The restaurant is full and noisy in the middle of the afternoon. People come alive with a few days celebration and escape from the daily necessity of work. Outside, the sun is a crisp circle, so perfect as to be unreal, a finely drawn dot of brighter white against a dull white sky. Snowflakes drift with gleeful disregard for gravity. Outside, beyond the poinsettia and the spider plant in the window, a blind man, complete with shades and a cane, gets out of a car, followed by a pretty wife and young son. Someone for everyone. Hope.
The end of a year. Our dates may be more or less arbitrary, but, at least in these parts, it’s a fitting time for it, the days having just reached their shortest, the darkest part of the year – the light only grows from here on in.
They’re just numbers on a calendar, its true. Maybe “Nothing Changes on New Years Day…” Maybe. But one can always hope.
As I told a friend a few nights ago, If you know you can’t go back and you can’t stay here...You have to move. You have to find a way to move forward. You fight and kick and bite and bash yourself against it again and again, a fly on a window, praying the cold, merciless bastard will eventually crack.
The problem with that, of course, is that said fly nearly always ends up legs-up on the windowsill. Admirable tenacity, perhaps, but the end result is the same.
Ok. So that was needlessly grim. Sometimes he gets splattered with a rolled up future-shop flyer first. Either way, I know I have a lot to be thankful for. I am gainfully employed. Affordably housed. I am finally in the process of buying my first fossil fuel powered vehicle (My penance to the North American consumer god for having convinced my family to give to charity this Christmas). I have a cat, at least, who loves me. And while we’re keeping this quiet for the time being, I may actually have figured out (or finally caved in to) what I want to be when I grow up. (This means, of course, I might have to get on with, well, growing up. Inconvenient, that)
I even have, wonder of wonders, the first feeble hints of a plan.
Progress indeed.
I have no idea how we’re going to pull it off.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Because, sometimes, the most interesting things happen when your eyes are closed...
...I really don't know what this says about me, but THIS, quite seriously, is often what my nights are like.
Dream from October 10, 2007
I am on some kind of large, ocean going ship, originally military in function. It has been a long time since it has seen service, however, it is permanently docked in a big city harbor, with all kinds of decking and shops and such built up against it, strings of lights hung from it to the shore, the whole touristy dock/marina thing. There happens to be a huge party on board at the moment, tons of drunk, happy people, balloons, streamers, people in tuxes and evening gowns, etc. Feels like new years. It seems most of the party goers are spending the night on the ship. Early the next morning, the engines start up, suddenly, and in minutes, the ship starts moving and pulls away from the dock, destroying all the built-up decking with great commotion, and heads out of the bay onto a river. Myself, and many others, wake up to this – but it is too late to disembark. It is a military ship again, apparently, with a commander, and officers in uniform, and a contingent of soldiers moving about the halls. It seems the civilians on board are pressed into crew jobs. Later, somewhere down this extraordinarily deep, wide river, the ship pulls over to the shore, and a bunch of civilians, with a few troops, go ashore to “gather supplies” Its just a big, grassy hill – there is no port here.
On the ship, we can see something huge approaching, fast, UNDER the surface of the river. It is some kind of submarine, but, it seems, one constructed entirely of green, leafy underwater plants. Smaller craft accompany it, and we can see their riders – who can only be described as “Algae people” – they are also green and leafy. The huge ship, with all its escorts, passes rapidly underneath our moored boat, and continues down the river. There is a feeling of relief, because they have passed us without any appearance of hostile intent. However, moments after their passing, a small, green, vine-y missile hurtles back from that direction. It strikes the shore, and, rather than exploding, grows instantly into a giant, killer tree with long vine arms that begins attacking the people on the shore.
I am immediately in another part of the ship – either a tower of some sort that rises very high above the deck, or the ship has the capacity for flight and has taken off, because I am in a narrow, metal, windowed hallway (Rather like the inside of a bus) and it is high in the air and wind is rushing past. There is metal emergency door/airlock at the far end, and a small red robot has punched its way through, and is bending back the metal, attempting to get inside. This is where the rushing wind is coming from. I attempt to block its path, and struggle with it. I find some heavy object, like a fire-extinguisher, and bash the thing repeatedly until it falls out the opening and disappears, sucked away by the wind. I am braced in the opening to avoid being sucked out myself. I look to one side and see a large, powerful-looking shotgun mounted on the wall next to the door, above a sign reading “In case of emergency”. I think that would have been useful a minute ago, but I leave it where it is and head back into the ship.
Dream from a week before this:
I am arriving in a mid-sized town in a valley with mountains on all sides. Normal town, with rows of houses and a few shops on the main road. There is large group of people gathering, with luggage, at the gas station. Buses are unloading. We are waiting for something. I have the sense that we have been drafted, or recruited, as soldiers, but we have not been trained or equipped yet. Perhaps we are awaiting transport to training camp. The atmosphere is light, there is laughing and horsing around, people’s families are there to see them off, like kids leaving for another year of college.
Myself and a few others leave this crowd and go further into the town, which seems deserted. Someone shouts. I look up to the surrounding mountains. Up on a hill, not very far off, is a stone fortress. At that moment, a creature, like a large metal-scaled lizard- with massive, steel-sharp front claws and no back legs at all- is climbing over the fortress walls. Several more of these things can be seen moving rapidly over the surrounding mountains. They are approaching very fast, and dead silent. We realize that we are under attack. There is a sense that we are expected to stay and fight , but we have no weapons, and I seem to know we have no chance against this particular enemy. We turn and run, back the way we came, as fast as we possibly can. We ought to warn the others, but the creatures are on us too quickly. Suddenly I am running alone – the others have either run off in other directions, or have been cut down. I run right past the crowd at the gas station – I don’t recall if I say anything to them, but they’ll see it themselves soon enough. I am making for a huge wall at the edge of town. It may be a natural mountain ridge, with a large, hi-tech steel door leading to a tunnel through the mountain. The door is closing. I know we are being cut off – abandoned by our own, left to the mercy of the lizards. I slip through the door just before it closes. I am in an elaborate shiny steel chamber of flashing lights and machinery. Running extremely fast, ducking and dodging, I somehow evade several automated security systems (hey, its my dream – I can have super-powers if I want to) Surprised guards run out, but I am already through the tunnel, and out the other side, into another town.
Later, it is night. I have escaped pursuit, and am hiding in the basement of a building with several other people – perhaps other “deserters” or refugees. They are afraid of being found by the army or by the people of the town – but again, this town feels deserted, too, except for uniformed army patrols. We also know the attack will most likely come here soon, and want to get out before it does. (It is also possible we have some other, secret mission, not directly related to the battle at hand. That would be supplying a less cowardly motive, at least.) We eventually sneak above ground, moving from building to building. The town is full of small patrols of soldiers, but these ones actually have uniforms and are heavily armed. We are hiding in a very small building – open-air- almost like a picnic shelter – a soldier spots us and yells – but right at that moment, the metal lizards attack. The soldier turns and fires, but is seized and swept away by the creature as it swoops past. We crouch in the shelter as all around us soldiers are yelling and firing, but they are quickly and effortlessly cut down by the lizards.
Another dream from the same week:
In a huge complex of some kind, in a gigantic arena with many balconies. Myself and several others are on of these. We are prisoners, and I understand we are on trial, awaiting execution. There is some confusion, some unforeseen calamity, and we escape, and are separated, running and hiding throughout the complex. We are all making for a secret, pre-arranged rendezvous point. I am with a thin woman with shorter, straight, dark hair. During one of the pauses in all the sneaking around, we end up kissing, briefly. ( I ‘d like to stress that this is not at all someone I presently know) We are immediately embarrassed by this, both by its occurrence, and by the fact that, at that precise moment, the rest of our party finds us. There is some kind of secret entrance, which appears as a solid wall but can be passed through, as though a hologram. We realize that our friends witnessed the entire scene, but that awkwardness is swallowed up in relief at re-uniting with the others. The mood is jovial, belying the apparently life-and-death circumstances. We all pass through the hidden door into the room our friends have been hiding in, and will apparently be waiting there for some time, for some opportunity to come. At any rate, there is a sense of having some sort of a plan (Sounds familiar…)
It is later. An exterior. A large, helicopter-esque hovering craft, all searchlights and sweeping sensors, is just outside our hiding spot. A screen inside shows an infrared scan of the room, with little orange-red blotches that would appear to be the sleeping forms of our little group. Calls are made, silently. Black-clad riot cops burst in.
But the scene shifts to our party escaping out a window, in a completely different part of the complex, and onto the roof…
(We have somehow tricked them – rigged bundles of clothes to emit heat, or some such thing)
------------
attempts at analysis and interpretation are welcome. Though, the most likely conclusion is simply that I have watched too many of the wrong sort of movie....
...I really don't know what this says about me, but THIS, quite seriously, is often what my nights are like.
Dream from October 10, 2007
I am on some kind of large, ocean going ship, originally military in function. It has been a long time since it has seen service, however, it is permanently docked in a big city harbor, with all kinds of decking and shops and such built up against it, strings of lights hung from it to the shore, the whole touristy dock/marina thing. There happens to be a huge party on board at the moment, tons of drunk, happy people, balloons, streamers, people in tuxes and evening gowns, etc. Feels like new years. It seems most of the party goers are spending the night on the ship. Early the next morning, the engines start up, suddenly, and in minutes, the ship starts moving and pulls away from the dock, destroying all the built-up decking with great commotion, and heads out of the bay onto a river. Myself, and many others, wake up to this – but it is too late to disembark. It is a military ship again, apparently, with a commander, and officers in uniform, and a contingent of soldiers moving about the halls. It seems the civilians on board are pressed into crew jobs. Later, somewhere down this extraordinarily deep, wide river, the ship pulls over to the shore, and a bunch of civilians, with a few troops, go ashore to “gather supplies” Its just a big, grassy hill – there is no port here.
On the ship, we can see something huge approaching, fast, UNDER the surface of the river. It is some kind of submarine, but, it seems, one constructed entirely of green, leafy underwater plants. Smaller craft accompany it, and we can see their riders – who can only be described as “Algae people” – they are also green and leafy. The huge ship, with all its escorts, passes rapidly underneath our moored boat, and continues down the river. There is a feeling of relief, because they have passed us without any appearance of hostile intent. However, moments after their passing, a small, green, vine-y missile hurtles back from that direction. It strikes the shore, and, rather than exploding, grows instantly into a giant, killer tree with long vine arms that begins attacking the people on the shore.
I am immediately in another part of the ship – either a tower of some sort that rises very high above the deck, or the ship has the capacity for flight and has taken off, because I am in a narrow, metal, windowed hallway (Rather like the inside of a bus) and it is high in the air and wind is rushing past. There is metal emergency door/airlock at the far end, and a small red robot has punched its way through, and is bending back the metal, attempting to get inside. This is where the rushing wind is coming from. I attempt to block its path, and struggle with it. I find some heavy object, like a fire-extinguisher, and bash the thing repeatedly until it falls out the opening and disappears, sucked away by the wind. I am braced in the opening to avoid being sucked out myself. I look to one side and see a large, powerful-looking shotgun mounted on the wall next to the door, above a sign reading “In case of emergency”. I think that would have been useful a minute ago, but I leave it where it is and head back into the ship.
Dream from a week before this:
I am arriving in a mid-sized town in a valley with mountains on all sides. Normal town, with rows of houses and a few shops on the main road. There is large group of people gathering, with luggage, at the gas station. Buses are unloading. We are waiting for something. I have the sense that we have been drafted, or recruited, as soldiers, but we have not been trained or equipped yet. Perhaps we are awaiting transport to training camp. The atmosphere is light, there is laughing and horsing around, people’s families are there to see them off, like kids leaving for another year of college.
Myself and a few others leave this crowd and go further into the town, which seems deserted. Someone shouts. I look up to the surrounding mountains. Up on a hill, not very far off, is a stone fortress. At that moment, a creature, like a large metal-scaled lizard- with massive, steel-sharp front claws and no back legs at all- is climbing over the fortress walls. Several more of these things can be seen moving rapidly over the surrounding mountains. They are approaching very fast, and dead silent. We realize that we are under attack. There is a sense that we are expected to stay and fight , but we have no weapons, and I seem to know we have no chance against this particular enemy. We turn and run, back the way we came, as fast as we possibly can. We ought to warn the others, but the creatures are on us too quickly. Suddenly I am running alone – the others have either run off in other directions, or have been cut down. I run right past the crowd at the gas station – I don’t recall if I say anything to them, but they’ll see it themselves soon enough. I am making for a huge wall at the edge of town. It may be a natural mountain ridge, with a large, hi-tech steel door leading to a tunnel through the mountain. The door is closing. I know we are being cut off – abandoned by our own, left to the mercy of the lizards. I slip through the door just before it closes. I am in an elaborate shiny steel chamber of flashing lights and machinery. Running extremely fast, ducking and dodging, I somehow evade several automated security systems (hey, its my dream – I can have super-powers if I want to) Surprised guards run out, but I am already through the tunnel, and out the other side, into another town.
Later, it is night. I have escaped pursuit, and am hiding in the basement of a building with several other people – perhaps other “deserters” or refugees. They are afraid of being found by the army or by the people of the town – but again, this town feels deserted, too, except for uniformed army patrols. We also know the attack will most likely come here soon, and want to get out before it does. (It is also possible we have some other, secret mission, not directly related to the battle at hand. That would be supplying a less cowardly motive, at least.) We eventually sneak above ground, moving from building to building. The town is full of small patrols of soldiers, but these ones actually have uniforms and are heavily armed. We are hiding in a very small building – open-air- almost like a picnic shelter – a soldier spots us and yells – but right at that moment, the metal lizards attack. The soldier turns and fires, but is seized and swept away by the creature as it swoops past. We crouch in the shelter as all around us soldiers are yelling and firing, but they are quickly and effortlessly cut down by the lizards.
Another dream from the same week:
In a huge complex of some kind, in a gigantic arena with many balconies. Myself and several others are on of these. We are prisoners, and I understand we are on trial, awaiting execution. There is some confusion, some unforeseen calamity, and we escape, and are separated, running and hiding throughout the complex. We are all making for a secret, pre-arranged rendezvous point. I am with a thin woman with shorter, straight, dark hair. During one of the pauses in all the sneaking around, we end up kissing, briefly. ( I ‘d like to stress that this is not at all someone I presently know) We are immediately embarrassed by this, both by its occurrence, and by the fact that, at that precise moment, the rest of our party finds us. There is some kind of secret entrance, which appears as a solid wall but can be passed through, as though a hologram. We realize that our friends witnessed the entire scene, but that awkwardness is swallowed up in relief at re-uniting with the others. The mood is jovial, belying the apparently life-and-death circumstances. We all pass through the hidden door into the room our friends have been hiding in, and will apparently be waiting there for some time, for some opportunity to come. At any rate, there is a sense of having some sort of a plan (Sounds familiar…)
It is later. An exterior. A large, helicopter-esque hovering craft, all searchlights and sweeping sensors, is just outside our hiding spot. A screen inside shows an infrared scan of the room, with little orange-red blotches that would appear to be the sleeping forms of our little group. Calls are made, silently. Black-clad riot cops burst in.
But the scene shifts to our party escaping out a window, in a completely different part of the complex, and onto the roof…
(We have somehow tricked them – rigged bundles of clothes to emit heat, or some such thing)
------------
attempts at analysis and interpretation are welcome. Though, the most likely conclusion is simply that I have watched too many of the wrong sort of movie....
Friday, December 14, 2007
Well, admittedly, envy is, by definition, not terribly grateful. Look at that as more of a confession. The Confessions Of Saint Thomson The Unnecessarily Verbose. And that, my friend, is just the very tiniest tip of the iceberg, the most sanitized, socially acceptable distillation that could possibly be made of my envy.
But lets not talk about that. Lets talk about dreams.
While the storytelling apparatus of my conscious mind is a tad slow and painful at present, my not-terribly-conscious mind seems positively prolific. So, in the absence of finished product from the former, I give you the feverish spewings of the latter.
A dream, from a a couple nights ago. With commentary.
I dream that I wake, suddenly, in pitch blackness. I recall that I am in a book/video store, and have fallen asleep reading, on the floor, right there in the aisle. They have turned the lights out. I do not know how long i have been here. I call out, and thankfully, the staff are still in the store. I make my way, clumsy and blind, to the central kiosk. A very pale, sickly green florescent light is turned on. The staff apologize for turning the lights out on me, and ask if there's something they can help me with. I tell them I am in the mood for a good sci-fi/fantasy movie, but want something new, something obscure, something i haven't seen. I ask for a recommendation. The one staff member, a scrawny, scruff-bearded young man, gives a suggestion, popping it in the machine on the desk and showing me a few quick snippets of the film. I am skeptical - It looks grainy, low budget, and cheesy. But they clearly want to close and go home, so I take the movie. As is so often the case in my dreams, the instant I make the decision to watch the film, I am watching it, and the instant after that, I am IN it, part of the story.
So, in the film, which has become the dream, I am standing, facing a beach, my feet in the surf. Behind me is a massive body of water, in which floats a small speedboat-type craft. The sky is heavy and odd-coloured, like dense cloud, like the roof of an underground cavern. I am speaking to a man, who is standing on the sand. He is assuring me that it is safe to bring in my ships. As he says this, I turn around and look up in the sky behind me. My "ships", a small cluster of hovering space-craft/blimp-ish things, are, as we speak, exploding, bursting into flames, breaking apart and falling into the ocean. I turn back to the man, who gives me a sheepish look and starts assuring me that he had no idea that would happen. I do not believe him , and turn and begin wading back to my boat. He calls out to me to not leave him there, to take him with me. I growl over my shoulder that he is on his own, that he can fend for himself. Words to that effect.
I am in the deep, open ocean, far from shore. My boat is upside down and several meters under the surface, drifting slowly down. I am swimming away, terrified of something that is coming. Which turns out to be huge eel- like creatures, dull gray, with salamander-like heads full of teeth, and red eyes that glow like Christmas lights. The eels are large enough to swallow the boat whole. I am under the surface, being thrown about helplessly by huge swells. Giant gray Eels swim past me, beside me, under me. One brings its massive head up to where I float, helplessly suspended in the current. I am looking at its red eyes, expecting to be eaten at any moment. Instead, I am suddenly sensing the eel's thoughts, communicating with it. I realize it is intelligent. I am being shown scenes from the history of the Eels - I sense that they have been hunted almost to extinction, or that they have, at least, a very troubled relationship with humans. The Eel seems very old and sad.
This whole world goes dark, for a moment, then, is suddenly lit by a dim purple-ish light. It is now clearly an ocean contained in a massive underground cavern. The light is being controlled by the "gods" of this world, apparently. A small, purple winged creature, perhaps one of these "gods", is hovering above the middle of the ocean, near the roof of the cavern. Below him is a small, barren rock island. On it stand the other "gods" - large, thick-set, bulky creatures, green and purple and teal...like giants constructed of mismatched Lego blocks. They are vicious, arbitrary, and fearful. Tiny humans are lined up in front of each of them, bringing them offerings.
But lets not talk about that. Lets talk about dreams.
While the storytelling apparatus of my conscious mind is a tad slow and painful at present, my not-terribly-conscious mind seems positively prolific. So, in the absence of finished product from the former, I give you the feverish spewings of the latter.
A dream, from a a couple nights ago. With commentary.
I dream that I wake, suddenly, in pitch blackness. I recall that I am in a book/video store, and have fallen asleep reading, on the floor, right there in the aisle. They have turned the lights out. I do not know how long i have been here. I call out, and thankfully, the staff are still in the store. I make my way, clumsy and blind, to the central kiosk. A very pale, sickly green florescent light is turned on. The staff apologize for turning the lights out on me, and ask if there's something they can help me with. I tell them I am in the mood for a good sci-fi/fantasy movie, but want something new, something obscure, something i haven't seen. I ask for a recommendation. The one staff member, a scrawny, scruff-bearded young man, gives a suggestion, popping it in the machine on the desk and showing me a few quick snippets of the film. I am skeptical - It looks grainy, low budget, and cheesy. But they clearly want to close and go home, so I take the movie. As is so often the case in my dreams, the instant I make the decision to watch the film, I am watching it, and the instant after that, I am IN it, part of the story.
So, in the film, which has become the dream, I am standing, facing a beach, my feet in the surf. Behind me is a massive body of water, in which floats a small speedboat-type craft. The sky is heavy and odd-coloured, like dense cloud, like the roof of an underground cavern. I am speaking to a man, who is standing on the sand. He is assuring me that it is safe to bring in my ships. As he says this, I turn around and look up in the sky behind me. My "ships", a small cluster of hovering space-craft/blimp-ish things, are, as we speak, exploding, bursting into flames, breaking apart and falling into the ocean. I turn back to the man, who gives me a sheepish look and starts assuring me that he had no idea that would happen. I do not believe him , and turn and begin wading back to my boat. He calls out to me to not leave him there, to take him with me. I growl over my shoulder that he is on his own, that he can fend for himself. Words to that effect.
I am in the deep, open ocean, far from shore. My boat is upside down and several meters under the surface, drifting slowly down. I am swimming away, terrified of something that is coming. Which turns out to be huge eel- like creatures, dull gray, with salamander-like heads full of teeth, and red eyes that glow like Christmas lights. The eels are large enough to swallow the boat whole. I am under the surface, being thrown about helplessly by huge swells. Giant gray Eels swim past me, beside me, under me. One brings its massive head up to where I float, helplessly suspended in the current. I am looking at its red eyes, expecting to be eaten at any moment. Instead, I am suddenly sensing the eel's thoughts, communicating with it. I realize it is intelligent. I am being shown scenes from the history of the Eels - I sense that they have been hunted almost to extinction, or that they have, at least, a very troubled relationship with humans. The Eel seems very old and sad.
This whole world goes dark, for a moment, then, is suddenly lit by a dim purple-ish light. It is now clearly an ocean contained in a massive underground cavern. The light is being controlled by the "gods" of this world, apparently. A small, purple winged creature, perhaps one of these "gods", is hovering above the middle of the ocean, near the roof of the cavern. Below him is a small, barren rock island. On it stand the other "gods" - large, thick-set, bulky creatures, green and purple and teal...like giants constructed of mismatched Lego blocks. They are vicious, arbitrary, and fearful. Tiny humans are lined up in front of each of them, bringing them offerings.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Envy
I've said, in the past, that I have no regrets about the choices I made when I was young, but, like so much else…
Some days, I would give it all - all I've experienced, all I've learned, all I see - to have what they have. I wouldn't care if it made me dumb, and boring, and blind, and utterly devoid of unique or valuable thought. I would trade it all- the travel, the mission work, the idealism, the lessons learned, the “unique” perspective, the “art”, the “vision” , the imagination, everything ….I would trade all that for a bankable skill, a respectable job, a soul-less box in the suburbs with a two-car garage, a big screen TV, an SUV, and a trophy wife.
It isn’t that I actually WANT any of those things – it’s the powerful allure of perceived normalcy. Success… or a particular definition of it. Not a definition I agree with, but that’s not to say that, at times, I don’t feel its tidal pull. Kind of like you always wanted to be one of the popular kids, even though you knew full well the popular kids were vain, shallow, backstabbing jerks.
And I’m well aware that, much like my disdain for “the popular kids” ... my rejection of this particular ideal of “success” has less to do with counter-culture heroism than with the fact that, frankly…
…the option isn’t really on the table.
Some days, I would give it all - all I've experienced, all I've learned, all I see - to have what they have. I wouldn't care if it made me dumb, and boring, and blind, and utterly devoid of unique or valuable thought. I would trade it all- the travel, the mission work, the idealism, the lessons learned, the “unique” perspective, the “art”, the “vision” , the imagination, everything ….I would trade all that for a bankable skill, a respectable job, a soul-less box in the suburbs with a two-car garage, a big screen TV, an SUV, and a trophy wife.
It isn’t that I actually WANT any of those things – it’s the powerful allure of perceived normalcy. Success… or a particular definition of it. Not a definition I agree with, but that’s not to say that, at times, I don’t feel its tidal pull. Kind of like you always wanted to be one of the popular kids, even though you knew full well the popular kids were vain, shallow, backstabbing jerks.
And I’m well aware that, much like my disdain for “the popular kids” ... my rejection of this particular ideal of “success” has less to do with counter-culture heroism than with the fact that, frankly…
…the option isn’t really on the table.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Grace and Gratefulness
My job, as I believe I have mentioned, does not exactly tax my mind, which is actually one of the things I like about it. I enjoy having time for reflection. Unfortunately, depending on where I am coming from, reflection can easily turn to brooding. Brooding is seldom a productive activity.
This kind of space, too, can very easily turn to a outlet for griping and whining. believe me, there are things I could gripe about. And though that comes pretty naturally to me, its not where i want to be right now. Gratefulness. Gratefulness...is a good thing. One of the first things that began to change for me was the sudden ability to look at my life and actually see things to be grateful for. Because, when you think about it....
This, all of this, even the really crappy stuff, is a gift. We are, none of us, OWED. Anything. I'm honestly not sure what i think about "original sin" and a "fallen world" and all that, but this much is clear to me: An all-powerful God has the right to do what He wants with what He makes. As a wanna-be writer, i get this. If I create characters, I can do what I want with them- kill them off, make them suffer - anything that I think makes the story work - and lets face it, there is a certain beauty in heart-rending tragedy. Whether we LIKE it or not doesn't enter into it -
We don't HAVE to exist. God didn't HAVE to make us- He doesn't HAVE to give us life, and He can take it back at any time. IF you don't buy into that view of things, a random, impersonal universe, governed by chance, cannot possibly be said to owe us any more. We are, none of us, OWED, not even existence. So, every day, every hour, that we continue to exist, that we continue to have life...every single minute...is a gift. Grace, pure and simple. He has the power to take it away, so every minute that He DOESN'T....is a gift.
We can make no demands of this universe. We are in no position to make demands of our creator. We are not owed even existence. It is a gift. If we exist, everything that comes beyond that....is a gift. If it falls into the category of what we can call "good "...so much the better. "Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?"
Anyway. that's a bit of rationalization. Gratefulness. Gratefulness....is far more useful than self-pity, or despair.
Things I am Grateful for....
I am grateful for my little slice of prairie. I remember seeing prison movies, where they are allowed out into a "yard" which is just four concrete walls and a patch of sky. They are so happy, they are moved to tears. I didn't understand. It is just a patch of sky. It barely counts as being outside. But i get it now...when that little patch of sky is all you have, it becomes a world. There is a pipeline running behind the yard at work, so there is a little strip of land they are not allowed to build ugly boxes on. It grows wild, mowed maybe once a summer. If I use my mental green-screen to edit out the shop on the other side, and The Leons across the road, it can be a endless prairie stretching to the horizon. Wild grasses, small shrubs, vast sky, wind-swept clouds. Populated by rabbits. Right now it is covered in snow. I have seen the seasons come and go here. I remember spring...the glaciers receded, leaving tiny rivers to carve the land into valleys, leaving barren tundra and boulders...awaiting their coating of green. Now the glaciers have returned, and i come out every morning to icefields. The land is hidden beneath plains, mountains, jagged ridges of snow. That world had gone to sleep....for centuries. For now, it is a world of one color, white and windswept. But it will, someday, be warm and green and alive again.
The rabbit who lives in the yard, now huge and white, like the snowdrifts on the pipes, still runs, terrified, from my massive, noisy, smoke-belching forklift. Today I came out to find his tracks leading up to one gigantic wheel, and a small patch of yellow snow. He came out to piss on the monster, while it slept.
I have to admit, I like his style.
This kind of space, too, can very easily turn to a outlet for griping and whining. believe me, there are things I could gripe about. And though that comes pretty naturally to me, its not where i want to be right now. Gratefulness. Gratefulness...is a good thing. One of the first things that began to change for me was the sudden ability to look at my life and actually see things to be grateful for. Because, when you think about it....
This, all of this, even the really crappy stuff, is a gift. We are, none of us, OWED. Anything. I'm honestly not sure what i think about "original sin" and a "fallen world" and all that, but this much is clear to me: An all-powerful God has the right to do what He wants with what He makes. As a wanna-be writer, i get this. If I create characters, I can do what I want with them- kill them off, make them suffer - anything that I think makes the story work - and lets face it, there is a certain beauty in heart-rending tragedy. Whether we LIKE it or not doesn't enter into it -
We don't HAVE to exist. God didn't HAVE to make us- He doesn't HAVE to give us life, and He can take it back at any time. IF you don't buy into that view of things, a random, impersonal universe, governed by chance, cannot possibly be said to owe us any more. We are, none of us, OWED, not even existence. So, every day, every hour, that we continue to exist, that we continue to have life...every single minute...is a gift. Grace, pure and simple. He has the power to take it away, so every minute that He DOESN'T....is a gift.
We can make no demands of this universe. We are in no position to make demands of our creator. We are not owed even existence. It is a gift. If we exist, everything that comes beyond that....is a gift. If it falls into the category of what we can call "good "...so much the better. "Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?"
Anyway. that's a bit of rationalization. Gratefulness. Gratefulness....is far more useful than self-pity, or despair.
Things I am Grateful for....
I am grateful for my little slice of prairie. I remember seeing prison movies, where they are allowed out into a "yard" which is just four concrete walls and a patch of sky. They are so happy, they are moved to tears. I didn't understand. It is just a patch of sky. It barely counts as being outside. But i get it now...when that little patch of sky is all you have, it becomes a world. There is a pipeline running behind the yard at work, so there is a little strip of land they are not allowed to build ugly boxes on. It grows wild, mowed maybe once a summer. If I use my mental green-screen to edit out the shop on the other side, and The Leons across the road, it can be a endless prairie stretching to the horizon. Wild grasses, small shrubs, vast sky, wind-swept clouds. Populated by rabbits. Right now it is covered in snow. I have seen the seasons come and go here. I remember spring...the glaciers receded, leaving tiny rivers to carve the land into valleys, leaving barren tundra and boulders...awaiting their coating of green. Now the glaciers have returned, and i come out every morning to icefields. The land is hidden beneath plains, mountains, jagged ridges of snow. That world had gone to sleep....for centuries. For now, it is a world of one color, white and windswept. But it will, someday, be warm and green and alive again.
The rabbit who lives in the yard, now huge and white, like the snowdrifts on the pipes, still runs, terrified, from my massive, noisy, smoke-belching forklift. Today I came out to find his tracks leading up to one gigantic wheel, and a small patch of yellow snow. He came out to piss on the monster, while it slept.
I have to admit, I like his style.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Its been over a month since the last play ended, and coincidentally, since my last post. Little of what was planned was accomplished with all that free time i suddenly had on my hands, but no matter.
I auditioned for "The Lion in Winter" tonight. So did a whole lot of other people. I'm not sure how much i care if i get the part, though i'm sure i'd say yes if it was offered. These things do not carry the burning necessity they once did.
I auditioned for "The Lion in Winter" tonight. So did a whole lot of other people. I'm not sure how much i care if i get the part, though i'm sure i'd say yes if it was offered. These things do not carry the burning necessity they once did.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Excuses, Excuses...
This is what I've been doing for the past two-and-a-bit months, and why I haven't done much of anything else. That's me sitting on the back of the couch, honestly, it really is....
And in this one, I actually get a mention. (You have to read till the end...)
But that's all done now. Sigh. On to the next....
And in this one, I actually get a mention. (You have to read till the end...)
But that's all done now. Sigh. On to the next....
The End of an Era
Norbert the Uniformly Cheerful and Good Natured Eater-of-Seeds has gone to be with
the Hamster God. He passed away quietly in his sleep sometime today, Wednesday, the Thirty-first of October. He died as he lived - snuggled in a warm nest, oblivious to our troubled world. He is survived by his nearly identical partner-in-crime and occasional cage-mate Jaques, a forgetful owner, and a large, orange Cat. Funeral services, including a cremation ceremony, will be held later tonight, at my backyard
fire-pit. All are welcome. Bring anything suitable one might imbibe to toast Sir Norbert's journey into the halls of his fathers.
the Hamster God. He passed away quietly in his sleep sometime today, Wednesday, the Thirty-first of October. He died as he lived - snuggled in a warm nest, oblivious to our troubled world. He is survived by his nearly identical partner-in-crime and occasional cage-mate Jaques, a forgetful owner, and a large, orange Cat. Funeral services, including a cremation ceremony, will be held later tonight, at my backyard
fire-pit. All are welcome. Bring anything suitable one might imbibe to toast Sir Norbert's journey into the halls of his fathers.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
It is nothing more than pride that keeps me from writing. The same stupid pride that keeps me bound up in the rest of life - afraid of showing some weakness, of being laughed at or looking silly, of being myself and having that self seem ridiculous, foolish or inadequate...Pride is what undoes me. What holds me back. What holds me IN. What keeps me inside...What keeps all these words inside. The desire to be impressive, to impress....the need to "look good", the mortal dread that my writing is not sufficiently "mature" or "sophisticated", or that it will reveal too much of its author, that people will see through it to the parts of me I prefer to keep hidden - weak, flawed, self absorbed, brutally lonely...My "image" editor chips away until I have nothing left. And what I DO write feels hollow, because it does not come from ME, but some place outside of me in the realm of "how I would like to be seen" or things I deem to be "safe" to write about. Pride, Vanity, Ego...foolishness.
It seems, at last, I have found a use for this space.
If i can make a fool of myself HERE, in this "public" place...maybe, just maybe I can start getting past this. If i can release words HERE, where people MIGHT actually read them - If i can let "imperfect" sentences loose, hit "POST" and not look back....
And the first order of business is to correct a glaring omission.
To run to someone in private, in time of need...for comfort, for help... to find strength in them, wisdom and guidance...to have them pick up you up off your face when you are at your lowest and give you hope, and set you on a better path...to have such a person quietly and patiently endure your mistrust, your scorn, your outright abuse, yet remain faithfully at your side and receive you with mercy when all your other, cooler "friends" disappear and you come running back ...
To have a friend like this, and yet be reluctant to publicly name them a friend or be seen with them...most would agree, i think, that to fail to acknowledge such a friend would be dishonest, hypocritical, and, well, Jerk-ish.
You, my God, My friend since my youth. YOU have done this. Whatever IS happening in my life, IF anything is happening, Whatever is good...YOU have done it. I know this. It is not honest of me to claim this as my own doing, or even to allow that misconception to be held. There have been choices I made, to be sure, but they would have been good choices to make at any point in the last few years, and I repeatedly failed to make them. And the very FIRST choice made, that is, the first that made a difference - was a choice to stop nursing my anger against you, to humble myself and admit that I, the great, mighty ME....I needed you. And that i had been making a royal mess of things all these years when i thought i knew better, when I was determined that i was going to take my life in my own hands and through pure force of will make it what i thought it should be, what YOU, in my mind, had failed to deliver. I only succeeded in making a rather complete ass of myself and sinking even deeper into the hole that I was mad at you for not digging me out of in the first place. As if You existed to serve my whim. As if i had any grounds on which to make demands of you. As if there could possibly be anything that you OWED me. Anyway.
I must give credit where credit is due. Even if none but me yet see what I thank you for. I am not yet where i will be, but i am not where i was. And where I am going, You are taking me.
A Clumsy, Ineloquent, profoundly insufficient gesture, i know...But...
Perhaps it is still a selfish one, too, for i know of no other means to attack this crippling, imprisoning pride than to acknowledge You, and make a fool of myself doing so, to "Come Out" as hopelessly, desperately in need of You, and to release the need to do so in the most elegantly crafted prose possible...
It seems, at last, I have found a use for this space.
If i can make a fool of myself HERE, in this "public" place...maybe, just maybe I can start getting past this. If i can release words HERE, where people MIGHT actually read them - If i can let "imperfect" sentences loose, hit "POST" and not look back....
And the first order of business is to correct a glaring omission.
To run to someone in private, in time of need...for comfort, for help... to find strength in them, wisdom and guidance...to have them pick up you up off your face when you are at your lowest and give you hope, and set you on a better path...to have such a person quietly and patiently endure your mistrust, your scorn, your outright abuse, yet remain faithfully at your side and receive you with mercy when all your other, cooler "friends" disappear and you come running back ...
To have a friend like this, and yet be reluctant to publicly name them a friend or be seen with them...most would agree, i think, that to fail to acknowledge such a friend would be dishonest, hypocritical, and, well, Jerk-ish.
You, my God, My friend since my youth. YOU have done this. Whatever IS happening in my life, IF anything is happening, Whatever is good...YOU have done it. I know this. It is not honest of me to claim this as my own doing, or even to allow that misconception to be held. There have been choices I made, to be sure, but they would have been good choices to make at any point in the last few years, and I repeatedly failed to make them. And the very FIRST choice made, that is, the first that made a difference - was a choice to stop nursing my anger against you, to humble myself and admit that I, the great, mighty ME....I needed you. And that i had been making a royal mess of things all these years when i thought i knew better, when I was determined that i was going to take my life in my own hands and through pure force of will make it what i thought it should be, what YOU, in my mind, had failed to deliver. I only succeeded in making a rather complete ass of myself and sinking even deeper into the hole that I was mad at you for not digging me out of in the first place. As if You existed to serve my whim. As if i had any grounds on which to make demands of you. As if there could possibly be anything that you OWED me. Anyway.
I must give credit where credit is due. Even if none but me yet see what I thank you for. I am not yet where i will be, but i am not where i was. And where I am going, You are taking me.
A Clumsy, Ineloquent, profoundly insufficient gesture, i know...But...
Perhaps it is still a selfish one, too, for i know of no other means to attack this crippling, imprisoning pride than to acknowledge You, and make a fool of myself doing so, to "Come Out" as hopelessly, desperately in need of You, and to release the need to do so in the most elegantly crafted prose possible...
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
Another oddly eventful weekend in which nothing really happened- though Mr. George O'malley did take advantage of the comings and goings of Saturday Night's campfire gathering to make good on his third escape attempt. Like a true Irishman, he wasn't loose on the town ten minutes before he landed in a brawl. To the very short list of creatures that George does NOT love with all his fuzzy heart (the previous two entries being large, black poodles and The Cable Guy) we can now add the orange tabby next door. Following the unmistakably bone-chilling sound of pure,unsheathed feline hate, I found the combatants tumbling over each other in a furry whirlwind. Much chasing around ensued before the neighbor's cat pulled a strategic retreat to his own yard, and I was able to scoop the indignant Mr O' Malley from the firelit driveway and toss him inside to cool off. He is fine, save that his already foreshortened ear is looking...well, a little bit rougher. He seems to have given as good as he got - when I got a look at him in the light, he had a large,bloody chunk of cat-fur in his mouth.
Ick.
Ick.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Incredible Dot-head Man has a Rough Day at Work
Though I admit I am often tempted to shake my fist at the heavens and complain bitterly about the role assigned me in life, I must remind myself that no matter how bleak it gets, I’ll always have it better than This guy:
And, as if that wasn't horrific enough...
Ooookay.....Um...I'll make sure I....uh...avoid that.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
The hardest part, so far, is getting past the horror of seeing your living dreams imprisoned in cold, hard type.
Well...that, and getting over 30 years of habitual procrastination, endless self-editing perfectionism, post-work exhaustion, and those pesky friends who suddenly come out of the woodwork with tempting social engagements THE MOMENT you actually have something you really should be working on.
The theory behind my escape to the mountains was that I would write. Well, it might have worked, if I locked myself in a room and ignored the outside world, which would more or less negate the advantages of being in the mountains in the first place. It would have worked better if I hadn’t spent some 2 hours sitting at a bar sort of vaguely hoping to talk to someone interesting, because I was away from home and feeling lonely. Vaguely. The only conversation I managed to strike up was with a pimply faced 18 year old kid who looked at me and my laptop with a sort of fresh-from-somewhere-small-in-northwestern-Ontario awe and asked, rather out of the blue, “Are you a writer?”
Yeah, Kid. I’m a writer. I gave myself a deadline two weeks ago and I have written exactly two and a half actual paragraphs in that time. I’m a Reeeeaaaal, live writer.
I said something immensely clever like “ sometimes” and pretended to be examining my beer for impurities. I suppose the “Leave me the hell alone” vibe isn’t terribly useful if you’re still sort of hoping to pick someone up, but It’s a vibe I happen to be quite good at emitting( quite often accidentally). In this case, sadly, I was unsuccessful. Either too young or too drunk to pick up that I was about as interested in chatting as having another one of those “Moose-antler” Stouts, he kept going. Somehow he got me to mention I had been in China ( a fact very difficult to wring out of me, I know) and his first thought on that was “ I hear the girls there are easy” which both tipped me off to the level of conversation I was likely to have here, and helped me make the transition from wanting him to go away to kind of wanting to hit him.
I had begun to feel plenty ridiculous well before this, but had a genuinely good beer in front of me that had to be finished. I downed the remains rather too quickly, paid Andre the depressingly handsome and charming bartender, and stumbled home in the dark to get back to that “writing stuff”. Well…another useful thing I’ve figured out is that I’m NOT actually a better writer after four beers. Damn Andre and his “Elk Run Red”.
The "Great Project" does not progress terribly well at the moment. But we're just getting started.
Well...that, and getting over 30 years of habitual procrastination, endless self-editing perfectionism, post-work exhaustion, and those pesky friends who suddenly come out of the woodwork with tempting social engagements THE MOMENT you actually have something you really should be working on.
The theory behind my escape to the mountains was that I would write. Well, it might have worked, if I locked myself in a room and ignored the outside world, which would more or less negate the advantages of being in the mountains in the first place. It would have worked better if I hadn’t spent some 2 hours sitting at a bar sort of vaguely hoping to talk to someone interesting, because I was away from home and feeling lonely. Vaguely. The only conversation I managed to strike up was with a pimply faced 18 year old kid who looked at me and my laptop with a sort of fresh-from-somewhere-small-in-northwestern-Ontario awe and asked, rather out of the blue, “Are you a writer?”
Yeah, Kid. I’m a writer. I gave myself a deadline two weeks ago and I have written exactly two and a half actual paragraphs in that time. I’m a Reeeeaaaal, live writer.
I said something immensely clever like “ sometimes” and pretended to be examining my beer for impurities. I suppose the “Leave me the hell alone” vibe isn’t terribly useful if you’re still sort of hoping to pick someone up, but It’s a vibe I happen to be quite good at emitting( quite often accidentally). In this case, sadly, I was unsuccessful. Either too young or too drunk to pick up that I was about as interested in chatting as having another one of those “Moose-antler” Stouts, he kept going. Somehow he got me to mention I had been in China ( a fact very difficult to wring out of me, I know) and his first thought on that was “ I hear the girls there are easy” which both tipped me off to the level of conversation I was likely to have here, and helped me make the transition from wanting him to go away to kind of wanting to hit him.
I had begun to feel plenty ridiculous well before this, but had a genuinely good beer in front of me that had to be finished. I downed the remains rather too quickly, paid Andre the depressingly handsome and charming bartender, and stumbled home in the dark to get back to that “writing stuff”. Well…another useful thing I’ve figured out is that I’m NOT actually a better writer after four beers. Damn Andre and his “Elk Run Red”.
The "Great Project" does not progress terribly well at the moment. But we're just getting started.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
To seek to simply return to what was…this would not be growth. But neither is growth necessarily a constant moving on to something new and different. It can be growth to recognize that there are some places one has been that are better than where one is now – that the value of some things might have been misjudged, and some things abandoned that were better kept., some things pursued that were better left unachieved.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
I need to get a few people together and stage an intervention. I’m starting to feel the strain of living with someone with life-controlling issues. I’m afraid it has become obvious to most, but for any who still haven’t seen it, well... there’s no easy way to say this…
My Cat….is a tap addict.
And by tap, I don’t mean the whole Fred Astaire thing, which is too bad, because there’d likely be a way for me to make money off that. No, my cat is flat out addicted to the tap in the bathroom sink. The house comes with numerous other water sources that provide the good stuff without the necessity for a human to be badgered into turning a knob, including a 35 dollar “cat fountain” engineered, apparently , for no purpose at all besides feline drinking needs – but he turns his nose up at these. Heck, he won’t even drink from the toilet anymore. I am beginning to suspect that does without water all day, even when I am gone from 630 in the morning to 11 at night, just so he can hold out for the holy elixir that spills from the faucet I rinse my toothbrush under. After two or three obligatory “happy-to-see-you” belly rolls, he takes off for the bathroom counter with the urgency you’d expect if a Doberman had just bitten a chunk off his tail, and simply won’t stop meowing until I cave and give him what he wants. Anytime I get up and head in a direction that might conceivably lead to the bathroom (Which, in my place, is pretty much any direction at all) he scurries to that door and looks up at me with eyes that tell me I have the power to validate his entire existence. “Please sir, just a little bit more tap…”
Yeesh.
My Cat….is a tap addict.
And by tap, I don’t mean the whole Fred Astaire thing, which is too bad, because there’d likely be a way for me to make money off that. No, my cat is flat out addicted to the tap in the bathroom sink. The house comes with numerous other water sources that provide the good stuff without the necessity for a human to be badgered into turning a knob, including a 35 dollar “cat fountain” engineered, apparently , for no purpose at all besides feline drinking needs – but he turns his nose up at these. Heck, he won’t even drink from the toilet anymore. I am beginning to suspect that does without water all day, even when I am gone from 630 in the morning to 11 at night, just so he can hold out for the holy elixir that spills from the faucet I rinse my toothbrush under. After two or three obligatory “happy-to-see-you” belly rolls, he takes off for the bathroom counter with the urgency you’d expect if a Doberman had just bitten a chunk off his tail, and simply won’t stop meowing until I cave and give him what he wants. Anytime I get up and head in a direction that might conceivably lead to the bathroom (Which, in my place, is pretty much any direction at all) he scurries to that door and looks up at me with eyes that tell me I have the power to validate his entire existence. “Please sir, just a little bit more tap…”
Yeesh.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Snowflakes like little, flat shards of glass were drifting in the air, hanging still, slicing sideways, twirling and flipping, slowly working their way to pavement as if from giant windows shattered thousands of feet above. The earth, some immense greenhouse in space, its air kept in by an enveloping lattice of glass. I imagined all the world’s air leisurely escaping in the night, through a single missing pane. In the morning the whole world would wake up in a vacuum, our only warning these few delicate fragments fluttering their way to the ground.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Oh yeah. Here am in doing that industrial worker thing. I particularily enjoy my embroidered nametag. Always wanted one of those. What you need to ask yourself is this: if you were a four-footed wooly mammal, would you mess with this guy?
Now, this guy...
What can I say? This is the one and only Jason.
I open the battered hatch in time for the sunrise , distant fire flickering on an underbelly of cloud and in a thousand tiny mirrors - a frost-covered world. I trudge out to inspect the pipes. It is silent. I stand in my little trampled path between mounds of snow. In the summer, I am told, the steel rack that the pipes are on comes up to the chest. Now, the snow I stand on puts it below my knees.
Strange things in a shop can be beautiful. Morning sun backlights the saw, rendering the unseen visible, a golden brightness in a fine spray of liquid and pulverized metal, steam rising lazily from cold pipes, glinting in drops of coolant spray.
Farther inside, showers of sparks flicker in mirror-polished steel. Long pipes, fluted with precisely spiraled holes, are stacked upright like magnificent church organ, immense, dignified and full of unheard music.
Strange things in a shop can be beautiful. Morning sun backlights the saw, rendering the unseen visible, a golden brightness in a fine spray of liquid and pulverized metal, steam rising lazily from cold pipes, glinting in drops of coolant spray.
Farther inside, showers of sparks flicker in mirror-polished steel. Long pipes, fluted with precisely spiraled holes, are stacked upright like magnificent church organ, immense, dignified and full of unheard music.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
I told you they were not to be trifled with. The other day I came home, threw my coat on the chair, stretched, reached for the light, and....froze, clenched in the icy creeping grip of sheer woolly terror. THIS is what awaited me.
They were here. In this room. IN THIS VERY ROOM. The sheep. They followed me. they know where I live. They have somehow escaped the bounds of the interent, entered the real world, and, in their menacing herd, have bounded over green fields and fences to my very door, and left me this terrifying token. What does it mean? A warning? Some kind of voodoo curse? I tired to notify the authorities ( um...Alberta Fish & Wildlife?) that the sheep were preparing for some kind of massive assault on humanity - but they informed me that sheep were livestock and therefore not their jurisdiction, sent me to an Agriculture Canada office, who referred me to an Alberta agriculture office, who sent me to an infectious diseases control office, who sent me to an office listed as in the second basement level of the Mcleod building, which, upon investigation, has been turned into condos and never had even ONE basement - at which point i began to develop the suspiscion that i might be being given the run around, and went home in a huff to leave humanity to its well-deserved fate.
In other equally terrifying news, my cat can walk through walls. Now that i have accepted this odd, but increasingly obvious fact, the world seems to make a lot more sense. On several occaisons i have left my house secure in the knowlede that O'Malley, while a super-being, lacks the opposable-thumb-granted dexterity to turn doorknobs, and is therefore safely imprisoned in my apartment till my return. How wrong i was. More than once i have opened my outer door to a much louder than usual meow and the incongruous sight of my self satisfied cat waiting at the bottom of the steps. In the laundry room. Where he is not supposed to be. Two triple locked steel hydraulically-sealed doors and a sophisticated anti-sheep security system away from where i left him. Once I arrived at my door to the eerie silohette of a cat in the upstairs apartment window. For a moment, i thought the ghost of my landlords demon-posessed cat Simon continued to haunt the place after his departure. It was somewhat relieving to find it was only MY cat, who had simply developed the ability to pass through solid matter. I theorize that Mr. O' Malley has learned to exploit a little known physics loophole - one that was first brought to my attention by renowned physics expert My Friend Gerry - whereby it is theoretically possible that when two solid objects collide their molecules all simultaneously miss each other and they will pass through unaffected (Which sounds like much of Jeremy's love life).
My cat, being exceptionally lucky, has managed to do this on numerous occasions.
My other theory involves the scientifically documented Feline Multiple Life phenomenem. (Actually 9.65, according to the latest studies). My Cat could be killing himself in my apartment, only to resurrect in the laundry room. If that is the case, a stern talking to is in order. We don't know how many of those things he has left! (Newer cats come with a bar of little cat icons on their collar that dissapear each time a life is used up- for the nintendo generation of pet owners)
There might just be a secret cat-sized passage in the closet. But that doesn't seem very plausible.
They were here. In this room. IN THIS VERY ROOM. The sheep. They followed me. they know where I live. They have somehow escaped the bounds of the interent, entered the real world, and, in their menacing herd, have bounded over green fields and fences to my very door, and left me this terrifying token. What does it mean? A warning? Some kind of voodoo curse? I tired to notify the authorities ( um...Alberta Fish & Wildlife?) that the sheep were preparing for some kind of massive assault on humanity - but they informed me that sheep were livestock and therefore not their jurisdiction, sent me to an Agriculture Canada office, who referred me to an Alberta agriculture office, who sent me to an infectious diseases control office, who sent me to an office listed as in the second basement level of the Mcleod building, which, upon investigation, has been turned into condos and never had even ONE basement - at which point i began to develop the suspiscion that i might be being given the run around, and went home in a huff to leave humanity to its well-deserved fate.
In other equally terrifying news, my cat can walk through walls. Now that i have accepted this odd, but increasingly obvious fact, the world seems to make a lot more sense. On several occaisons i have left my house secure in the knowlede that O'Malley, while a super-being, lacks the opposable-thumb-granted dexterity to turn doorknobs, and is therefore safely imprisoned in my apartment till my return. How wrong i was. More than once i have opened my outer door to a much louder than usual meow and the incongruous sight of my self satisfied cat waiting at the bottom of the steps. In the laundry room. Where he is not supposed to be. Two triple locked steel hydraulically-sealed doors and a sophisticated anti-sheep security system away from where i left him. Once I arrived at my door to the eerie silohette of a cat in the upstairs apartment window. For a moment, i thought the ghost of my landlords demon-posessed cat Simon continued to haunt the place after his departure. It was somewhat relieving to find it was only MY cat, who had simply developed the ability to pass through solid matter. I theorize that Mr. O' Malley has learned to exploit a little known physics loophole - one that was first brought to my attention by renowned physics expert My Friend Gerry - whereby it is theoretically possible that when two solid objects collide their molecules all simultaneously miss each other and they will pass through unaffected (Which sounds like much of Jeremy's love life).
My cat, being exceptionally lucky, has managed to do this on numerous occasions.
My other theory involves the scientifically documented Feline Multiple Life phenomenem. (Actually 9.65, according to the latest studies). My Cat could be killing himself in my apartment, only to resurrect in the laundry room. If that is the case, a stern talking to is in order. We don't know how many of those things he has left! (Newer cats come with a bar of little cat icons on their collar that dissapear each time a life is used up- for the nintendo generation of pet owners)
There might just be a secret cat-sized passage in the closet. But that doesn't seem very plausible.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Well-.... um.....who exactly are you again?
I could've waited a few days and gone for an even month, but....Since i am linked to exciting and prestigous blogs written by exciting and prestigous people, I am beginning to feel a little bit of pressure to be, well...a little more exciting. And prestigous. And while that IS a fantastic shot of my cat plotting world domination in his (very pretty) Hood of Doom, it is not, perhaps, as rivetting as it was a month ago.
My sincere apologies. I...have let you all down. I am ashamed. BUT! there is good news! That's right - I.... am raising my game. I am striking a fatal blow to the vile beating heart of blog procrastination. I have nothing brilliant to say. I am tired. I am sick. I am riddled with crippling insecurities. But i am writing anyway.
I have excuses.
I have been busy. Some of it has been the good kind of busy. Some of it has been the "I'm huddled in a corner shivering because i have a fever, it hurts to stand, swallow or breathe , and my throat feels like i've been drinking shredded metal and bits of broken glass" kind of busy. That second kind gets to be less and less fun after a few weeks.
If those exist for whom this blog is the sole source of information about my life(!)...you may not know i have a job. Well, another one. It is grand. Perhaps i will have something witty and brilliant to say about that later.
I am working with my Childhood Friend Eric, and my Slightly-Post-Childhood friend Jason. That is grand, nostalgic, and weird all at the same time. Perhaps i will have something witty and brilliant to say about that, too. Something thoughtful and poignant, no doubt.
The great thing about "perhaps" is that it completely absolves me of any definite promises. Perhaps i will post again soon.
Oh,and check out my new links. Photos, people!
And very cool new people.
Person.
You get the idea.
I could've waited a few days and gone for an even month, but....Since i am linked to exciting and prestigous blogs written by exciting and prestigous people, I am beginning to feel a little bit of pressure to be, well...a little more exciting. And prestigous. And while that IS a fantastic shot of my cat plotting world domination in his (very pretty) Hood of Doom, it is not, perhaps, as rivetting as it was a month ago.
My sincere apologies. I...have let you all down. I am ashamed. BUT! there is good news! That's right - I.... am raising my game. I am striking a fatal blow to the vile beating heart of blog procrastination. I have nothing brilliant to say. I am tired. I am sick. I am riddled with crippling insecurities. But i am writing anyway.
I have excuses.
I have been busy. Some of it has been the good kind of busy. Some of it has been the "I'm huddled in a corner shivering because i have a fever, it hurts to stand, swallow or breathe , and my throat feels like i've been drinking shredded metal and bits of broken glass" kind of busy. That second kind gets to be less and less fun after a few weeks.
If those exist for whom this blog is the sole source of information about my life(!)...you may not know i have a job. Well, another one. It is grand. Perhaps i will have something witty and brilliant to say about that later.
I am working with my Childhood Friend Eric, and my Slightly-Post-Childhood friend Jason. That is grand, nostalgic, and weird all at the same time. Perhaps i will have something witty and brilliant to say about that, too. Something thoughtful and poignant, no doubt.
The great thing about "perhaps" is that it completely absolves me of any definite promises. Perhaps i will post again soon.
Oh,and check out my new links. Photos, people!
And very cool new people.
Person.
You get the idea.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Here’s an interesting cultural experience for you: Go to a downtown Denny’s at 8 O’clock on Christmas Eve. For one, the place is packed like a glistening oasis of food-serving establishment in a vast desert of unlit “open signs”. Quite a cross section of humanity. Multi-generational families in suits and their Sunday best, fresh out of a candle-lit service somewhere. Tables of young punks skipping out on family gatherings. Sullen young couples. A gigantic, brooding African man who’s been sitting alone staring at the wall for the last 15 minutes. The guy across from me with a coffee, a newspaper, and a hospital band on his wrist. Guy with a beer and a cellphone, texting away and looking forlorn. Missing someone. One manic waitress, repeating “I quit” over and over in her head. So many stories. Why are the Young couples sullen? Its Christmas eve, and he took her to Denny’s. You do the math. We all have our reasons for being here.
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