no news is, well, no news

And that's not good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Arrrrr...

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

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

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

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

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

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words fail me

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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writing prompt: raindrops on roses

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.

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writing prompt: a room with a view

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.



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abstract art

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.

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procrastination is a sleazy one-night-stand

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

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

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

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quand une image vaut un mot

Je me suis payée un trip pour ma fête.

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

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

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

SOL / POIL / NOIR

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

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

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

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

aaaarrrrgggggghhhhh, ok, ok, I give in

I now have a Facebook profile.

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

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

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more dreambits

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

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

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exercises for the wordless mind

telling / twenty / energize / stylist / problematic

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

towel / burner / stingy / unravel / sponge

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

bribery / cohesive / prove / slope / down

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

(316)

writing prompt: perfect moon

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

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

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

(289)

american bash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(669)

writing prompt: 10-minute stroll

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

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

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

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

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

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

(827)

writing prompt: there is no music

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

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

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

(203)

writing prompt: dreaming in colour

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

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

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

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

(420)

the raven and the ferret

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

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

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

(78)

some calisthenics, because I'm out of shape

unacceptable / pathological / service / democratic / assume

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

tune / cart / exam / knot / quarter

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

counterculture / cream / smoke / PIN / deny

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

cell / dynamite / kit / nausea / doll

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

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

Today: Some itches are better left unscratched.

(368)

this is progress?

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

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

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

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

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

(186)

touchy subjects shouldn't equal hysteria

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

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

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

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

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

(387)

reading other people's writing on how to write

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

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

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

(324)

story in progress

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

(179)

en français

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

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

(337)

the value of unexpectedness

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

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

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

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

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

(381)

collected dreambits

A bunch of dreambits, in no particular order:

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

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

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

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

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

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

(466)

forgive me blogosphere, for i have sinned

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

---

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.

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!

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

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.

(1,086)

one week of drought

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.

(98)

a funny little dreambit

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?

(184)

words, words, words

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...

(69)

2 lopsided dreambits

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.

(606)

dreambit

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.

(343)

another online art gathering

Yep, just like me to find something all of two days after it has occurred. In this case, it's a blog of note, and it was added the day before the blessed event. In my defence, I spent the weekend domesticating a new type of migraine, so I was nowhere near a brightly-lit 22" monitor.

Still, the idea of Drawing Day appeals to me immensely, so I still salute the efforts of the participants and put myself a reminder for next year :-)

(83)

i can't believe i'm saying this, but...

...hey Vinnie Mac: I do not want your money. I do not care that you want to give it away. I want to watch wrestling, dammit. And you come along every other minute, interrupting with this crap idea of yours.

Besides, how can you ever hope to lose your image of appealing to the lowest common denominator when you yourself choose to shill shamelessly to the basest modern desire? You're digging your own grave.

(74)

more free philanthropy

Somehow, in a world where everything seems too expensive, I enjoy donating other people's money. I've already mentioned FreeRice, and now, there's more.

I found this one via the NaNoWriMo website.

Goodsearch is a Yahoo-based search engine that donates 50% of its ad revenues (i.e. about a penny per search) to the charitable organization of your choice. There really are charities for every taste, and the search engine is solid, so why not?

(73)

3 dreambits

1. In my aunt's kitchen (who passed away in 1992; I haven't set foot in her house since then, even though I still have a cousin who lives there.) My father is standing over the stove, which is an odd place for him to be; my mom is seated at the table, I think, and there's someone else, either my aunt or my cousin, in the doorway to the living room, behind me. Everyone is chatting normally, I couldn't say about what. I want to go out into the backyard. I open the inner door (or is it already open?) I look up; in the top right corner, two spiders in a web: one large, pale one, completely immobile, and another, smaller, moving across its back. Whether the larger one is trapped by the smaller one or whether it is the smaller one's mother is unclear. I scream through the small talk, "...but FUCK, doesn't anyone realize how FUCKING scared I am?" People turn to look at me. (My father was certainly not fond of swearing in general, and me swearing in particular. This situation, in real life, would have required all my cojones.)
   
   
2. Peewee, Pat and I are watching a movie in a house I don't know. There's a lesbian sex scene in it (not that it is relevant to anything.) I say something, Peewee mishears me, takes great offence, and storms out. Later, we're elsewhere in the house, and there's a bunch of people lounging around, like the morning after a party. As I'm telling the story of my falling out with Peewee to Kris, Peewee walks in and repeats what he heard me say. I correct him, which completely defuses the situation; he gives me a long, long hug, and resists when I start to feel awkward and pull away.
   
   
3. I'm in a large, open park, where tons of people are picnicking. Suddenly, there's a ruckus. Someone screams that there's a vicious dog attacking people. I spot him quickly - a large Dane-type, solid blue (not blue blue, blue the dog color - gray for the rest of the world.) I go towards him, and try to wrap my hands around his muzzle, to control him until help arrives. I get the definite feeling that he's humoring me, and that he's letting me hold him; I would stand no chance if he wanted to get loose and attack me. Someone shoots two arrows through his chest. I scream for someone to finish him off. I release him and stumble over him, falling onto my hands and knees. Behind me, I hear the "thwack" of the third arrow into his skull. I begin to bawl, a loud wail that resonates from deep down in my belly.

(460)

hero of the day?

I just have to mention the performance Kent Desormeaux turned in at the Belmont Stakes. In an industry overpopulated with, shall we say, not the straightest and narrowest of walkers, the man followed his gut and pulled Big Brown back, finishing dead last. In a year that saw Eight Belles put down on the Kentucky Derby track, the story holds. That he is being worked over by everyone and anyone who had monetary interest in the outcome of the race comes as no surprise. Some are even going so far as to say the fix was in, thanks to the mob. I'll take my chance at being naive. I salute the guy who thought to put the horse first, and racing be damned.

(123)

other people's words

I came across a few tidbits that, for a variety of reasons, really struck a chord deep within me.

First, Jean-Marc Parent, whose career as a stand-up comic in Quebec took him waaaayy up, then waaayy down, then back again, and seems to have stabilized as a grizzled veteran of the scene. His latest show, Urgence de vivre, was partially inspired by his heart problems. This is what he had to say about life:

J'ai toujours aimé la vie, mais j'ai jamais eu confiance en elle. De toute façon, personne ne devrait avoir confiance en la vie. La vie, elle t'avale, c'est tout.

Then, a coworker lent me Shopgirl, the novel by Steve Martin. She said that there was something in the way he wrote that she thought would appeal to me, and she was right. I found him a keen observer of human quirkiness, taking a simple little story and weaving it into something unique.

A few things really leapt off the page at me:

However, Jeremy does have one outstanding quality. He likes her. And this quality in a person makes them infinitely interesting to the person who is being liked.

---

Her penalty is that the men she attracts with her current package see her only from a primitive part of their brains, the childish part that likes shiny objects that make noise when rattled.

I can only hope that somewhere down the road, I'll be able to string together words like that. Not because they are these great exercises in eloquence, simply because of the basic truths they allow to shine through their simple word sequences.

(179)

pondering words

I wrote a bunch of things this week on paper, that I didn't take the time to post here. Here's a short sample...

I am absolutely incapable of stringing words together today. A heavy, sleepy fog has drifted onto the landscape of my mind, prompting me to pull the drapes shut and retreat for a nap with a thick blanket, a mug of hot chocolate and a drowsy cat in my lap. It's a warm, sunny day outside, but it's not inspiring lazy, hazy feelings; my inner world has shifted to the Southern hemisphere, to a gray, hibernation-inducing chill I generally associate with November. It sounds dingy and depressing, but in fact, it feels absolutely neutral. Like an approaching mid-summer storm, it is useless to argue the sun isn't out; pack in your garden tools, head inside, and ride out the rain. Listen to it tap-tapping on the roof, thank it for watering your garden, and ponder how many shades of gray Mother Nature can concoct when she sets her mind to it.

Just a few days later, I developed two days' worth of "new" migraines, which I will discuss in a later post.

(193)

a couple of random thoughts on the latest PPVs

I didn't make any predictions for either Judgment Day or One Night Stand. My mind was elsewhere for the most part, so I had no concrete expectations, I guess. Overall, I enjoyed both a whole heck of a lot.

Particularly the divas. Not since the heyday of Lita and Trish have we seen girls, you know, actually fight. Like, talent, rather than booty. Yay. More, more, more.

"Fuck! I broke my collarbone!" With those five words, Randy Orton threw future storylines, and particularly the upcoming draft, for a serious loop. I wonder where they were planning to go with that Orton/Batista interlude before the diva match. It was also really interesting to see how Triple H reacted; having twice been seriously injured in a match and finishing, he couldn't bring himself to expect the same of Orton and offered up one of the weakest finales since Austin pinned Owen Hart with a broken neck.

Y2J's run-in during the stretcher match ties as the low point of the evening with the cameraman's clumsy attempts not to show us the mattresses under Jeff Hardy and Umaga (with apologies to Orton and Big Show's real-life injuries.)

And last but now least, the end of the Undertaker? I'm not sure I buy it, but there was one moment, right when Taker started up the ramp, when his face changed, and Mark Callaway took in the crowd for the "last" time, his jaw set, his eyes betraying the intensity of the emotion. If this really is the end, then I am in serious mourning. If not, let the deadman rest awhile before returning to fight another day.

(272)

four days in six

Friday: Could not get here fast enough.

Saturday: Rainy, sleepy, movie, snacky, sleepy.

Sunday: Forever a creature of the night.

Monday: Getting back to blogging - feels right.

(27)

hindsight is always 20/20

So Richard Martineau, of whom I have written about previously, posted à "free to good home" ad for his dog on his blog. Turns out that since the birth of his third child, the couple has had little time to devote to the dog, who is bored silly.

A few of the comments gently chided him not to have any more children, lest the eldest get bored. Another spoke up, saying that hippy tree-hugging animal-lovers will boo hoo the fact he's reneging on an implicit promise to care for the dog its entire life, while they should realize that it takes a real animal-lover to be able to let the dog go to someplace where he will be truly loved and cared for. I thought about this, and it almost made sense, except that:

1. If you can only spare the time to care for a limited number of beings, due to time constraints or whatever, could you not foresee this? Did it not dawn on you that you wanted children within the next fifteen years or so, and that they would take up a lot of your free time? Because let's be frank, you do not want to change your lifestyle to accommodate the dog and the baby. So be it, but you should have thought of that beforehand. I also sincerely hope your parents and in-laws are in good health; I'm afraid to ask how you would solve the dilemma of becoming a caregiver as well.

2. If there were enough foster/adoptive homes to handle and care for all these no-longer-convenient pets, it would be a wash. Problem is the numbers are anything but even. So goodhearted people pour money, time and their hearts into cleaning up your mess. And you have the gall to title your post "Chien à donner - snif". Cry me a river, buddy.

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