centre of the universe - the dreaming

A while after my mother died, I had this dream. It was unlike all of the other dreams I had about my mother, with the exception of one I had before she died. Before she even knew she was sick and dying. Before the *doctors* knew, rather. I've told you about that dream before.

Anyway, this other dream. It was several months after Mum died. I dreamt in real time, which is odd. We were all together, possibly at Christmas or thereabouts, and who should be waiting for us as we all arrived but Mum. Imagine our surprise. Particularly because I was with her when she "deceased" (my Da insists on verbing the noun, which weirds language*, **). I snipped some hair from her cold, waxy body as she lay in the cheap purple coffin at the funeral home (it's pretty stupid to pay five thousand dollars for a coffin that's only going to get torched, and apparently, they don't *do* coffin rentals. I asked.)

But there she was, sitting in her chair at her house, smoking a cigarette and doing a crossword. Her legs were tucked up under her at an angle, the way she always sat. I approached her slowly. I thought I was perhaps seeing...well...experiencing a Visitation.
"Mum?" I asked. I watched smoke curl up from her cigarette and around her head. She scratched something down on her puzzle.
"Hi, kidlet," she said, not glancing up.
"Um. Really?"
She looked at me this time, took a drag and blew smoke toward the side of the room.
"What?"
"Uh. I ...um... are you aware... I mean... did you know that... well...uh...you're supposed to be dead."
She started to laugh. "Oh, that. Well, I got better."
"Right. I've seen that Monty Python scene."
Dad walked in through the back door. I could see him, and I could see Mum, but they couldn't see each other. "Who are you talking to?" he asked.
"Mum," I replied simply.
He looked quizzically at me, then grunted and closed the door behind him.
"No, really, Dad. Turns out she got better."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny."
"Your Dad's here?" Mum asked.
Dad turned white. He stared at me. I nodded. Mum rose from her chair. She walked toward me. I stood where I was. I could hear her footsteps on the wood floor. "What the hell is the matter with you two?" she asked.
Dad turned wobbly.
"Mum?" I asked, my voice shaky, my eyes blurred with tears. She closed the distance between us. I reached out for her. She smiled and hugged me. I could smell the smoke in her hair, and the kind of shampoo she used. I felt her rub a circle on my back.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"But you DID. I SAW YOU," I sobbed.
"They just thought that. Goddamned doctors. By the way, thanks for the haircut. It was TERRIBLE." She laughed. I heard her laugh. I felt her laughing in my arms.
My father stood there, his jaw hanging open, tears running down his face. I heard my aunt in the guest room. "Mum's home!" I hollered.
The door to the guest room opened. My aunt shuffled out, looking like a non-morning person waking up in the morning. She stopped abruptly in the hall.
"Jesus Christ!" she whispered.
"No," I smiled. "That's Easter. This is just Mum."
Eventually, the story came out - sometime between the time she 'died' in the hospital and the time Dad cremated her, she'd been whisked away by some Brilliant Doctor, who managed to cure her, somehow. It involved massive surgery and some rather unorthodox treatment. The 'body' in the coffin had actually been a wax dummy; the doctor didn't want the family to have false hope, so he'd arranged it all. Mum was back. We asked her if maybe this wouldn't be a good time to quit smoking, since she'd got a second chance at living.

She glowered at us, and mumbled something about how she'd already thought of that.

I woke from that dream Very Confused. Extremely Confused. In fact, I called my mother that day. She ...wasn't home.

Now and then, I have these kinds of dreams about Mum. They are different from the dreams where she is with me, but clearly history has not been rewritten. They are different from the dreams where I get to talk to my Nama and my Gramps again. Strangely, my other grandfather hasn't come to see me yet. I suspect he just doesn't have much more to say...In these kinds of dreams, she holds my children and they know her and laugh with her; she visits me and tells me what a terrible housekeeper I am. We fight.

Anyway, last night, I had that kind of dream. But it was subtly different - Mum was there, and alive, but at a distance. She didn't come in to the same room we were in. She didn't talk to us. She didn't laugh. But she was watching. Intently.

I didn't much like that.

*With thanks to Calvin.
** I mean, really. It would be much more accurate to say "my wife *ceased* two years ago", or "ever since my wife ceased", or, simply, "my wife ceased."

Labels: dreams, Mum

First, I have never written a screenplay before...before LAST NIGHT, that is. I did the game writeup as a screenplay. It seems to be working well.

Second, I am eating smoked cheddar sticks. It is odd, but tasty.

Third, I completely forgot what else I was going to tell you, other than that I was Very Angry yesterday, and briefly again this morning. Someone should look in to that.

Fourth, I am drinking tea. It pleases me.

Fifth, I remembered. I have come up with a brilliant way to revitalise the travel industry. From now on, passengers are barred from wearing clothing on aeroplanes. When you check in, you are handed a paper bathrobe. You proceed to security (where the lineups will be MUCH smaller), and are allowed only one clear, plastic bag with handles for your carry-on. It will contain your clothing and a book or magazine. Or knitting. You are allowed no electronics on the aeroplane at all.

From the check-in and security counter, you proceed to the Turkish Bath, where you relax for at least an hour before your flight is scheduled to leave. There is an incinerator at the entrance of the Turkish Bath for you to deposit your paper robe. Better yet, all the paper robes are shredded, boiled, and re-formed. Waste not, want not.

You leave the Turkish Bath, retrieve your plastic carry-on, and board the plane. Buck nekkit.

Not only will it make the flights cheaper (less security needed, less weight on the plane) and more smell-better (the Turkish Baths are mandatory so that wimmins and men can get rid of all that stinky cologne they wear), but you **don't have to wear clothes**!

That is all.

Oh. And this was a contribution to Grace in Small Things.

Labels: 365 Days of Grace

Sometimes when they (you do so too know who they are. They are all those people who get paid eff-you money to write seventeen-word 'blurbs' on the back covers of books) say "an instant laugh-out-loud classic" and "joyful and jubilant", what they really mean is "terribly, heart-rendingly sad" or "the kind of book that you should not read alone in a house because it's the sort of book that makes you need your family and friends, unless you're an agoraphobic. If you're agoraphobic, you might want to read this book because it will make you realise how sad, small, and alone we all are as individuals, and it will make you leave your apartment/condo/house/hovel/shed/cave/quonset clutching your safety blanket/favourite dildo/genitals/little mouse friend you found inside a combine, and wearing a sheet/pillowcase/balaclava/toque/jacket/bucket over your head so that you don't have to see the outside world, just so that you can go and be with people. Other people just like you. Okay, well not everyone travels around with a bucket on their head, clutching a dead mouse and hiding in quonsets. But you get my drift.

I think it's unfair that they have a secret code. Particularly since that secret code is pretty much completely contrary to common sense. Someone who didn't know that they had a secret code would pick up that book, and they'd read the back, and they'd say, "Oh! An instant laugh-out-loud classic! That's just what I need to take my mind off the termite infestation we have that's going to make us lose our house!" Or they might say "A jubilant, joyful romp! What a great way to get over the tragic loss of my life-partner in a horrible inflatible tube accident!" And do you know what would happen? They'd read the book, and they'd be sitting in their tub, and they'd say "What the poop? This isn't a "joyful romp" at all! In fact, it's kind of a bit of a melancholic trudge!" or "For the love of the Great Worm Spirit, I didn't laugh out loud once!"

And then something terrible would happen. They'd have to go back to junior high school, or wear blue eyeshadow or something. Something really really terrible like that would happen and then they'd be all, "oh, you know what, book blurb writers? Go jump in a puddle."

Labels: Books, piss in your eye

In the cradle of the wild is that which we can never know. We may catch glimpses, in the magical gloaming, or in the first few hours of creeping dawn. There are living creatures we do not see, not because we cannot, but because we are not permitted.

In Iceland, and in the western parts of Ireland, they still know about these places, and they still know about the magic and the inherent holiness hidden there.

Here, in the wild, if you can find any, you might hear their clicking tongues, the sonorous tolling of their chimes. You might still see a glimpse of bark-coloured leg or a tiny hat made from the blooms of the spring crocus. There are those who are willing to deny their existence; and these are the ones from whom they are most hidden.

Because in believing, in knowing, is magic. Dreaming is more important than observing. Because without vision, what good is sight?

I made something for you.

I'm a little nervous about it, because I'm not good at these sorts of things. Not like Schmutzie is. She's *very* good at it.

But I made this for you nonetheless.

Um. You can put it places, like, in places you want to put it...I mean, not *there*...well, okay, I guess you *could* put it there. If you REALLY wanted to...

Anyway. Here it is:



You can, like, resize it and stuff. I was going to put "cenobyte says I cock", but I thought it'd be better if we kept it a secret. You know, just between you and me.

So. Yeah. I made that for you.


I hope you enjoy it.

UPDATE: Apparently, the image doesn't show up *at all* in Internet Sexplorer. Which is just marvy. What a great piece of software THAT is. So yeah, if you're still using IE, you should probably stop. It's the technological equivalent of wearing clear vinyl clothing and being surprised when anyone comments on your junk. If you *insist* on wearing that vinyl suit, you can go here and get your cock badge. Note: it STILL doesn't show up in IE. Like, even the jaypeg. That's effing retarded.

Labels: i cock, presents

Please, wherever you are...wherever you're reading this from...hill, dale, valley, hummock, or plain. Mountain or Shield, midland or coast...please...

Send Aslan.

Our country has been locked in the frigid grip of the White Queen for ...well, it seems like ages now. My own children were much younger the last time they could play outside barefoot with the warm sun on their shining faces. I can't remember the last time I saw green in the out-of-doors. Even the conifers are looking weary.

In fact, on the way home the other day, I chanced to glance upward, where I'd heard a certain commotion in the branches above. There sat a nervous squirrel, having just leapt from the topmost branches in a tree to the top of our roof. It paused and glanced at me in an accusing manner, as if I personally had ensured the ice would jam up in the eaves and flow up over the edge of the roof so he couldn't get at the tender seeds that had fallen in to the eaves last fall. Then he pitched his wee eyebrows and fixed me with a pleading look. "Why?" His little brown eyes beseeched me. "Why have the two-foots not called forth the sun? Why must you torture me so? And, have you any nutmeats about your person?"

I shook my head sadly. "I'm sorry, Scuirus Niger; the truth is, had I my own druthers, the sun would have melted this ice and snow weeks ago. And no, I have no nutmeats on my person. I shall put some out for you, though."

"Oh," the squirrel seemed to meekly say, "Oh. I see. Well. If you wouldn't mind so much turning up the heat a wee bit in your home. It warms my tiny paws. I...I have to run..." And off it bounded, sad and teary-eyed, for its winter dray.

Today it's snowing like it's the third of December, and while I know you're Very Tired of hearing about the weather, and while it's Very Beautiful and we need the moisture, um. I sure miss summer....

Labels: when there's weather

How much more obvious does it have to be that there's something effing wrong with your utilities and services than when your water is on fire? (And just in case you missed the link on the right-hand column of that page, I've provided a second link that explains the pictures of Frozen Dead Guy Days.) Seriously. Can you imagine calling the utility company's customer service line? After you get through the automated directory, you tell a mechanical-sounding voice:
"Uh yes, hello. Fire is coming out of my sink."
"...I'm sorry?"
"Is this the customer service representative for My Utilities Company?"
"Yes..."
"Right. Fire is coming out of my sink."
"...uhhhmmmm...."
"Yes, you know, we thought it was rather odd too, particularly when we try to wash our hands or shower; it just doesn't end well so we've been showering at the truck stop up the street. It's only a quarter for a sudsy pre-wash, and for a dollar, you get the soap, the rinse, AND the undercarriage spray."
"...I...beg your pardon?"
"Quite handy for making flambé, of course."
"I'm sorry, did you say there is *fire* coming out of your taps?"
"Mmmm. Yes. Also handy for freaking the hell out of my mother-in-law. Not so handy when the kids are thirsty. I'm wondering if you could send someone out?"

Fire-breathing taps has to be just about the worst thing you could have installed in your house, with the exception of cupboard clowns.

Also, I *need* you to read The Bloggess. Because The Bloggess writes like I think. Now you know.

Labels: fire sinks

Here's the thing: patching torn dungaree knees really isn't rocket science. It's not like you need a grade five education to not sew your hand to your project (I did that in grade nine, just for the record). Generally, you snip the tendrils away from the torn knee and then you put a patch on from the inside. Then you do a quick stitch around the outside of the patch. Then you do a quick zigzag stitch around the border of the patch. Then you turn the leg right-side-out and stitch over the hole itself, using the patch for structural integrity.

Unfortunately, the patch I made on The Captain's torn dungarees looks like ...well... you see the thing is...I followed all those steps. I even did so sober. Which is a big thing if you sew like I do. With a few belts under my ...ummm....belt. So yeah, I followed all those steps. I even took pains not to sew the damned pantleg shut. I have Mad Skilz, I do. **Mad** Skilz.

So anyway, the patch looked like hell. I mean, it seriously looked like hell. I looked at the dungarees when I was finished and I thought, "Jeebus. These look like hell." I showed them to His Nibs.

"Oh. Um. Those kind of...look like hell," he said. He's very supportive. But it's starting to get weird that he knows *exactly* what I'm thinking. It's like he's implanted a tiny broadcasting device in my brain...probably dropped in through my ear while I was sleeping, and he has a receiver that he had surgically implanted last time he went to the dentist, because the only place you can really get micro-receivers implanted is either in your earrings (he has none) or in your fillings. And he can tune in to my thoughts with these tiny devices. All this time, I thought it was just all schmoopsy and being married and that kind of stuff. But no. It's a tiny transmitter he put in my ear in my sleep. You think you know a guy....

Anyway, so the patch looks like hell. I figured what I'd do was...I'd go find a punk-rock patch...something in a skull and crossbones motif...possibly with a pirate eye patch or some such thing. I figured I'd get that patch and sew it *on top of* the patch I sewed on the inside that looks like hell.

This morning, The Captain came barrelling down the stairs. "Mum!" He cried. "You mended my pants!"

"I know!" I cried. "I cut off the bottoms and hemmed them!"
"What?"
"Wait. What are *you* talking about?" I asked him. Because I *had* done that, after I'd had a drink...I'd hemmed his other pants. That turned out *much* better.
"My pants! With the hole in the knee! You mended them!"
"Oh, yeah. The patch kind of looks like..." But before I could say "Hell", he shouted:
"THEY LOOK LIKE I'VE BEEN IN A KNIFE FIGHT!!! THAT IS SO AWESOME!!!"

So.
Get your own knife-fight pants here.

Labels: kids, knife fight, pants

You may remember Yours Truly being upset over censorship in Canada. Maybe once or twice, you know. Well, it seems the Tories are censoring people they don't want Canadians to hear from. Dangerous people. Treasonous bastards who talk about things like (and I should issue a warning here that what follows is seditious and quite possibly Extremely Insulting) the withdrawal of forces from Iran, Aid to Palestinians under fire in the Gaza Strip, and his general opposition to the war in Afghanistan.

British Member of Parliament George Galloway has been denied entry in to Canada because our Immigration Minister, a strong supporter of the war in Afghanistan and a staunch right-winger, feels Galloway's presence here would be "detrimental to national interest". He was schedule to speak at an anti-war rally in Toronto.

Immigration officials cite a section of Canada's Immigration Legislation for the reason Galloway is being denied entry.

What is the Harper government so frightened of? They allowed George Bush into the country so he could accept a paid speaking engagement, but because Galloway opposes the Afghan war, he's a threat to national interest?

I don't care *what* the guy is going to say. I don't even know what *my* opinion is on the Afghan war most of the time, other than being stricken with a deep, deep sadness that people still think it's okay to kill each other, regardless of whose God told them to do what. It's profoundly enmiserating to think that we still don't understand that we are all the same, and that hurting one another is *always* wrong. I suspect I will be ensaddened by that for the rest of my life, though.

But seriously. Here's what gets me: Galloway isn't a terrorist. He doesn't kill people. He doesn't blow up blocks of children with car bombs. He hasn't raped your wife and/or children (and most likely won't). He's not claiming that his God tells him to destroy your house, your livelihood, and your family. For Christ's sake, he does *really dangerous things* like participate in aid.

So you must ask yourself: what *are* the Tories afraid of? What is it that George Galloway, a Scottish MP in England, is going to say that Stephen Harper doesn't want you to hear? What part of "the interests of our country" is he a threat to?

You think he might talk about what a bad thing the Afghani war is? Because I'm *fairly* certain there are a whole bunch of Canadians who also feel the same way. You think he might spread a message (a horrible, treasonous message) promoting peace? There are no Canadians working for peace.

But the deeper concern, the real concern is this: If the Immigration Minister under Stephen Harper is allowed to unilaterally deny entry into our country of people with whose opinions he does not agree, you'd better watch what you say when you're vacationing in Jamaica. Or Mexico. And how long is it going to be before you have to really start watching what you say when you're out for lunch? Or in your own house? Or on your own blog?

Normally, I wouldn't give a rat's fart what George Galloway says or doesn't say. I don't actually particularly care what his opinions are. What I DO care about is this fascist denial of free speech. What I DO care about is that this nimrod, Jason Kenney is trying to silence someone and is hiding behind legislation that doesn't fit the situation to do so.

I should say, I don't know Jason Kenney. I think he's an arrogant, small-minded prick (he declined to renew a government programme that provided English/French language instruction to immigrants because the grant/programme was allocated to the Candadian Arab Federation, and as we all know, all those swarthy towel-heads are in league with one another to blow up 21 Sussex Drive in the name of Allah. EVERY SINGLE ARAB in Canada is a terrorist and wants to kill pink-skinned Christians and Jews. You know how I know this? Because when I was in daycare, I had a teacher who wore an Hajib, and all she *ever* talked about was killing Westerners in the name of Allah). He's also advocating scrapping a government contract which assists new immigrants with employment in their new country. And you know, really, I support this, because if immigrants can't find their own damned jobs and at the very least learn to SPEAKY THE LANGUAGE, they don't deserve to live here.

I also don't know George Galloway. I can say that after I read what the Toronto Star had to say about the whole thing, it was abundantly clear that I would invite Galloway to my house for tea, and would grunt in disgust if Kenney showed up.

Smarten up, Canada. The only thing you do when you censor speech and ideas is make people all the more interested in them. What could Galloway *possibly* do or say that 'threatens the security of Canada'? Recommend that Canadian-owned companies buy back Tim Hortons from the Yanks? Advocate for funding education and employment programs for new Canadians? Tell a bunch of people who *already think like him and agree with him* that the war in Afghanistan is wrong?

You know what?

Whether I agree with Galloway's position or not isn't important (and I won't get in to it here, because it's not the main issue). I'm going to sign the petition to allow him in to the country. I'm also going to write a letter to Jason Kenney and tell him how ridiculous he is. I'm also going to write to my MP and I'm going to ask him why his party, the minority government of Canada, is in favour of censorship and why they didn't run on this platform in the last election. I'd also like to suggest they do so in the next election, because that will make my decision on who to vote for (or who to vote 'against') much, MUCH more clear.

Labels: Canadian politics, censorship, piss in your eye

I don't want to jinx anything, but...

The Captain's hockey team is in the finals for the season. They're playing on Friday for the minor hockey league equivalent of the 'pennant'.

SCREW YOU, STANLEY CUP!

THIS is entertainment

Labels: hockey, kids

A goldsmith called Johannes in the fifteenth century had an idea. He had an idea for an Incredible Machine. This machine would very literally solidify the dreams and thoughts of all the people in the world. It had been a kind of machine that had been used in other places...far away places where ideas and dreams flew like cranes. The Incredible Machine Johannes created made it possible for people all over western Europe to pray, to pray with the same words, in the same tongue....or even in different tongues if they so chose. Johannes worked on his Incredible Machine with a gem-cutter, and with a man who owned a paper mill. You might say to yourself, as the old joke goes - "A goldsmith, a gem-cutter, and a paper man walk into a bar..." What do they have in common?

They created the first moveable type printing press in Western Europe. Before the introduction of printing presses, there were under 200 books in one of the most well-known libraries in the world: Cambridge University Library. And each single one of those books cost more than a farm or a vineyard. With Johannes' Incredible Machine, one could print more than one copy of a tract, a treatise, a leaflet, or a book. You know what that meant?

It meant that a whole bunch of monks were out of a job.

In the 1700s (the eighteenth century, of course), after only roughly two hundred years of use in Europe, "print and publication experts" began predicting the END OF THE PRINTED BOOK! The people of Europe will have no use for BOOKS. Printed on PAPER. Johannes Gutenberg's Incredible Machine would be useless, cobwebby, and put to pasture.

In the 1800s, the Victorians pooh-poohed the printed book and foretold the END OF THE NOVEL! Novels, fiction, were 'women's stories' and were considered in much the same light many people think of genre fiction today (Harlequin romance, thrillers, westerns). Victorians and the people of the world would **not** stand for things like novels, which encouraged flights of fancy, and were only for the weak-minded, who could not stomach worthy books of natural science and adventure-biographies.

In the 1900s, in the post-industrial western world, experts talked about the END OF THE PRINTED BOOK! Radio transmission would change the world and make print media obsolete. Later, the moving pictures would put print media solidly into the burning bin for good. The latter twenty or thirty years of the twentieth century introduced a new, and more accurate and better-studied claim: that the advent of the Internet and HTML code would cause the END OF THE BOOK and print media FOREVER.

It is now the 21st century.
The end of the printed book is supposed to have been dead now for over five hundred years.

The printed book isn't going anywhere. Other products are coming, and will be used as adjuncts to print, but there will always be books. At least, for as long as I and my children are alive, and most likely for as long as my grandchildren and great-grandchildren are alive, there will always be books.

Thank God for that.

Labels: Books

To the Retard who posted on one of my posts in the archives:

Scientists in Canada have confirmed the hypothesis that the less you choose to use any grey matter that might have survived your alcoholic, drug-addled childhood, the stupider you get.

Also: if you believe everything you read, particularly things on the Information Superhighway, as the kids are calling it these days, you deserve whatever ills befall you.

Labels: piss in your eye, Snottiness

Today is my Da's birthday. We called him this morning. He wasn't out of bed yet. THAT, is some kind of divine retribution.

My father taught high school for years. He has a lot of patience with students; he can explain the same thing four different ways (or the same way four different times so that evnetually it sticks). However, Da used to take me 'fwimmin' (as Stitchface would say) every Wednesday afternoon. Then, after I started 'fwimmin' lessons, we went two or three times a week.

I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I am a girl. Therefore, I often use the girls' changeroom at the pool.

When I first started going to the pool with my Da, I was just only wee, and it was Not a Problem that I hung out in the men's changeroom (the STAFF changeroom, nonetheless). But, you know, by the time you turn twelve and start ...well... developing in strange and wonderful ways, Some People start getting hangups about being nekkid around members of the opposite gender. I sincerely hope my children do not get these same hangups.

ANYWAY, eventually, I had to start using the girls' changeroom. I was terrified and profoundly sad. I believe I was nine years old. I had always rather liked having a post-swim shower in the staff change room; they had a white shower with holes in the floor (not a floor drain; holes in the floor) and little blue tiles. Da let me 'shampoo' my hair with soap he'd stolen acquired from hotels. Then, afterwards, we'd hang our bathing suits in Da's locker, and I'd toss my water wings up on to the top shelf (i believed him when he told me they were broken. i believed him until I was in my mid-twenties), and we'd walk out together, out through the long, darkened, echoing hallway, out into the parking lot. My hair would freeze and I would chew on the frozen ends while we waited for the car to warm up.

It was a time for just Da and me. No one else could be part of that. It was a sacred ritual.

But then, he told me one day to go change in the girls' change room. I was confused. Scared. It was so much *bigger* than the staff change room. Bigger brighter...full of people I didn't know. Nameless, anonymous people who didn't know me and didn't know where I belonged, should i get lost. Da sent in one of the lifeguards - Judy was her name. She came in and showed me how to use my own locker, and how to find the pool from the maze of tile and steel doors and echoing shrieks and the roar of air dryers.

After that, it became an adventure.

But - here's the thing. If I didn't get changed after my fwimming lesson in less than twelve seconds (including underpants!), Da would walk into the womens' change room and holler my name. There was shrieking, shouting, gasping, and finally, a heavy, heavy silence. It didn't take long for all those nameless, anonymous people to understand where I belonged.

Sometimes, I still listen for his voice when I'm getting changed after swimming. I never thought I would miss those terribly embarassing moments. Actually, knowing my Da, I probably won't have to miss them for long.

Happy Birthday, Da.

Labels: Da, Happy Birthday

So, apparently Bob the Builder has muridaephilic boots. Do you know how I know this? Because Stitchface (otherwise known as The Nipper) is watching Bob the Builder. Do you know why? Because he was practising his ability to plummet earlier today, and while he had thought far ahead enough to push a mattress up against the bottom of the stairs, and what Galileo didn't talk about on the Tower of Pisa is that while objects of the same mass fall at the same rate, objects with greater air resistance fall much slower, owing to the friction between the air and...well...the falling mass.

Unfortunately, Stitchface is not particularly air resistant. In fact, he's made of fairly compact material that plummets rather well. Doubly unfortunate that he is also comprised of some fairly gangly bits that stick out at odd places. Well, in today's plummet practise, Stitchface somehow missed his mark and landed wonky on his ankle.

It doesn't seem to be broken, just twisted. But Dear God, the histrionics. Pass the Golden Globe; this kid is going to be up for an Oscar soon.

Labels: fall

It occurred to me that "really effing good" really doesn't say a whole lot about a movie.

1. In which the movie seemed to have been produced specifically for those who've read Alan Moore's Graphic Novel of the same name (even though Moore himself distances himself from movies made based on his works): I *always* dig movies that, at least in my opinion, do a *fairly* good jaerb of representing the salient parts of the book(s) upon which they are based. In this case, I thought "The Watchmen", while necessarily having to leave out several elements, and changing at least one, did a pretty good job of staying relatively close to the book. To the point where the characters' lines mirror the characters' dialogue in the book.

2. In which the casting in the movie brought characters from a book to life: So many times we form images in our mind of what the protagonists might look like, how they might sound, etc.. This is, necessarily, more profound when you're making a movie based on a graphic novel. But the producers of this movie really got it. Really.

3. In which, after the first fifteen minutes of the movie, I turned to His Nibs and said, "you may get me this soundtrack for my birthday."

4. In which cenobyte could have left the theatre happy after only having seen the previews: Wolverine (X Men Origins) with my secret lover, Wolverine (as reimagined by my not-so-secret lover, Hugh Jackman); My boyfriend Johnny Depp as John Dillinger in "Public Enemies"; and, of course, THE NEW STAR TREK MOVIE!!! Seriously, I didn't see as much of the previews as other patrons, because I was squealing gleefully. In fact, I was somewhat verklempt at the idea of all of those things being shown to me within such a short time frame.

5. In which cenobyte's favourite character from The Watchmen was, while under-represented in the movie, done *perfectly*. That's a fairly tall order.

Labels: Books, movies, verklempt

The Watchmen:
Effing bloody amazing.
So good, in fact, that I'm trying to decide if I *ever* want to go see it again, because it was so gorram good. On the other hand, I would pay $15 to see that movie DOZENS of times.
That is all; carry on.

Uhhh.

So, I learned something today.

Today, while visiting the Noah, I learned that I am allergic to rabbits.

I knew I had problems with angora. My mother gave me a gorgeous angora sweater when I was younger. I wore it for approximately twelve seconds before I broke out in horrible hives. Unfortunately, I had no other shirt to wear, and it was around the time it would have been ...inappropriate for me to continue on in grade five social studies shirtless.

But I didn't know I had problems with other rabbits.

Apparently, I do. While having a long overdue and much enjoyed visit with Noah and his Goddess, I started suffering from hives on my arms and torso. Then I started sneezing violently. Then, and this was the worst of all, my eyes. Oh GOD, my EYES!!! (the goggles; they do NOTHING!)

So.

To my cat-allergy suffering friends, I am so sorry. I'm not going to cat-sack the fuzzy ones, but I sympathize. I also understand that next time I go to visit Noah and his Goddess, I will dose myself to the proverbial nards in antihistamines (because I won't forego being able to hang out at their delicious new home). I will make sure I have a vast and varied selection of allergy treatments available for my friends.

Labels: allergies, bad cat, the goggles they do nothing

1. Sharpened pencils, and the dusty, scratchy sound they make on paper when I'm
2. drawing something.
3. The sound certain words make and how
4. the sound certain words make are different in your head than from your mouth.
5. Singing silly songs I just made up on the spot about making elephant noises.
   

Labels: 365 Days of Grace

1. The snow and ice snapping sharply; the loud, percussive crack as you walk on frozen/thawed/frozen/thawed ice
2. makes me think of the creak and crack of the floorboards of a wooden-hulled ship, the way they would heave and twist against one another in the humidity and salt water of the
3. warm waters of the southern coast.
   
4. The rocking, pitch and roll of any sailing vessel, whether canoe, sloop, or duck boat.
5. How the fresh-fallen snow glitters and sparkles, frozen moments of dew.
   

Labels: 365 Days of Grace

An Open Letter to Dr. Jean Grey:

I know you're all effed up, what with the Phoenix Effect and all but *must* you continue to make Colossally Bad Decisions? Scott Summers, in case you haven't noticed, is a complete douche. Trust me. The minute you die, he's going to take off with a scantily-clad whore.

Now, before you go all über PMS Dark Phoenix all over the place, just hear what I have to say. Or, better yet, read what I have to write. It's not your fault Scott is a douche. I suspect he's always been a douche. Jocks who shoot laser beams out of their eyes are like that (I remember high school quite well). But there's a Much Better Choice for you!

Look I don't want to tell you how to live your life; I'm fairly sure I couldn't tell you how to live your life even if I wanted to. It's just that...

Jesus, Jean, Logan loves you. And you couldn't ask for a better guy. He's sensitive, has a wonderful dry sense of humour, he's smart, incredibly sexy (those sideburns could make a nun give up her habits), he has a skeleton of pure adamantium and **he's Canadian**. Honestly. You can't ask for a better guy.

Ditch the jock. He doesn't deserve you.

If you're not interested at all in Logan, then the very least you should do is quit screwing with him. There are plenty of other women out there, me included, who would sell their own grandmothers for a go. Solid adamantium, Jean. **ADAMANTIUM**.

So, in conclusion, I don't want to incur the wrath of the Phoenix, Dark or White, but seriously. Who's going to take better care of you? Logan (James H., whatever) would give his life for you, and has tried more than once. Scott Summers is more concerned with his hair and the inseam cut of his new costume. Sure, he pays lip service to love, but it sure didn't take him long to find someone else after you "died". Some folks say you put that suggestion in his head - to 'find someone else'...and if you did do that, was it ever really love? Would you really WANT the love of your life to choose the White Whore rather than mourn you? What's the MATTER with you?

Okay, I've been kind of cruel here. But honestly. Please don't explode the sun with your wrath. At least, not until the end of summer. I'd hate to have the universe end on a cold, blizzardy day in March.

ADAMANTIUM, Jean. Canadian Adamantium.

Sincerely,
cenobyte

Labels: canadians, letters

1. I used to go to the lake with my best friend Sarah in the summers.
2. Her grandparents' cabin had a room with a double bed, a room with twin beds, a master bedroom with a queen size bed, and a room with a single bed. When we stayed in the summers, we either slept in the double bed or in the twin beds. We stayed up all night making beadwork, yarn, and origami crafts.
3. Sometimes, we read books together. It was the first time I read the Narnia series. She would finish a book and hand it to me. We went through all seven books in four nights and five days.
4. The lake had algal blooms that looked like slices of kiwi. We called them jellyfish, but they weren't. We would tear them apart and squish them and we thought we were helping the lake. Or at least, we pretended we were.
5. Her grandparents had an old duck boat/plyboard dory that we would row out in around the lake and sing bawdy sailor songs Very Loudly. We knew some Very Naughty Songs.
   

Labels: 365 Days of Grace, sarah, summer

Last night, I drove home in bright sunlight.

The sun is closer now, you see, because our planet (the third!) is tilting tilting toward the sun. I lowered the windows and smelled the warm air. Then something happened. Something amazing.

The side of my face facing the sun grew warm then hot, despite the cool air blowing in from the open window. I couldn't stop smiling. Memories of lying in the yard with laughing children and a book and a pitcher of ice water flood my mind.

Ah, summer is coming. Hot days, warm nights...tents and swimming and beaches and digging holes in the grass....

Labels: summer

1. One time, at the lake, my uncle tried to teach me to water-ski. The plants on the bottom of the lake are awfully pretty.
   
2. Eventually, he succeeded.
3. Letting go of the rope allows for less drownage.
4. When the sun is high in the sky and the water is smooth as glass, there is nothing better than the feeling of cutting through the water, across the wake and back, across and back, across and back.
5. When the sun is low in the sky and the fish flies are out above the water, it is better to canoe out to - but not overturn the canoe in - the middle of the lake with your cousin.
   

Labels: 365 Days of Grace, boat swimming

1. That noise The Nipper makes when a skateboard, helicopter, truck, spaceship, boat, or other transportative device is going a particular speed through a particular environment.
   
2. It is often accompanied by the noise he makes for rapid-fire machine guns.
   
3. And is sometimes followed by the death throes and screaming, lashing about from the passengers/enemies/passers-by.
   
4. The long, long, long, long and involved explanation of what is *actually* happening, *actually*, since he is not permitted to play with guns. Those noises are *actually* lasers, not *actually* rapid-fire machine guns or howitzers.
   
5. The Nipper's rosebud mouth and very precise articulate speech, and the tender hugs and kisses he offers as recompense for breaking the 'no guns' rule.

Labels: 365 Days of Grace, kids, The Nipper

1. Wearing my steampunk goggles, lab coat, and leather welding gloves and shouting "SCIENCE!" at random intervals.
   
2. Singing, badly and loudly, in the kitchen.
   
3. Accompanying above with a terribly goofy dance.
   
4. And hitting myself in the head with frying pans. I'm a hit among the under-ten set.
   
5. Tripping over footprints in the snow.
   

Labels: 365 Days of Grace

What it is is this: one of the things I found very uncomfortable about academia was the feeling that I always had to prove myself. Or prove something. I never really liked that feeling. I love learning, and I know that there will be many, many things for me to learn. But I was never very fond of the feeling of intense inadequacy I was always left with in most of my academic career.

It wasn't in writing papers, because I did rather enjoy writing papers. I didn't mind sitting examinations, either. What made my teeth itch were the intense discussions that people got in to that really didn't, in the Grand Scheme of Things matter much (what I mean to say is that whatever the result of those arguments, the world would still be essentially the same place it was the morning before.

Don't get me wrong. I like discussing literature and religion and philosophy and hypotheses. I enjoy vigorous debate. I certainly don't enjoy it **all the time**. Sometimes, I think it's good to disagree, and sometimes (more often than not), I would play Devil's Advocate simply because sometimes it gets pretty dull when you're all sitting around agreeing with each other all the time.

But ultimately, I preferred to listen to others have their discussions, or I would choose to do something else, not because I didn't understand or because I found the topics uninteresting (quite the opposite), but because usually, these kinds of things left me feeling stupid and frustrated. That's probably very petty, I realise that.

Perhaps it's just that some people are storytellers and some people are apologists, and perhaps cenobyte is much, much more the former.

I look at The Nipper's feet, which are *considerably* smaller than The Captain's were, and I think about the first day I met him. He was wrinkly and covered in vernix, and he had the world's most confused look on his face. His face was all smooshed up (so was yours when you made that, the shortest, and most important journey of your life...you can travel all over the world, deep under the sea, even into space, and you will never again make a journey like that one. You'll never travel such a great distance in so short of a space ever again) and he was Very Concerned.

I held his tiny hand, and smiled at his tiny feet, with his wee toes all splayed out. I said, "hello, baby." He said, "NNngggggeeeiiiiiiuuuuuaaaaaaaahhhhhh!"

I said, "We've been waiting an awfully long time to meet you."

He said, "guh, guh, guh, nnnnnggeeeuiiiiieeeuuugaaaaaahhhhh!!!"

I said, "welcome."

His Nibs said, "He's perfect. Just like you."

Labels: babies, feet, His Nibs, The Nipper