-encyclopédie des médecines naturelles, ISBN 2-7242-2862-2~~
~~Dictionnaire des peintres flamands et hollandais~~
~~Goya: dessins, d'Anton Dietrich~~
~~Rembrandt: dessins, de Bob Haak~~
~~Le livre du chat en forme, de Terri McGinnis, ISBN 2-7107-0052-2~~
~~Les 4 as et le dragon des neiges~~
~~La grande encyclopédie de la médecine, tome 2 (ADO-ALI)~~
~~Le livre des chiens, ouvrage officiel du Cercle canadien du chenil, ISBN 2-89000-284-9~~

Note: All the French books (in this and previous posts) have been offered on Freecycle. If anyone wants them, speak up quickly!

Edit, 31/01/2009: My big box of French books was picked up by freecycler Carole this afternoon. Woohoo!

OYS 4: culling the collection

2008-12-30T23:32:00.004-05:00

As previously mentioned, I own a comic book collection that covers the early- to mid-90s fairly extensively. Today, I went through the eight filing cabinet drawers and pulled out about 350 (!) that could go. They're listed on Kijiji and craigslist, but if anyone knows anyone who might be interested, feel free to email me for a complete listing.

However, this means that the list of items for today is puny, since I spent most of the day hemming and hawing over old X-Men issues ;)

Speaking of which, I also have a number of trading card sets that can go (full sets of regular cards, no "special" cards):

Evil Ernie
Spider-Man - the Macfarlane era
Spider-Man II - 30th anniversary
Wolverine - From then 'til now II
X-Men (1991)
X-Force (1991)
Adventures in Fantasy
Boris 2
WildC.A.T.S. 93
WildC.A.T.S. 94

Other random items:

X-Men: the Movie Prequel Edition comic (Toys R Us tie-in)
Star Wars: the Phantom Menace movie program
BOOK: The Complete Candlemaker, by Norma Coney, ISBN 1-887374-42-6

As always, there's more to come.

OYS 3: the return

2008-12-30T02:28:00.004-05:00

All right, this evening I was doing other things, so this list isn't nearly as huge as I'd like or need it to be. Nonetheless, here are today's additions:

Set of dominoes
Clue game (old 60's edition)
Frustration travel game (like Trouble, with a pop bubble...missing 1 blue and 1 yellow piece)
WWF trivia game, 2nd. edition
Memory foam-type contoured pillow (like new)
~~Green Day Dookie-era black embroidered baseball cap~~
8" Double Bubble bubblegum machine
BOOK: The Glorious Pool, by Thorne Smith
BOOK: The Sizesaurus, by Stephen Strauss, ISBN 0-380-72849-4
Lot of Magic: the Gathering cards (revised through to first Ice Age) - please ask for full listing

Coming soon: more books, and the culling of a comic book collection. Then, probably more books and smaller aquariums, followed by more books.

OYS: the sequel

2008-12-28T20:18:00.006-05:00

I read something this afternoon about throwing twenty-seven things out in a bid to start decluttering a home. Now, I'm too eco-conscious to do that before at least trying to pawn things off to people. Here's another series of items for disposal:

MISCELLANEOUS

Ikea Skaplig wooden wine rack (flat), blue
Wrought-iron 10-bottle wine rack, black
Tabletop (full-sized) cassette tape recorder (works with 4 D batteries or plugged in; I don't have the adaptor)
Bialetti 4-cup stainless steel coffee maker

GAMES

Springbok Twelve Days of Christmas 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle
Springbok Miss Piggy 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle
750-piece Mordillo jigsaw puzzle
Mille Bornes card game

ADULT BOOKS - ENGLISH

The Unauthorized Anne Rice Companion, ed. by George Beahm, ISBN 0-8362-1036-0
Call of the Wild, by Jack London, ISBN 0-7705-0557-0
Memnoch the Devil, by Anne Rice, ISBN 0-679-44101-8
Moon Magick, by D. J. Conway, ISBN 1-56718-167-8
The Spiral Dance, by Starhawk, ISBN 0-06-250814-8
Stonehenge Decoded, by Gerald S. Hawkins
Twilight Hunters: Wolves, Coyotes & Foxes, by Gary Turbak, ISBN 0-87358-453-8

LIVRES POUR ADULTES - FRANÇAIS (ceux qui n'ont aucune mention ISBN sont pour la plupart, simplement trop vieux)

~~Amour secret, de Barbara Cartland~~
~~Angoissse, de Michael Halliday~~
~~À nous deux, Manhattan, de Judith Krantz, ISBN 2-7242-3412-X~~
~~Les bien-pensants, de Pierre Berton~~
~~Les chasseurs de mammouths, de Jean M. Auel, ISBN 2-7242-3068-X~~
~~Le coeur d'ivoire, de Max du Veuzit~~
~~Le combat contre les ombres, de Georges Duhamel~~
~~Comment soigner et éduquer son enfant, de Dr. Spock~~
~~Courrier Sud, d'Antoine de Saint-Exupéry~~
~~Des plaintes dans la nuit, de Delly~~
~~Le désert de Bièvres, de Georges Duhamel~~
Dictionnaire de poche latin-français
~~Le drame de l'étang-aux-biches, par Delly~~
~~La dynastie des Forsyte : Forsyte saga, de John Galsworthy~~
~~La dynastie des Forsyte : une comédie moderne, de John Galsworthy~~
~~La dynastie des Forsyte : la fin du chapitre, de John Galsworthy~~
~~L'enfant des ruines, de Max du Veuzit~~
~~L'été finit sous les tilleuls, de Kléber Haedens~~
~~Frankenstein, de Mary Shelley~~
Guide complet des travaux à l'aiguille, 0-88850-084-X
~~Les Haudry, de Andrée Vertiol~~
~~Histoire du Canada français, tome 2, de Lionel Groulx, ISBN 0-7755-0574-9~~
~~Honneur pour honneur, de Marie Stéphane~~
~~Hôpital de la montagne, de Henry Denker, ISBN 2-7242-3087-6~~
~~J'ai mal à mon travail, de Monique Soucy, ISBN 2-7619-1804-5~~
~~Le malade imaginaire, de Molière, ISBN 2-03-870107-5~~
~~Le mystère de Castel-Flore, de Catherine Phrebert~~
~~Nouvelles orientales, de Marguerite Yourcenar~~
~~Les ombres, de Delly, ISBN 2-277-11889-3~~
~~Ombres chinoises, de Simon Leys, ISBN 2-264-00868-7~~
~~La passion de Joseph Pasquier, de Georges Duhamel~~
~~Le portrait inachevé, de Magali~~
~~Pour devenir lady, de Magali~~
~~Pour une orchidée, de Magali~~
~~Princesses de science, de Colette Yver~~
~~Présumé innocent, de Scott Turow~~
~~Red Fox, de Anthony Hyde, ISBN 2-7242-3281-X~~
~~Rocambole 1 : l'héritage mystérieux, de Ponson du terrail~~
~~Le roi des Andes, de Delly~~
~~Le terrible secret de Giselda, de Barbara Cartland~~
~~Tigre blanc, de Robert Stuart Nathan, ISBN 2-226-03096-4~~
~~Un bateau part.., de Claire Maygnac~~

COLLECTION HARLEQUIN

~~no 235f : L'infirmière de service, de Lucy Agnes Hancock~~
~~no 606f : Le défi du médecin, de Marjorie Moore~~
~~no 64 : Les survivants du evada, de Janet Dailey~~
~~no 66 : La passagère de l'angoisse, d'Anne Hampson~~
~~no 87 : La magie d'un été, de Robyn Donald~~
~~no 88 : ...Et la jungle s'embrasa, de Violet Winspear~~
~~no 100 : L'anse de l'espagnol, de Sara Craven~~
~~no 109 : Alice s'éveille, de Violet Winspear~~
~~no 110 : L'innocence aux yeux clairs, de Margaret Rome~~
~~no 111 : À menteur, menteuse et demi, de Janet Dailey~~

~~no 118 : La marque de Caïn, de Janet Dailey~~

Edit, 30/01/2009: 51 booka in this post, plus the 8 books in my post of January 18, plus one more I found as I kept going through the piles, were picked up by a freecycler today. Feels so good.

ONLINE YARD SALE - 2009: the year I declutter

2008-12-28T00:46:00.010-05:00

Now that is saying something. As the packrat daughter of packrat parents, I have a house full of stuff. And it is time for it to go. So without further ado, here is the first part of what I hope will be recurring posts to list out the things I would like to get rid of.

Anything you'd like to see, or discuss, feel free! Everything is negotiable, from whatever you can afford, all the way down to free; whatever money I do make from any of this is most likely going to kiva.org (which I wholeheartedly encourage you to check out, regardless of this little virtual yard sale.)

So, here goes. I will try to categorize things as best I can, so it doesn't look quite so hopeless.

COMPUTER STUFF

Brother HL1020 laser printer w/driver CD (needs new drum)
La Cie external CD writer
Canon CanoScan FB620P flatbed scanner
Macintosh PowerBook 5300 Series - has battery but no charger - I HAVE NO IDEA WHETHER IT WORKS AT ALL

OTHER ELECTRONICS

Panasonic SL-SV570 portable CD/MP3 player

VHS TAPES

Disney's Aladdin (English version)
Disney's The Little Mermaid (English version)

ARTS & CRAFTS

Vertical loom, approximately 24" across

COLLECTIBLES

2 KFC Col. Sanders coin banks from the mid 70's - one white, one yellow

PET SUPPLIES

87 gal. Aquarium, 48"l x 18"w x 24"h - purchased as terrarium (no lid) - HAVE NO IDEA WHETHER IT HOLDS WATER
Large bucket of crushed coral gravel (bean-sized)
Aboistop citronella spray bark-deterrent collar (needs battery and new can of citronella)
ZooZone2 cage for small animals (e.g. guinea pigs, rats)

GAMES

Scene It, original edition
Monopoly, Star Wars edition
Word Yahtzee
Atmosfear, original edition

CHILDREN'S BOOKS

The Garfield Trivia Book, by Jim Davis, ISBN 0-345-33771-9
Jelly Belly, by Dennis Lee, ISBN 0-7715-9776-2
Meet the Munch Bunch, by Giles Reed, illustrated by Angela Mitson, ISBN 0-904584-76-3
The Munch Bunch Go Camping, by Giles Reed, illustrated by Angela Mitson, ISBN 0-904584-77-1
The Peanuts Trivia and Reference Book, by Monte Schulz and Jody Millward, ISBN 0-8050-0072-0
Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie, illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman, ISBN 0-684-16611-9

ADULT BOOKS - ENGLISH (this will be the largest section, so it will be broken down over several posts - please bear with me)

The Anglo Guide to Survival in Quebec, ed. by Josh Freed and Jon Kalina, ISBN 0-920792-33-2
Anglo 2: the Sequel, Mike Boone, Terry Di Monte, Bowser & Blue et al., ISBN 1-55054-008-5
Culpeper Guides: How to Grow Herbs, by Ian Thomas, ISBN 1-85471-067-2
Giles 49th Annual, by Peter Tory, ISBN 1-874507-49-X
Giles 50th Annual, by Peter Tory, ISBN 1-874507-65-1
Giles at War, by Peter Tory, ISBN 0-7472-7856-3
Giles Family, by Peter Tory, ISBN 0-7472-7881-4
Giles: a Life in Cartoons, by Peter Tory, ISBN 0-7472-7886-5
Giles 39th Series Cartoons, by Peter Tory, ISBN 0-85079-152-9
Giles 45th Series Cartoons, by Peter Tory, ISBN 0-85079-232-0
Giles 48th Series Cartoons, by Peter Tory, ISBN 1-874507-29-5
The Guinea Pig Handbook, by Sharon L. Vanderlip, ISBN 0-7641-2288-6
Instant French, by Jo Ouellet, ISBN 0-7701-0117-8
Problem-solving strategies for Writing in College and Community, by Linda Flower, ISBN 0-15-505496-1
Quaint Signs of Olde Inns, by G. J. Monson-Fitzjohn, ISBN 1-85958-028-9
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, by Stephen R. Covey, ISBN 0-671-70863-5
Wild Seasons Daybook: Alexa Karstad's Canadian Sketches, ISBN 0-458-99290-9
The Write Track: How to Succeed as a Freelance Writer in Canada, by Betty Jane Wylie, ISBN 1-55002-444-2

On Armageddon

2008-12-24T23:41:00.003-05:00

Overall, my predictions were totally shaky, but in most cases, boy was I happy to be wrong.

A few notes:

I should have figured that Kozlov's undefeated streak would not end quite yet. I wonder who'll they'll bestow the honor to. I really don't care, the man consistently fails to impress me.

I didn't think I'd be so...pardon the pun...right on the nose (I warned ya!) about CM Punk's difficulty in administering a GTS to five-foot-six Mysterio. Ouch. Still, that was one of the top matches of the year, entertaining as all get out.

I am thrilled to see Jeff Hardy win the belt, finally; then again, I gotta wonder whether the WWE isn't hedging its bets by giving it to him now, as opposed to WrestleMania. Just in case he should screw up again...I sure hope not, but now the field is waaaay-wide open for the Rumble. Unless something materializes in coming weeks, I'm seeing an already-top contender, maybe even a previous winner, taking the rumble match. Dave would be nice, but now it appears he's out with a torn hamstring. Really wishful thinking? Kennedy. There's a guy who deserves a push, if only he can stay healthy.

On a side note: the Tribute to the Troops show was down to one hour, and had all of two matches. Two. *sigh*

And lastly, man was it nice to see Trish again. Makes me realize just how much work lies ahead of our current slate of divas. Either that, or it sends me running to TNA, which I can never quite stand for very very long. Somehow, I knew Kelly Kelly would not main event, and being in Toronto, right before Xmas, they had me hoping against hope that we would see our Canadian bombshell (sorry Maryse, your official title is our Montreal sexpot.) for a one-night-only return. Besides, against Beth, it could only be good. And yummy goodness it was. She could still show Triple H how to throw a punch.

Armageddon picks

2008-12-14T19:32:00.002-05:00

Here goes:

Finlay vs. Mark Henry (Belfast Brawl): I can't imagine ever rooting for Mark Henry, or ever understanding any push he may receive in his life. Finlay, all the way.

Matt Hardy vs. Kozlov: See above. Matt Hardy.

Rey Mysterio vs CM Punk, IC Tournament: I would have picked Rey, were it not for the recent developments concerning the Tag titles. With Miz and Morrison regaining the tag belts in a most unusual manner, in a house show in nowhere, Ontario, doesn't that just pave the way to new Slammy winner Punk to regaining the IC title? I'm not sure how Rey's height will affect the administration of a GTS, though. Punk for gold.

Eight Diva match: With Michelle McCool's recent heel turn, I doubt her team will work well together. Combine that with the talent resting squarely on the official heel side, and I see Maryse the hometown girl coming out on top.

Batista vs. Orton: Orton has been gearing up since his return, and Batista's only been used to put various heels over. I don't see this trend reversing anytime soon. Orton wins. (Sorry, Dave! You know I love you anyways, right? :-) )

Edge vs. Jeff Hardy vs. HHH: Hardy is looking more and more like a Rumble shoo-in. I see Trips and Jeffro going at each other mercilessly once more, with Edge sneaking in to eke out the win.

John Cena vs. Chris Jericho: They've been building Jericho so far up lately (Superstar of the Year? Really?), it can only be to have Cena fight the good fight and conquer the not-so-big but oh-so-nasty Y2J.

On a side note, I will begin writing again, I promise. I'll even explain why I haven't been writing, and hopefully, it won't sound too much like an excuse. We'll see. But for now, there's wrestling on.

Survivor Series picks

2008-11-23T18:41:00.003-05:00

Just over an hour to go before the WWE's fall classic. So here goes with my picks for Survivor Series:

Undertaker vs. Big Show: I find Undertaker's impressive display this last Friday worrisome, since that is usually the prerogative of the PPV loser. I really can't imagine Big Show coming out on top. Then again, Undertaker has been working on nagging injuries and casket matches are usually how he gets dispatched into semi-retirement/injury leave. My heart is still with the deadman, though.

Hardy vs. HHH vs. Kozlov: Hardy came out on top on Friday, and rumor has it the whole "found unconscious in a stairwell" is a work (maybe to bring back Edge?), so either way, now is not yet his time. I can't imagine Kozlov as champ, so HHH pulls it out.

Team Batista vs. team Orton: These are tough to call. There are so many possible combinations. It would be neat to see a one-on-one final between Batista and Orton, but unlikely. It would be nice to see CM Punk outlast everybody. There could be massive infighting within the Orton team. It could be a one way massacre. Bottom line, though, this may serve to begin building momentum for Orton.

Team HBK vs. team JBL: I hate JBL. HBK has been his old funny DX self, which is always enjoyable, but Jericho was the stronger member of their feud, in my eyes. Khali is useless. Cryme Tyme? *yawn*. I'm quite fond of the rest of the heel team, however. They could pull off the upset.

Diva team Raw vs. team Smackdown: Let's line them up. Beth is tops, bar none. Each side has two solid wrestlers - Beth and Mickie on one side, Natalya and Victoria on the other. Which leaves Maryse, Maria and McCool vs. Jillian, Kelly Kelly and Candice. Maria is most useless, Maryse may be most improved with Kelly Kelly, so call that a wash, Candice and McCool are both overrated. I'll go with team Raw, just for the sake of better unity.

Jericho vs. Cena: Back in the good old days, the triumphant return of the former champion would have guaranteed a victory in a cakewalk. Here's to hoping Vince is keeping up with the times, and Cena's road back won't be quite so simple. Then again, would they really have invested all that money in make-your-mother-cry promos just to have Jericho retain? Sadly, I think not. Cena wins.

Vista voice recognition

2008-11-21T22:42:00.004-05:00

I have just bought a headset and I have been fiddling around with the voice recognition software that comes packaged with Vista. The results are , well , mixed at best . Just look at what it does To punctuation for example , like in the previous sentence . Or that capital T . For what it's worth, it doesn't care one way or the other whether I pronounce it nanoWRImo or nanoREEmo (although everyone knows it should be the former.) But it does yield some choice bits: when I first realized just how slow going this learning curve was going to be, I will admit that I had a few words for my shiny new microphone. The following is what appeared on screen:

Why is it that the machine understands what I’m saying except when I'm trying to write more words and my mother fought king novel.

That interrupted me in mid-rant. Funny as hell but not quite accurate. The bottom line is i need to put this away at least until December because my novel Seven new peace a sheet Is certainly not going to get written within the next century With this thing. Notice that others swear word In the previous sentence?

PS: Please don't judge me by the above disaster. It was dictated to my machine. Random capitalization, spacing and so on are not really my fault. I will take responsibility for swearing at inanimate objects, however.

day 18

2008-11-18T23:02:00.003-05:00

And the last week has felt like the second month of a gym membership. That initial oomph has, shall we say, left the building? But I'm plodding on; after the major skid of 0 words over four days last weekend, I've pulled back onto the road and readjusted my targets to complete 50K by the 23, i.e. before Survivor Series starts.

To continue with my gym analogy, I used to use those programmable bikes that had a screen with a computerized "opponent" for you to race. No matter how high I would set it, I would always fight with everything I had to ensure I totally ANNIHILATED its results. Not just keep up with him, not beat him by a nose - no, I had to humiliate the snot out of that pixellated racer. Competitive, moi?

So now I'm out to "beat" NaNo by a whole week. That some people are up to 250K is irrelevant: the target is 30 days, and I need to reach the finish line with plenty of room to spare.

Enough about me. I just wanted to announce that my main character has finally gotten his first GIRLFRIEND. Oooh, kissy, kissy all around...

Next chapter, just over the horizon: her overprotective big brother's gonna find out ;D

day 9

2008-11-09T21:18:00.003-05:00

Woot! Weekend target reached...just over 25K, and my main character has finally run away from home. And there I was thinking he'd have left by, oh, chapter 3!

So his childhood took a far greater place on my novel's stage, and here I am, halfway through NaNo, and he's all of 14. But I have a few side plots that got nicely developed, so future plot twists will hopefully make some kind of sense.

So, for the next week, I'm aiming for between 5-10K, depending on the amount of work waiting for me at the office. We'll see how it goes.

day 8-9

2008-11-09T01:17:00.002-05:00

Technically, it's day 9, but my word count was updated on day 8. So there.

40% to "winning" NaNoWriMo. I'm gonna try my darnedest to knock another 5K out tonight and tomorrow, so I'll be halfway there by the time the week starts. Yay me!

The next issue raising its ugly head on the horizon is that I sincerely doubt I'll be anywhere near done with my story. Will I stick with it, once the looming threat of NaNo failure has passed? Will I manage to complete my novel? Or will I move on to those other stories that plot bunnies have been whispering to me ever since I started on this crazy adventure. No, seriously - I have a zombie superhero story, an anthropomorphic animal pirate story and a supernatural thriller all floating around my mind. (Yes, I have scribbled down my main ideas so they don't fly back off into the ether...)

Time will tell, but I really am looking forward to seeing my progress bar turn green on the NaNo site. (The one on the right doesn't change colour, I don't think, but the site says it should go from saying "participant" to "winner." Yay!)

day five

2008-11-05T21:09:00.001-05:00

I am 37 words away from being 25% done. Wow.

It had improved very, very slightly, but most of it is still utter tripe. And that's OK. Maybe that's why this strange character came along and insisted I write this piece of historical fiction when I had never attempted anything remotely close: to make me hear my own voice. Because that's mainly what's wrong with my novel - it sounds like me, a contemporary woman, rather than the narrator of a piece of historical fiction about a young boy coming of age. Besides, I'm not overly fond of kids, so inventing his childhood has been, well, inconclusive. It would be painful to reread, but that is for another time. If NaNoWriMo teaches me that I can beat the monster that is procrastination into submission, even temporarily, and that I should write what I know, then it will have been a success, even should I choose to delete the file once December 1st comes around. I doubt that I'll do it, but it would be fitting to represent how NaNo is about the experience.

I wrote very little last night, because I was watching So You Think You Can Dance Canada, and constantly flicking to the election coverage on ABC (least nauseating and obviously biased - hell-o, Fox). Two things: if I hadn't posted it before, I've been telling my boyfriend that Nico will take it all. (I was right about the final three on the last season of SYTYCD, right down to the order. Yay Joshua and Twitch!) As for Obama, godspeed, my man, the road ahead is long. But somehow, your presence made my world feel a little safer today.

two days in

2008-11-02T23:09:00.004-05:00

...and it's going well. Over 8,000 words in two days, albeit two weekend days after I'd been basically asleep for 48 hours. Nonetheless, I am 16% done with NaNo.

I find that highly worrisome, since starting things is generally not a problem for me. It's what comes next. It's like swimming laps; past the first dive or push off from the wall, I tend to flounder. I wane, I fluster, procrastination seeps in and things fall by the wayside. I have to keep my focus; that, probably much more than any number of words, is my personal challenge in accomplishing NaNoWriMo. (BTW, I even considered adding procrastination as a label for my posts, but that would be giving it too much power; the raging beast will remain anonymous, and I will continue to fight it, sight unseen. Right now, for some odd reason, I've become enthralled with Spider Solitaire. Yeah, I know. Actually, it would probably be Minesweeper but I don't have enough control with the touchpad on my laptop. So Spider Solitaire it is. Nuff said.)

To top it off, I had three puny but nonetheless actual freelance assignments this weekend. Add to that NaNo forums posts and blog entries, and my output has been really significant. Here's to hoping I keep it up.

Still, I'm surprised that it has gotten going with such vigour; I mean, I'm at 8,000 words, and my main character is all of nine years old. Tomorrow's text should cover the event that defines his young life, the turning point for the entire novel's plot. (I knew that plotting out my novel would help propel me forward!) Wish me luck.

migraine dreams

2008-11-01T19:35:00.003-04:00

I have just come out of the second-worst migraine of my life. It comes in second only because the first one lasted longer; they came pretty close in intensity (although this one involved more lunch-losing, not that you needed to know.)

I wound up missing two whole days of work, a first for me in my entire career. Never mind focusing on translation, I could barely keep my eyes open; the glare of the monitor was too mych to handle. So on Friday, All Hallows Eve, I slept from 9:00 am to 11:05pm, with only one, um, emergency bathroom break (see above for TMI.) Of course, this was after a more or less regular night's sleep, so at some point I was finding it harder and harder to fall back asleep when I woke up. And at some points I began dreaming, half-awake. Was it because it was Halloween that my dreams were so permeated with the presence of my parents, both of whom are deceased? They say that's the moment when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, and judging from my dreams, I would tend to believe that is so.

My mom makes regular appearances, my father much less so, yet he was the one who was prominently featured yesterday. Again, I see flashes and bits and pieces, far more than entire stories, but his presence was clearly distinguishable. Here are the three stories that I remember most:

I remember having our printer at work missing a font. Oddly, printers in that part of the universe had an open top like old-fashioned typewriters, and fonts were something to be installed by hand. Following the careful safety instructions of the engineering department, I inserted a screwdriver into the top of said printer to remove the part that would allow me to add the missing font. I heard a loud zap, and felt everything go white before I was stunned back awake.

I remember walking along some road in Pointe-Claire with my father, on a bright sunny day. At some point, he sat down on the sidewalk, unable to continue. I thought it might be heatstroke, having had it myself before. I asked him whether he preferred I go get the truck (what truck? who knows?), the car, or call an ambulance. He told me to do what I thought was best. So I went off to get the car, which was parked completely on the other side of town, and pretty much getting lost along the way, thus ensuring I'd have the darnedest time finding dad again - in hindsight, picking exactly the least useful of the three options.

I remember standing in the middle of my small town's only (and pitiful) shopping mall, the way it was set up in my teen aged years. Around me, two of my high school nemeses. I began to rant and rave, proclaiming to all who would listen that I had been unfairly treated throughout high school by said two girls, and throwing out all the examples I could remember. They stood in silence, staring at me, somewhere between bemusement and embarassment. (For what it's worth, let me provide a true example: they declared I was unfit to hang out with them, or actually even live, since at the tender age of eleven, I still did not know who Ralph Lauren was. Um, Catholic girls' school in the mid-eighties, anyone? To this day, I think they deserve a bitch-slap for that.)

The mind is such a strange thing. I think the day we figure ourselves out may just be the day we reach god, i.e. not likely to happen, given our stewardship of this earth.

life during NaNoWriMo

2008-11-01T19:24:00.003-04:00

First off, I'm going to bid adieu to the Word Count listing I have in the right hand column. Its existence was to spur me on to write 50,000 words ASAP, which wound up taking me well over six months, culminating only one week short of the start of NaNoWriMo. So it has accomplished its mission, but you will no longer see any numbers in brackets at the end of my posts. That much has been accomplished.

So far, I'm off to a fairly strong start, although that is to be expected of myself. My problem will usually appear sometime mid-week of week 2, around the 20,000 mark, when it gets to be a real drag to write nearly 2,000 words on a weeknight - probably on Mondays, when Raw is on. I'll try to build up a solid lead so that I can maneuver around, say, impromptu freelance assignments, but I have a feeling things won't go as smoothly as they are right now. Yeah, I know, it's the first friggin' day and I should calm down. But trust me, I know there a wall out there, a wall of my own building, and I'm gonna hit it head on, most likely sooner than later.

After NaNo, I promise myself to read a good book, perhaps to wash away all the crap I've been producing over the last month (and judging by the first 5,000 words, it will be crap. Believe you me.) And maybe lay off the historical fiction for a good long while, and return to my usual bitching...um, I mean editorializing, of my little corner of the universe. On the other hand, I will be sure to blog out my Survivor Series predictions and reactions. Certain things are unavoidable.

addendum to my last post

2008-11-01T19:11:00.002-04:00

It also dawned on me that there are some merchants who donate their walls so that youth empowerment organizations can help youths take pride in their communities and give back by painting murals. We hear about them every summer. I gather they're probably done in graffiti style too. I wonder if those are "mediocre" too, according to Ms. Siebrand.

That's what I hated about attending university in a fine arts program. Beauty is so very much in the eye of the beholder, and yet here we are, debating which kind is better. Can we just agree that the world needs more art? The best will out, not by who proclaims it so, but simply by those who remember it.

public art

2008-10-28T23:32:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-28T22:48:00.005-04:00

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!

2008-10-28T21:44:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-28T21:37:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-27T23:13:00.003-04:00

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?

2008-10-27T22:51:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-27T22:00:00.006-04:00

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

2008-10-27T21:09:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-27T21:06:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-27T00:44:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-27T00:17:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-27T00:04:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-26T23:20:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-26T23:11:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-26T22:46:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-26T19:53:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-26T02:23:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-26T01:54:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-25T23:55:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-25T23:38:00.003-04:00

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

(292)

writing prompt: why are you crying?

2008-10-25T23:17:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-25T23:03:00.002-04:00

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.

(455)

writing prompt: the empty glass (bis)

2008-10-24T17:33:00.000-04:00

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

2008-10-24T17:30:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-23T23:24:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-23T22:57:00.003-04:00

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.

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developing a habit

2008-10-22T23:56:00.002-04:00

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.

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fevered dreams

2008-10-21T22:35:00.002-04:00

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.

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prompt: some like it hot

2008-10-21T22:08:00.003-04:00

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.)

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word prompt: sick puppy

2008-10-20T23:35:00.002-04:00

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.

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what's good for the goose...

2008-10-20T21:57:00.002-04:00

...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

2008-10-15T23:54:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-15T23:39:00.003-04:00

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?

---

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.

---

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

---

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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Arrrrr...

2008-09-28T17:21:00.003-04:00

It turns out I missed Talk Like a Pirate Day on September 19, just over a week ago.

That particular day was selected because it was one of the founders' ex-wife's birthday. That it was also my mom's birthday is sheer coincidence. Anyways, their website is worth a giggle or two, particularly their links page, which includes a pirate persona generator.

Lo and behold, based on my choices of features and activities, I am Black Melissa Rackham, who knows how to parallel park (um, anachronistic choice, don't ya think?), seduce her crew and swash buckles, all without the benefit of underwear beneath her costume. Who knew?

Sometimes, in fits or sheer boredom, I think it would be funny to troll the net and fill a complete year with odd celebration days like this. Then I get shy and lazy and forget about the whole idea.

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my skin, my art

2008-09-25T21:58:00.003-04:00

I'm not quite sure I understand.

The members of facebook's Coalition Against Bad Tattoos often rail against big girls with bad tattoos, with the comments often slipping into snarky comments about the person's weight. Among them, one self-proclaimed big girl often writes she wouldn't get that tattooed there. So, if we rule out the following (a short compendium of remarks made by said group):

no back tattoos, for muffin top reasons
no chest tattoos, for sagging reasons
no belly tattoos, for stretch mark/childbearing reasons
no thigh tattoos, for cellulite reasons

and the girl doesn't want her tattoos totally visible, i.e. mostly concealable under work clothes, what's left? Her upper arms? Even then, I would argue flabby triceps don't do much for good design. So then what?

Personally, I remember having a (smallish) muffin top back when I weighed 115 lbs: that's just always been where my body accumulates fat. Notwithstanding the group's objections, I will tattoo my body with designs I find gorgeous, where my tattoo artist and myself agree is the best placement, and the rest, quite frankly, be damned. They are first and foremost for me, not merely as a canvas for some striking art form. They will age with me (hopefully gracefully) and they will forever stand as the markers to the milestones of my life.

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it's really been far too long

2008-09-20T23:57:00.003-04:00

So, just to make things worse, I'm going to have another one of those rambling, multi-topic, what-the-hey posts that I said I'd sworn off for good. But isn't changing my mind a girl's prerogative? Here goes.

First, about my Unforgiven picks: I give myself four and a half out of six, because was I really off-base by saying "Jericho with the shocker"? OK, so it wasn't the match I was thinking, but it was pretty spot on nonetheless.

I was sad to see Mick Foley officially go. I'm sad to hear Kennedy expects to be released after he returns from injury. The man has the potential to be the next generation's Stone Cold. I don't expect to see Jeff Hardy succeed just yet, but my early money's on him for the Rumble.

On to writing. I'm really worried that I won't get anywhere near 50,000 words in one month. Just looking at my word count in this blog's right-hand column makes me cringe. November is rapidly gaining on us, and I still don't have a laptop to drag around to force myself to create.

I'd love to say that freelancing has kept me too busy to write, but that would be stretching the truth. Thankfully, things have picked up, but certainly nowhere near enough to prevent me from stringing thoughts together. I would lay far more blame on facebook.

Finally, last weekend was the Art Montreal tattoo convention, which meant another 3-odd hours of squirming under Scott's fairly gentle needles. I look at pictures of my back, or in the mirror, and I can't help but smile. It still isn't completely done, and it will probably wind up having taken the best part of a decade to put together, but it's wonderful to me. After so long of having grounded birds, my ravens have taken flight this year. It is so uplifting...

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unforgiven picks

2008-09-07T20:03:00.002-04:00

The show's just starting, so here we go, in really, really condensed form:

ECW Championship scramble: Matt Hardy.

The other two champions retain.

McCool over Maryse, although the latter would be more interesting.

Rhodes and DeBiase over Cryme Time.

Jericho with the shocker.

because it's been a while

2008-09-03T22:34:00.002-04:00

In six words: WHAT? I am a TRANSLATOR, dammit.

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words fail me

2008-08-28T21:20:00.002-04:00

I heard what was perhaps the saddest thing in advertising in a long, long time.

The latest Discover card ad begins with, "We live in a consumer society. And that's OK."

Erm. That is so wrong, on so many levels. Talk amongst yourselves.

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adrift (bis)

2008-08-27T23:20:00.004-04:00

OKm in my last post I stated that a mostly "miss" blog had yielded one interesting link. But crazy lazy me kept reading, and the further back I dug, the more stuff I uncovered. So I wish to publicly retract my "miss" and call attention to said blog, A cup of Jo. I'll admit, I didn't give it too much credit because I feared it would be too fashionista for my taste. Fortunately, I am mistaken; the author has a keen eye for design as a whole, and has sent me on quite a number of side adventures, including:

The 100 most common English words quiz (I must sit to discuss this longer.)
Stranger photos have happened (I must tell my colleagues on trois choses about this...)
Ideas for sale
For you (This is another that deserves further pondering.)

Now I know what I should be doing instead of being carried by web currents: SLEEPING! But like I posted as my Facebook status, Carpe noctem - seize the night.

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web drifting

2008-08-27T21:45:00.004-04:00

I can't even call it surfing - it's not directional enough. The pace is also slower, as I stop to find delightful details where I wouldn't expect anything mind-boggling.

So here we go, somewhat randomly:

From Word Ferret (a usual haunt), a quote from Gustave Flaubert: I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

Or rather, in the original French:

(...) j'ai si peu l'habitude d'écrire et je deviens si hargneux là-dessus, surtout vis-à-vis de moi-même, qu'il ne laisse pas que de me donner assez de souci. C'est comme un homme qui a l'oreille juste et qui joue faux du violon ; ses doigts se refusent à reproduire juste le son dont il a conscience. Alors les larmes coulent des yeux du pauvre racleur et l'archet lui tombe des doigts...

Looking for the original quote, I stumbled upon another too-true thought of his:

Pour qu'une chose soit intéressante, il suffit de la regarder longtemps.

Moving along, I laughed until I cried while discovering a recent blog of note, Cake Wrecks. The tartan wedding-cake fiasco is absolutely priceless. This is one blog that I read from front to back in its entirety.

Which then led me to Cakelava, cake decorators in Hawaii, whose work is completely at the other end of the spectrum. Pat thought the Tiki cakes were really cool, but then, who wouldn't?

On the main blogger page, you can see the names of blogs flash by as they are updated. Sometimes I click on one when the title appears promising. It's a hit or miss process, but in a relatively "miss" click, I found a link to a book whose concept is so insanely appealing I may just order it: A Field Guide to Weeds, by Kim Beck. Once again, my fondness for dandelions shines through.

What does this show? That I'm procrastinating again. I should be doing something more productive (it's been fairly quiet lately on the freelancing front, so I actually have my evenings to myself...W00t!) but then, isn't this what summer is for? And for my sake, please don't mention that September is just around the corner!

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blame it on the Olympics

2008-08-24T20:59:00.002-04:00

Yeah, I've been a real couch potato these days, partly due to the Olympics.

Hearty bravos to Alex Despatie for his "golden" silver. I think he really epitomizes how we should react to silver or bronze medallists: if the athlete's thrilled with the result, then so should we. Bottom line. A lot of American silver medallists see it as being "the first loser", a take I have a lot of difficulty comprehending.

As to Canada's medal count, let's put it this way: the States have ten times Canada's population, and got just over six times our medal count. I won't compare with the Chinese, whose setup is such a paradigm shift from Western world athletes that there's just no reconciling the two. (But let it be known I agree that at least two of the Chinese gymnasts were underage.) And in figuring out how to sort country medal counts, I say this: doesn't sorting gold medal winners higher than higher total medal-count countries just run against the Olympic spirit? I agree a silver or bronze will never be a gold, but still, to me, total numbers should be the main factor. If you can put thirty people on the third step of the podium, you are more worthy than a country who has a single silver medal, period.

Some of the highlights for me (apart from the obvious Phelps and Bolt) are Australian Matthew Mitcham stealing the gold from the Chinese in the 10-m platform dive. I keep wondering what the competition would have looked like if Alex's back had held out...Nonetheless, Mitcham was quiet, absolutely solid and beautiful to watch. Another was watching Priscilla Lopes-Schliep celebrate her unexpected silver in the 100m hurdles - in the arms of Sally McLellan from Australia. In a race where the 2nd to 6th positions were determined by 2 one-hundreths of a second, it was a wonderful display of true Olympic spirit.

See you in Vancouver, y'all.

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5/8

2008-08-18T21:42:00.002-04:00

As soon as I published my predictions, I realized they were a little face-heavy, so I knew I would be off on some matches.

I nailed the four main matches, and technically Matt hardy did win (so I gave myself a half point), and Shawn will be back (another half), regardless of what he said. (Points to Rebecca for taking that punch - it looked really, really good.)

I screwed up on the Winner Take All match; I'm OK as far as the Women's title is concerned, but I really miss the days when the IC title meant something. Now it's just for the king of the mid-carders.

It really is too bad that they haven't just thrown Jeff Hardy right back in the mix after coming back from his suspension. I am pleased for MVP, who I believe has grown by leaps and bounds since breaking out of that Matt Hardy rut. By the way, am I the only one that thinks CM Punk is the happy recipient of the path that had initially been laid for Jeff Hardy?

I also wonder whether Cena hasn't gotten so comfortable in being the company's spokesperson/go-to guy/whatever that he's forgotten to be a little selfish, a little hungry for the title?

Lastly, HIAC matches are awesome enough as it is, especially when they turn into TLCIAC - they don't need that fluffy, what the hell was that ending. I wish they'd leave the ring surface well enough alone. It might impress the kiddies, but it really doesn't do the wrestlers justice, and it doesn't do it for me.

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really quick Summerslam picks

2008-08-17T19:53:00.002-04:00

PPV starts in under ten minutes. Here goes:

Shawn Michaels - don't care, but I think he'll be back. D'uh.

Winner take all - Go with the faces; the heels will at least have each other.

MVP vs. Jeff Hardy - Could really go either way. Jeff Hardy.

John Cena vs. Batista - Could also go either way. Batista.

Mark Henry vs. Matt Hardy - Please, please, Matt Hardy.

CM Punk vs. JBL - Please, please CM Punk.

Triple H vs. Great Khali - Trips all the way.

Edge vs. Undertaker - Nothing can stop the Deadman's return.

on Heath Ledger and the Academy Awards

2008-08-17T01:20:00.002-04:00

I went to see Batman: the Dark Knight tonight. I must admit, I haven't enjoyed a movie like that in a long time, and a large part of that is due to Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker. Now, it should be noted that I was never the type to fawn over the man. I did see his performances in The Patriot, A Knight's Tale and The Order, and didn't think particularly highly or poorly of them. (Yup, I know, I really do have to get around to seeing Brokeback Mountain.)

But this one blew my mind. I mean, he put Jack Nicholson to shame. The only comparable performance for a villain in a movie that I can think of is Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs, who won an Oscar for Best Actor. I thought it was that good. Yet I read that people are petitioning for a Best Supporting Actor award. I wonder where the line is between the two categories; it seemed to me that he had plenty of screen time to justify a Best Actor, but I yield to the powers that be.

OK, so if we look through the Best Supporting Actor, we see nominations were given to Pat Morita for The Karate Kid, James Cromwell for Babe and Burt Reynolds for Boogie Nights. That in itself tells me that consideration for a nomination is not excessive, and in my opinion the least this performance deserves. The rest is up to the Academy.

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writing prompt: sleep

2008-08-11T21:47:00.001-04:00

Sleep. A delightful pastime. One that in our hectic modern life is underestimated and sometimes even vilified. How can you sleep for so long? Don’t you realize how much you’re missing? Besides, there’s work to be done!

From my earliest days, I was a sleeper. Once I started school, just as it became apparent that I was sorely nearsighted, it was discovered I wasn’t a morning person. My body simply cannot adapt to being awake early in the day. My mother, the typical morning person, would hop out of bed and head straight for the kitchen. I, on the other hand, cannot stomach the concept of food right out of bed. She was so worried that I never wanted to eat before leaving for school that she began smuggling a beaten egg into my morning glass of chocolate milk, the only thing I would agree to. To this day, I have breakfast once I get to work, at which point I have been up for at least two hours. On the weekends, I do have breakfast sometimes, usually around two in the afternoon.

For the most part, my mind doesn’t fully wake before high noon. I wonder whether the correlation between the time at which my classes were given and my grades would be apparent. At the very least, morning classes were the stuff of daydreaming and rereading the same line in my textbook three times. The same holds true today: morning meetings result in an increase in doodling and coffee drinking. As a translator and writer, mornings are best spent taken on new projects and producing really rough drafts to be molded into some legible shape later on in the day.

For those who would have me be bright and perky at seven AM simply by going to bed earlier, I say I have tried. Not only is it incredibly difficult to turn off my mind in the early evening, but even if I do manage to fall asleep, I will simply sleep right through to late morning anyway – 10 AM, at the very earliest. I’ve gotten to know my sleep pattern well: it’s nine hours, in 90-minute cycles. Yep, I’m above-average that way. Is it laziness? Nope – it’s simply listening to my body. On weeknights, when nine hours is simply impossible, I aim for one of those 90-minute intervals. Seven and a half hours, or even six hours, is better than eight, when the alarm sounds while I’m on a downward slope into deep sleep. That’s the most horrible way to wake up.

As well, as a migraine sufferer who only finds relief through sleep, I am keenly aware of its therapeutic function. I simply don’t understand why people struggle through the day with a head cold or a migraine or the flu when sleep can help your body get rid of it all. People understand that PCs simply need to shut down once in a while to work out the accumulated bugs and reset themselves. It would seem god wasn’t the only one who created something in its own image. Yet people constantly undermine the intrinsic value of slowing down, recharging batteries and beginning anew.

In short, sleep, to me, is the ultimate victory on the rigid, contrary schedule the adult world tries to impose on me. I claim victory over my alarm clock on Fridays, when I turn off the alarm, and only reluctantly turn it back on on Sunday nights. The bottom line is I enjoy sleep immensely, from the warmth of the blankets pulled tightly under my chin, to finding a cool spot on your pillow on warm summer nights, to glancing at the time and realizing you have two more hours to go before the alarm pulls you from your reverie. *yawn* Gotta go.

(631)

writing prompt: raindrops on roses

2008-08-10T23:07:00.000-04:00

Well, there are no roses in my back yard – I’m not nearly attentive enough a gardener to go down that route. I tend to prefer plants that fend well for themselves; I have lilies, peonies, hydrangeas, lily of the valley, and some raspberry bushes that reward me with tart treats right around my birthday. This year as a whole has been strange, weather-wise, and our summer has been soggy, to put it mildly. And oddly enough, I haven’t experienced a single instance of that warm summer rain that you walk barefoot in, completely oblivious to the fact you are drenched through and through. It’s a blissful occurrence that I warmly recommend to everyone.

I was once caught in such a downpour as I was walking home from the mall. It was coming down hard, but it was warmer than any swimming pool. In any event, I must have looked pitiful, because I actually had four separate cars slow beside me and ask whether I wanted a lift. I thanked all four profusely, but with a beaming smile, declined their invitation, saying it was a lovely experience. I remember one lady, a soccer-mom type, who wistfully smiled back at me before driving off; for a moment, I think something clicked inside her, a long-forgotten memory of treating herself to silly things like walking in the rain. That glimpse in her eye seemed to betray a sudden urge to pull over and join me. I do hope she did eventually yield to that harmless temptation.

The last time I was blessed with such summer rain was during a street fair event in Montreal. Sainte-Catherine Street is the commercial artery stretching east-west through the downtown area, bustling at all hours of the day or night, both on the sidewalks and the street itself. It had been closed for a huge sidewalk sale/community fair, all the way from Atwater Street to University Street, if memory serves me correctly. That’s a stretch of almost 2 kilometres reclaimed from vehicular traffic, if only for a few days. The train station was at one end of this route, and the booth where I was volunteering at the other. As the day wrapped up, it began to rain, first a few drops that barely gave visitors pause, gradually growing to a forceful shower that prompted people to take cover. We were soaked by the time the booth was taken down anyway, so I enjoyed the stroll back to the train station, fully appreciating walking down the centre line of what is usually a safety nightmare for pedestrians. (OK, so Montreal pedestrians themselves are a nightmare, but that’s a whole other post!) The majority of people huddled under shopkeeper’s canopies, while the rest of us ambled about, smiling knowingly at each other in acknowledgement that we were sharing a delightful secret in the midst of the unaware.

(478)

writing prompt: a room with a view

2008-08-10T23:04:00.005-04:00

I’m cheating a bit with this prompt.

My office cubicle has no window, and even if I prairie dog over the partition, there is no window in sight. There’s a window in the conference room, but the door is almost always shut. Managers in closed offices have windows; while I don’t particularly envy the ones with a lovely view of the parking lot, I must admit it is useful to remote start your car on cold winter nights. I am jealous of those who see the wooded lot on the north side, as they get to see the ongoing adventures of our small woodland creatures – birds of all kinds, a lot of squirrels, the occasional groundhog or hare.

My bedroom window has a window, but no view really – unless you consider the garage roof and the neighbour’s hedge a view. Besides, I kept the drapes open for years, until I started dating Pat, who can only sleep in absolute darkness but often goes to bed at dawn. It also helps to avoid a repeat of an unpleasant incident that occurred a few years back, as I awoke (in very little clothing) to the sight of a man right outside my window, on the garage roof, trimming the neighbour’s hedge with no forewarning whatsoever!

Like I said, I’m cheating here. The prompt made me think of the “masked thief” Pat and I caught peeking in from our ground level windows earlier this week. Cats are regulars, but this was a first. I can’t say what attracted him; it’s not like we were cooking anything. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was the only thing to look at, really, under the back porch, a spot that affords some protection from the apparently endless drizzle and downpours we’ve been having this summer.

(301)

abstract art

2008-08-10T18:02:00.004-04:00

Sometimes, technology provides things I'd never even thought of, much less wanted or needed. Case in point: my new digital camera features, among a plethora of special settings, a setting for fireworks. Whodathunk? So I tried it out at China's entry in the International des Feux de Montréal fireworks competition. Turns out that it does, in fact, yield really neat pictures, even though the long exposure time requires you to be very very still.

Among the more typical shots, though, a few appeared that almost transcended simple fireworks, into neat little displays of abstract art.

Then again, maybe it's just because I like dandelions.

(104)

procrastination is a sleazy one-night-stand

2008-07-30T20:15:00.004-04:00

(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

2008-07-27T17:26:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-26T01:53:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-26T01:01:00.003-04:00

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.

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exercises for the wordless mind

2008-07-25T01:24:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-25T00:52:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-20T23:11:00.006-04:00

...'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

2008-07-18T16:37:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-18T16:35:00.000-04:00

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

2008-07-18T16:12:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-18T16:06:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-16T21:23:00.003-04:00

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?

2008-07-16T21:10:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-16T20:43:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-15T23:17:00.000-04:00

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

2008-07-15T23:16:00.000-04:00

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

2008-07-14T22:00:00.001-04:00

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.

(337)

the value of unexpectedness

2008-07-14T21:58:00.000-04:00

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*

(381)

collected dreambits

2008-07-09T00:14:00.001-04:00

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.

(466)

forgive me blogosphere, for i have sinned

2008-07-09T00:08:00.003-04:00

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.

---

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.

(339)

e.l.b.o.w.

2008-06-25T00:14:00.002-04:00

That's shorthand for the club I'm thinking about starting up, "Educated ladies blogging on wrestling". I read a lot of stuff online, including about the WWE, but between incessant pop-ups and lame adolescent chatter, I find little to sink my teeth into.

However, I've come across Ms. Linda Robin's blog on ProWrestling.com. I don't always agree with her, but I certainly respect what she has to say. You can read her draft review here. So with that, I officially extend the invitation to become the second member of my elite club; hopefully, there are more of us out there...

One other thing I thought I'd mention: at no point during Raw did it dawn on me that J.R. didn't know what was going on. He's J.R., for Pete's sake! That's so unbelievably harsh; I thought the days of proverbially "screwing Bret" were over. As I watch the reactions again, Cole knew. He had to know. *sigh* I read that one all wrong. Darn - I still get suckered in sometimes.

But, I am happy to read J.R.'s second blog post, and I hope he realizes the influence he has on a show's success. All the best to both new teams, and to Tazz for having to continue dealing with Adamle.

(210)

Paul? Paul! Paul!

2008-06-24T00:16:00.004-04:00

The 2008 WWE draft has just concluded, and it has opened up some very interesting possibilities. A quick overview:

Ray Mysterio to Raw: a great thing, in that it avoids him instantly falling back into feuding with la familia. I would have loved to see him go against Jeff Hardy, but unfortunately, that's not going to happen. I'm looking forward to his return to see who they have in store for him. Perhaps he could position himself as contender and be Randy Orton's official welcoming committee when he returns.
Jeff Hardy to Smackdown: quite possibly a great thing. He was often utilized on Raw as an alternate opponent to the usual Orton/HHH feuders; maybe now he can have a good run with Edge. Heck, they made magic together back in the golden days of tag teams. Hopefully the switch isn't perceived or meant as a demotion; as they say, better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.
Matt Hardy to ECW: not sure what to make of this. Reuniting the Hardys for one night was one of Vickie Guerrero's best decisions, but I can certainly understand the wisdom behind not having the brothers on the same brand, to continue building each brother individually. Once again, it avoids the obvious pitfalls, but since Smackdown and ECW overlap fairly often, it opens the door to the occasional run-in.
CM Punk to Raw: good for him - more exposure, new opponents - but not so hot for ECW, which is the clear loser by the end all is said and done. Pat still doesn't like him, but this guy really has grown on me. Give him room; maybe a run with Jericho could be entertaining. Anything but HBK, really.
Batista to Raw: fair enough, just to change from Edge/Undertaker. Would've been nice to have an Evolution renewal - heck, Randy Orton does have the odd good idea sometimes - but no. So now what? Well, as of next week, John Cena's gonna need a dancing partner.
Umaga to Smackdown: well, it's where the very big boys congregate, so why not? Of course, I need to specify that there are two types of very big boys: there's the surprisingly talented considering their size, e.g. the aforementioned Samoan bulldozer and the Big Show, and then there's those whose size is apparently their sole redeeming attribute, e.g. Mark Henry and the Great Khali on most days. I hope they use him well, because he is fairly enjoyable, in a snarling, Polynesian kind of way.
Kane to Raw: this is another one of those ruling in hell types. I love seeing Kane back on Raw; I just hope he doesn't get lost back in the shuffle like he was before going over in the first place. I've always had a soft spot for the younger brother of destruction; welcome back, honey - and give 'em hell.
Mr. Kennedy to Smackdown: I was never quite sure why he was on Raw; apart from his couple of run-ins with Regal, which were priceless, he never really found his niche. So the loudmouth from Green Bay goes back home to Smackdown, and I hope he starts seriously nipping at the heels of the champ. He's close, so close; just a little more, a few more wow moments, and he'll make his way to the top tier. Jeff Hardy has the lead in this particular race, but Kennedy has the mad mike skills. Gentlemen, start your engines.
Triple H to Smackdown: OK, this was unexpected. But I like it. Except it means one of two things, really: either Cena wins or Batista wins come Sunday, so as to keep one belt on each show. We'll know more after that, but I'm thinking Triple H is gonna mow through the current roster, and he'll have to make new stars. See previous bullet, re: Jeff Hardy and Mr. Kennedy. The stage is now fully set.
Michael Cole vs. Jim Ross: Not so unexpected, since Foley's been laying it on thick about working with J.R. for the past few weeks. However, it fits. Adamle is in no position to go anywhere, Tazz is the last remaining link to the original ECW, and shifting Jerry Lawler to Smackdown would really have been seen as a demotion. J.R. is a habitual victim of evil WWE machinations and bad breaks, so it's fitting that he should bounce over to Smackdown. It really is the best thing that could happen to Mick Foley. Opinions are mixed, but he's the best hope we have right now; this is such a difficult job, and it just has to be learned on the job. He's got the affable personality and the ring experience to really grow into a respectable commentator; hell, he's already better than JBL ever was! The only bit that bothered me a little was hearing Michael Cole say he'd called every Smackdown except two; he's the one caught in the midst of this shuffle, and I know he'll do well no matter who he's paired with, but I thought that fact needed to be acknowledged.

In other news, I really enjoyed this episode of Raw for the most part. McMahon's Million Dollar Mania still pisses me off, and I thought it was entirely inappropriate to close off such a momentous evening with a @#$% phone call, until it all went awry and we were treated to another one of Vinnie Mac's Oscar-winning moments. "Paul? Paul! Paul!" The only thing missing was him sitting up and winking at the audience. Ah well, if that's what it takes to put an end to this vulgar attempt at bribing the audience, so be it.

(954)

not quite the perfect storm

2008-06-23T17:42:00.000-04:00

I’ve thought about trying to describe my migraines for the longest time, but I’m always afraid that my words won’t do justice to the subtleties of the chemical storms that blow through my mind every couple of weeks.

In some respects, I am lucky, in that I’m only afflicted with migraines every couple of weeks. I’ve known coworkers on daily medication who would otherwise be non-functional six days a week. For my part, there are two “storm seasons”, that occur essentially at the end of weeks 2 and 4 in any given cycle. They last for about two or three days, when I am vulnerable to developing migraines. They usually crop up overnight, so the minute I wake up, I know the kind of day it will be. I can sometimes beat them down with ultra strength Motrin; I’ve tried some prescription medication, but they leave me so out of it I’m no more functional that if I simply had the migraine. But sometimes, after a few successful attempts at delaying the inevitable, a built-up, monster migraine strikes; it’s as though my body needs to “reset” itself somehow.

When they do strike, I am pretty much useless: I suffer from photosensitivity, sensitivity to sound, mild dizziness (more like vertigo, like 5’ 7” is so far off the ground), the traditional single-sided head pain and general miserable-ness. The pain usually resides right behind one eye - not always the same side, but always only one side at a time - and it sits there like a hot coal in my eye socket, radiating crackling lightning across my skull.
Sleeping it off is really the only option, and even then, sleep comes fitfully. I always sleep on my side, but I must remain with the painful side down, otherwise, I can feel the blood flowing down from the hot coal, like lava burning everything in its path. So pressure points and comfort be damned, until my mind finally shuts down to attend to the matter at hand, weathering the storm. It doesn’t usually last more than one day.

That was the situation with the contraceptive pill I was on. Two months ago, my doctor suggested I try a different kind, one that had had positive reviews for girls with these migraine issues. I thought, “Well, why not?” One month and one pack later, I know.

On week 2, I spent an entire weekend dragging myself from the bed to the Lazy-Boy, lost in a fog of discomfort. It wasn’t a migraine per se; the pain felt different, alien. I was sensitive to the light bulbs in the living room, so going outside was out of the question. I listened to the TV more than I watched it, and reading was near impossible. In all, it was a useless weekend. I hoped that while it lasted longer, I could habituate to this new threshold and with the right timing of Motrin, I would gain some functionality and things would work out well. How wrong I was.

Week 4, Friday: Woke up with that lopsided feeling. Knowing I had an important deadline, I took a Motrin and got ready for work. Once there, I realized staring at the computer monitor was increasingly difficult, as was simply keeping my eyes open. I pushed on, putting together the document as best I could. The Motrin was having no effect; again, the pain felt foreign, and I didn’t know what to expect - it was so unlike the familiar migraines that had ruled my life since the age of thirteen. I bummed a couple of extra-strength Tylenol from a co-worker. They just made me nauseous. I figured a little bit of fresh air might set me straight; in my haste to get outside, I took the shortest route, forgetting that that entailed using the stairs next to the cafeteria, where they were busy cooking broccoli and cauliflower. I’m sure that I developed a slight greenish tinge at that point. Nonetheless, I made it outside in one piece, but the fresh air didn’t help that much. I returned to my desk and, alternating between closing my eyes and resting my head on my desk like we used to do in grade school and typing frantically, I finalized the document, forwarded it to the powers that be and called my boyfriend to come pick me up. I was in bed by 12:15 pm, and I tossed and turned for the longest time before crashing into dream-laden sleep. I awoke around 7:00 pm; my head certainly wasn’t cleared, but at least I could keep my eyes open. We had dinner, and I was back in bed by 11:00pm.

At this point, I should remind you that I was at the tail end of a fairly extensive translation project. I had two chapters of draft translation, and the complete review of the document to complete by Monday morning.

The pain crept back in overnight; I was up for five minutes or so on Saturday morning to gobble down more Motrin, then I crashed back under the covers, trying to avoid looking too closely at their stark black and white pattern. In all, I was up by 2:00pm; while the migraine dozed, I worked fitfully on another chapter, typing diligently for two hours or so before I retreated to my pillow once more. I missed dinner on Saturday; I ate a pouch of instant rice while watching “So You Think You Can Dance.” I typed some more and finished my first draft. Then I slept some more, hoping against hope it was over.

No such luck. Again, I completely bypassed the morning, only daring to rise once the sun had peaked on Sunday. This time, the early-morning Motrin seemed to finally get a grip on the storm. When I got up, I felt exhausted, but I could actually string a sentence together. I even showered, washed my hair and stepped out for dinner. With a trusty Tim Hortons’ extra-large double double in hand, I settled down to knock my project out of the park. Finally, the storm subsided, as though I had finally prevailed in a three-day battle of the wills. I worked feverishly throughout the evening and night, returning the project by email a few hours early before returning to bed as the sun crept up.

So now, I start a second pack. Hopefully, next month, I won’t have the same deadline issues. Hopefully, next month, my own body won’t quite feel so alien. Hopefully, next month.

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one week of drought

2008-06-23T16:17:00.002-04:00

It's an odd little title, given that last week saw more rain fall than in the previous month or so. But my blog ran dry on the first week following the end of classes. At a time when I thought I would have plenty of time to savour and devote to writing, instead I joined up with a new client and a massive freelance project, combined with a new contraceptive pill that made me discovered as-yet unexplored migraines on an unforeseen scale. So this week, there were no words other than those I was paid for. Oh well.

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a funny little dreambit

2008-06-15T23:17:00.002-04:00

Now follow me deep into the convolutions of my mind, into a little dreambit I had over the weekend. I actually dreamt that the dreambit I wrote about earlier, about the car crashing into the mall, was happening right before my eyes. All I could think (in my dream) was "Wow! That dream was actually déjà-vu!" Oh, and the fact I identified the mall as Place Alexis-Nihon, even though it really doesn't match up with the actual mall which, the last time I was there, was one of the darkest and dreariest downtown malls. But I have to admit, it is the very first time I remember dreaming about a previous dream. I mean, there have been times when, after being semi-awakened in the middle of a dream, I have resumed said dream, but never days apart like this.

In other news, I just learned that Finger Eleven used to be the Rainbow Butt Monkeys - hey! I've seen them live! Opening for I don't remember who, but I have seen them on stage! Wow! Who knew you could learn something from the MMVAs?

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words, words, words

2008-06-14T19:54:00.003-04:00

I stumbled upon this little blog called Trois choses. Its greatness stems from the simplicity of its concept: each Monday, it publishes three words. Participants have one week to provide three photographs representing the three concepts.

Coincidentally, I graduated this week, and I was thinking of buying myself a new digital camera as a celebration and a promise, since we all know a picture is worth a thousand words...

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2 lopsided dreambits

2008-06-14T19:20:00.002-04:00

The first one was so vivid and detailed that I grabbed a piece of paper to jot down the details before they faded. Here goes:

There were three of us: myself, Pat (who was not really him but it was in my dream, you know?) and a third character, an older lady, who for the sake of conciseness we shall refer to as my aunt, because she reminded me a lot of my aunt Lise, even though it wasn't her exactly.

We are on a tour bus in a city said to be very dangerous for tourists, with an elevated violent crime rate. I can't say which city we're in, but it feels old and Mediterranean. I'd like to say Venice because I know we were headed for the "ponte vecchio", except the city had this dry, dusty, sun-baked feel. Another coach is either parked or stopped in mid U-turn right across the street, blocking the way. That's when we decide to exit the bus and continue on foot.

We are soon accosted by two thieves: one male, unseen, and a young, headstrong female accomplice. She’s pretty and blonde, with a rounded face and pretty curls, but she’s hard as nails. She blatantly plunges her hand in my aunt’s handbag, pulling out a fistful of jewellery - pearls, silver and gold chains - and calmly returns to her table at a little sidewalk café with a terrace elevated a few steps above street level.

I look over at my aunt, who is rooted on the spot I stride over to the thief’s table and grab for the jewellery she is still holding in her clenched fist. Some is dropped, some is broken, and I manage to pry some away from her, although there isn’t much left. I notice her earrings: a silver wing extending along the outline of her ear, over a teal-coloured hemispheric button that hides the clip. I return my aunt’s possessions to her, and I notice that she was wearing similar wing-shaped earrings, except she has lost one in the scuffle. In sheer retaliation, I stride back to the thief and yank off one of her earrings, a clip-on that does no damage. With a heavy and improvised Southern drawl, I sneer, “What, did you think we were dumbass Americans?”

The three of us reunite and walk past the café. The male accomplice stands at the edge and tells us to look to our left. There’s a pack of mangy-looking, obviously stray dogs, scruffy, emaciated mutts, one of which may have resembled a Golden Retriever in different circumstances. There are maybe six in all, looking wild but exhausted. We come to understand that they plan on throwing them off a cliff as revenge for our acts. We doubt that they will, that they could even catch them, and that even so, it might almost be doing those poor creatures a favour.

We keep walking up the narrow street and reach a crosswalk. Ahead, we can glimpse a section of elevated highway with gridlocked traffic. “Shall we go right?” we ask. “Yes, let’s.” So we do, even though I’d swear our hotel is somewhere off to the left.

---

That night, when I settled into bed, I remembered that I had also dreamed of a fridgeful of Mason jars, filled with all kinds of jams, preserves, ketchups and curries. And every single one I picked up had moths and larvae growing between the surface of the preserves and the lid - I could see them crawling and even flying in the tight space. I didn’t open a single one, returning them all to their fridge.

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dreambit

2008-06-10T21:29:00.002-04:00

I'm in a mall, heading into a crowded, narrow little store. I'm not sure whether it's a bookstore or a music store, but its wares are shelved from floor to ceiling on the right wall and the rear, and in the middle, there's a long rack with more merchandise. The cash is on the left wall. Everyone is moving in the same pattern, since there isn't enough room to cross paths. It's like a Visa debit card commercial. You enter on the right, hope the people in front of you don't stop to examine something before you reach your item, then circle around the back into the lineup at the cash. It's busy, but not hectic by any means.

Suddenly, there's a huge crash behind us. I turn and look out into the mall; settling dust makes everything hazy. I've only just entered the store, so the few people behind me have already exited to see what's happening. Like a lot of malls, there are stores around the exterior perimeter, and the center is open, up to a skylight, with escalators and staircases running up and down at each end. Right in front of us, precariously perched on a staircase landing, is a silver Toyota Corolla, that has apparently crashed from the street, one level above. It must have reversed into the mall, since its nose is facing the hole it has just created. There are three passengers: two men in front, apparently unharmed, and a woman with light hair in the back seat, bleeding but not critically injured. They are trapped in the car and calling for help.

An ambulance driver climbs over the staircase railing, to try to reach a car door. He slips and somehow plummets down between the landings, as if the mall stretched several more floors below. People scream, including the woman in the car. As if on cue, dozen of people climb over the railing and jump as well, this time voluntarily.

*Note: That'll teach me to watch the preview to "The Happening" before going to bed.

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