centre of the universe - the dreaming

As part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Silent Winged Coyote asks:

I've always wondered this and I'm curious as to how you'd answer so
here's my question: Seeing as how you've been offered the chance to, what would be the required situation for you to run for a public office at any political level?

First, let me just say that the idea of a "winged coyote" is somewhat disturbing. Never mind a "silent winged coyote". I mean, whether it's 'silent-winged coyote', which prompts images of a hungry, mangy, slightly deranged predator mammal/carrion eater that you can't hear coming through the air until you hear the smack and slurp of its cracked, sharpened teeth against your throat; or whether it's 'silent winged-coyote', which brings to mind the same beast, but it's completely *undetectable* when it hovers until you a) smell it, or b) see it upon you...well...just unsettling. That's all.

Also: "Humber" is an AWESOME name/word/place name. It sounds like what bears do when they're walking down a hill - they don't quite "lumber", because they get up to quite a clip. So they "humber".

Anyway.

For me to run for political office at any level, the following requirements would need to be met:
1) My children would have to be grown up. Er. Adults. Um. Responsible people over the age of 18.

2) My husband would have to be in full support. Running for political office at any level at the moment could make things uncomfortable for him, as the nature of his job usually places his work within the context of having to work with government and/or government officials. It could be a conflict of interest.

3) I would have to be 100% debt-free (it won't be long now!!!)

4) A political party would have to actually understand that I would not 'toe the party line'. While there are some things I can keep my opinion to myself about, there are other things I would not do so for.

5) I would probably have to take down this bournal. And any other super secret bournals that may or may not be in existence.

6) Realistically, I would need an awful lot of fundraising to be done.

7) On a very personal note, I would have to quash my own feelings about (and dislike for) popularity contests in all their forms.

None of these are unmeetable requirements, and holding representative office is not an unreachable goal. While I'm sure I'd be okay with the death threats, public scrutiny, and word-mangling that happens to elected officials, I'm not sure I'd be okay with the huge responsibility it would be to represent the people whose interests I would be representing.

Oh. 8) John Gormley would have to buy me an expensive dinner and talk books and literature all night. He would know, and I know, that I would be (and am) one of the "left wing-nuts" he ridicules, but I would really like to talk about art and culture with him at the restaurant of his choosing. Actually, I'd really like that *anyway*, even if I weren't going to be running for elected office. I'd bring him a gift, maybe something from my personal library, and I think that would be a really fun night.

Labels: questions

As part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Brille also asked:

I have another but if you don't get to it that's all right. What is,..simply..the scariest book you have ever read. Could be a one line answer...which I will then further research.

Hm. Ever? Hm. Well, a lot of it is subjective, right? I mean, when I was eight, I read a novel called "Coma", which is a terrible book, but the opening scene is horrific. But I was WAY TOO YOUNG to read that book. I read a book whose title I can't remember now about two sisters, one of whom develops leukemia. THAT was scary, because I read it and assumed that every time I got a nosebleed, I had leukemia. I made the stupid decision to read "It" when I was fourteen. I thought it would cure me of my perfectly healthy and reasonable fear of clowns. It did not.

I couldn't sleep while reading "The Tommyknockers".

"The Vanishing Country" by Mel Hurtig scared me, but in an entirely different way.

So did "A Doctor's Compendium of Childhood Illnesses and Diseases". Dumb, cenobyte. Real dumb.

Hmmm...is there a book that was/is *so scary* I couldn't actually finish it? I don't think so. I've been a fan of horror since I was about two, according to my mother. I used to get horror comics (there was one where a brother and sister went to the chocolate easter bunny factory and were eaten by a giant chocolate easter bunny. They went head first. Lots of blood and gore).

On this topic, there are *many* extremely creepy stories in Edge Science Fiction/Fantasy Publishing's Tesseracts Thirteen. The Tesseracts series are anthologies of Canadian S/F short stories, poems, and even novellas sometimes. In fact, I'm interviewing the editors of Tesseracts Thirteen tonight (Nancy Kilpatrick and David Morrell. You might remember David Morrell as the Canadian author of First Blood, the book that was turned into the movie "Rambo"). Yeah. LOTS of creepy stuff that makes you hear noises in the dark when you're at home reading them after the kids have gone to bed. Dumb, cenobyte, dumb.

I think Edgar Allen Poe's "The Telltale Heart" is still one of the best 'horror' stories out there. That and "The Cask of Amontillado". If you haven't read Poe, go do it. Right now. I'll wait.

...

See!? GOLD.

But mostly I've only talked about fiction (with the exception of The Vanishing Country). I've read some court transcripts that would scare the eggs out of dead chickens. And all the "non-fiction" haunting books are good....but...OH!!!

Mysteries of the Unexplained was an encyclopaedic-style book put out by Reader's Digest. There are stories in that thing that STILL give me the heebie-jeebies. Particularly the story of Skippy the Wonder Horse who was found eviscerated in a field. *shudder*

Oh. OOOH. Whitney Strieber's Communion. Hhhhnnnnnnniggggnnnnhhnnnn.

Labels: questions

As part of the ask cenobyte experiment, Brielle asks:

I know the answer that pops into your head when I ask this, as it does every mother. But put that aside for a second and really think beyond your kids and family because that's a given. Let say...What is your greatest fear? Or, if you'd rather What have you always feared. Yeah that one is better I think.

I think fears, like loose teeth, sore shins, and acne, come and go. I think they change. They *must* change. That being said, the easy answer is clowns. I have ALWAYS hated clowns with the burning rage of a thousand angry suns. From my earliest memory of the horrible things, with their rancid dead baby breath and their cracked, brown claws and rows upon rows of jagged teeth, I have always, *always* hated clowns. The genesis for that hatred is a perfectly natural and wholesome fear that they will, someday, as they are wont to do, manage to make it in to my house and destroy everything with their green acid saliva and toxic sweat. And when they're finished burning holes in floors and doors and windows, they will fold themselves up into the shadows behind things and beneath things, and they will lay in wait for a succulent piece of warm flesh, or a particularly vibrant soul, to feast upon.

Also: china dolls. Whoever came up with these monstrosities clearly not only hated children, but also must have had a distinct and unobstructed desire to create mass distress. Who wants a horrid little object with matted human hair and staring, hollow glass eyes boring into them? Do you know how they make china dolls? No? Well. Let me educate you: first, they find a sad, neglected child. Sad, neglected children were a dime a dozen when they started making china dolls. First, they capture the child's soul in a little glass apothecary jar that can be used only once per soul. The souls of sad, neglected children are difficult to see, but dollmakers can always tell; sometimes they need a piece of equipment similar to a jeweler's glass, but most dollmakers are born with the ability to see the souls of children. So the dollmaker finds a child, and extracts its soul using the kind of tool pictured here:


Once the dollmaker extracts the child's soul, he stores it for quite some time, neglected on a shadowy, cobwebbed shelf. Freshly harvested souls are not often used in dollmaking, as they tend to still have some kind of hope or happiness encased in them.

The body of the doll is made from the childrens' hair and dessicated bits of their tongues and liver. When the dollmaker makes the porcelain, he uses the ashes and pulverised remains of their soft little bones to grind in with the clay. Those little glass eyes are made by melting down the soul jar and pouring the molten glass into little molds. This is how the soul is captured in horrid glass eyes. This is why china dolls stare at you incessantly. This is why they rise from their places of slumber in the night, and crawl into bed with you; it's why they follow you around and flop on the couch when you're folding laundry. Because the souls of children are trapped inside each and every one. They're trying to take your soul, stealing it in your breath (sometimes they blame this activity on cats). They don't stop, either, because when you capture a child's soul in the pit of its misery, it will never, ever stop hunting.


You can't stop a clown or a china doll, I always say.

There is also a certain reticence to accept success that lingers oddly around me.

In going through the things that people are supposed to fear, I think of things like: death, which does not scare me (unless it is death by clown or china doll); loss, which does not scare me (unless it is because clowns or china dolls have caused the loss); lingering illness, which unsettles me somewhat but does not cause me fear (unless it is the lingering illness caused by fetid clown spoor and the bacterial mileu that thrives in china doll hair and eyes); being alone, which does not scare me (unless I am alone with clowns or china dolls); failure, which does not give me fear as failure is necessary (unless it is the failure to keep clowns and china dolls away from me and my family)....

I suppose the greatest fear I have (other than clowns and china dolls, which fears have been addressed above) is, and this is going to sound barmy, nuclear annihilation. At the age of six, I began hiding under the couch or the coffee table, afraid that people in the world would lose their sense and start pushing big red buttons all willy-nilly, setting off a chain reaction of nuclear missiles trained on every populated area of the world. I had visions of skin melting from bodies, of hair falling out in great, matted clumps, of losing teeth and fingernails. Children would be born with no faces, after a generation of stillbirths and spontaneous abortions. There would be no uncontaminated soil in which to grow food, and eventually, everyone would die of radiation sickness, which would have a specific name, possibly called after the doctor or researcher who tried for an entire lifetime to find a cure for it, but who failed because she could not keep her eyelashes from falling into her petri dishes. I have always been afraid of the decisions other people make on my behalf, to a certain point. Coming from such a place, is it any wonder I do not place a whole lot of faith in elected leaders?

Labels: questions

As part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Melistress asked:

Have you ever taken inventory of your books and if so, what is the current count and what would you say to be your favorite of them all?

I have begun an inventory of my books many, many, ma-hany times. Probably more times than gypsies fart. However, I always get distracted by "Ohhhh. THIS book! I LOVE this book!" and that's about where the inventory ends. I have attempted to catalogue my books on Shelfari and on Goodreads. I didn't even get as far as putting any books in my Shelfari account, and according to Goodreads, I have 637 books on my shelf (does that mean I own them?) and 500+ that I've read...I spent a VERY late night putting most of that stuff in there.

Oh look. I just got distracted again by my Goodreads account.

I suspect there are easily a thousand books in my house. Probably more, if you count the ever-growing stacks of 'give-away' books.

And I cannot, absolutely CANNOT choose a favourite. They are all my favourite, for different reasons. Well, maybe not *all* of them, but I do have something good to say about each of them. Damn. There, it happened again. Got distracted by Goodreads (you can see, over to the left there, a feed that shows some of the books I have read/am reading/will read).

But I will say, at the top of my list is The Velveteen Rabbit, Cat's Cradle, Come, Thou Tortoise, The Catcher in the Rye, nearly anything by Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett, or by my international literary boyfriend, Neil Gaiman...there really are too many to name. I could never pick just one.

Labels: questions

As part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Schmutzie asked:

What is a particular object to which you have a great attachment? Why?

I have a great attachment to the piano which sits in my dining room. It was one of the wedding gifts my great-grandparents received from my great-great granparents. It's a Heintzman upright grand piano, made in Toronto in the 1890s sometime. It was well taken care of by my grandmother, who never played, and it is the piano I learned to play on. Its keys fit my fingers properly; they have the perfect weight. The texture of those keys is like coming home on a chilly day.

It has a nice tone, and still has its original ebony and ivory keys. I believe only two strings have been replaced.

I am attached to it because the first day I played that piano in my own house was the last day I saw my grandfather alive. He and my father hauled the thing up out of my grandmother's basement (no small feat) and into the back of my father's truck. They sweated and swore and slapped at the back of the bloody thing until they were panting and wheezing and calling it "you bitch" and "goddamned whore".

I remember them, standing in the bed of the truck, grinning and filthy and their faces all running with sweat. I remember them shaking hands (men didn't hug in those days) while I ran after them with the piano bench, knowing they would lift me in to the back with them. My Gramps opened the lid off the keys, opened the top of the piano to "let the music out", and he played the first five bars of Let Me Call You Sweetheart. He closed up the lid, and he closed up the keyboard, and they tied "that bitch" down to every place they could.

We jumped down from the truck and went inside for lunch. Harvest was over; all the grain was cleaned and in the bins. It was early September, and the sun was hot and the sky was the brightest blue, with the tiniest wisps of clouds scattered around. We walked up the steps to Grandmother's house, and Gramps stopped to take off his dusty, oil-stained workboots.

"Gramps," I said, "I don't like your boots."

"Why not?" he asked, his easy smile lighting up his eyes.

"They're dirty," I said.

"Oh; I'll die with my boots on," he said, and laughed, and gathered me on to his lap, which had been steadily and strangely shrinking since my fifth birthday three years before.

I don't remember how long after that it was I was walking to the babysitter's for lunch - maybe a week; maybe two weeks - when I saw my mother standing at our front door. Dad's truck was in the driveway; this was odd because they were both teachers. I got excited...I never got to go home for lunch! Mum called me inside, and I skipped and shouted how lucky I was to go home at noon! I burst into the entry, and saw Dad sitting in the rocking chair in the living room.

Mum told me to sit down, but I didn't want to. The air in the house was wrong. The energy in the house was wrong. Something...something was wrong. The piano sat up against the wall in our living room. Dad looked at me with an expression on his face I'd never seen before. "There's been an accident," he said.

Then my father burst into tears.

Dads don't cry, though, I thought. Dads don't cry.

Mum hustled me off to my bedroom, but I could still hear him sobbing. I could feel his heart breaking from two rooms away. Gramps had been killed in a farm accident. Gramps was dead. He'd died in those dirty old boots, alone in a field under the pale blue sky. Gramps, with the sparkling eyes and the belly laugh and who smelled like dust and spice. Gramps, who couldn't read any better than a six-year-old, but who held me on his lap and let me read to him. Gramps, who I loved more than anything.

Gramps never got to hear me play, so every time I do, it's how I talk to him. I let the music be my voice, and I thank him for his gift.

Labels: questions

There is hullaballoo in Canada about how the provincial government in British Columbia is asking the Supreme Court of Canada for a legal opinion on the matter of polygamy. As my friend the Rook says, it's probably not so much that the BC government wants to outlaw polygamy, but that the BC government wants to get rid of the fanatical religious sects living in their province. Which is to say, they can't figure out how to get in there and tell the folks living in places like Bountiful that it's a little reprehensible that they marry off their daughters at 12 to men four and five times their age, and that the girls really have no choice in the matter.

But that isn't an issue of polygamy.

That is an issue of misogyny, child abuse, and pedophelia.

In essence, I don't think there's a single thing wrong with polygamy or polyandry or group marriages. Nor with polyamoury. In fact, I think that the more people you can love, the more people you *should* love. Doing so within committed relationships makes it *even better*. Here's the trick: polygamy is not the same as bigamy. There's a big difference between being married to more than one person, and marrying more than one person. If you get my drift.

So.

a) I have a HUGE problem with the government of BC spending taxpayers' money on something they should be able to handle provincially. They just don't *want* to. Nobody wants to be the bad guy. No parent wants to discipline their kids. The BC government wants to get rid of some religious communities they find distasteful, and which are probably harming the provincial image.

b) I don't think polygamy should be illegal. It shouldn't matter who you choose to marry, as long as everyone involved is able to make an informed, reasonable decision to do so, in a state of honour and love.

c) It's pretty terrible that a group of fanatical people are hiding behind a freedom of religion argument, but the bottom line is that polygamy oughtn't be illegal. The fanatical people should be arrested for abuse and endangerment.

d) I really wish that people would stop trying to make this a discussion about morals. It needs to be a discussion about rights. And in my opinion, Canadians should have the right to marry whoever they want, with the provisions already mentioned. Morals have nothing to do with it. The most important moral really needs to be: do no harm.

Labels: Canadian politics, canadians, polygamy

This is an answer to BPM-IV's question. It is all part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment.

BPM-IV asks,

What, in your opinion, is the stupidest thing you've done while under the effects of mind-altering substances?

B. What's the stupidest thing you've seen someone else do in the same state of mind?

In my opinion, the stupidest thing I've done while under the influence of mind-altering substances is to consume *more* mind-altering substances. That sounds like an incredibly simplistic answer, but when you're sitting in the back of the truck of someone you don't remember having met before, in the middle of a half-frozen slough trying to figure out how to make a pipe out of reeds (they were *really* the wrong sort of reeds) as you watch the sun rise and make fun of the ducks, I'd say that discretion really is the better part of valor. Because then there's the awkward moment of trying to figure out what this person's name is and whether you ought to feel ashamed because you may have swapped genetic material or whether you ought to feel pleased that you managed to put all your own clothes back on in the proper order without grievous bodily injury. Particularly when you find out later that the person whose truck you found yourself in is not the same person with whom you were sitting. Particularly when you *further* find out that the person with whom you were sitting has a husband/spouse/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/Significant Other who really isn't pleased that the two of you may have swapped genetic material somewhere between here and Flin Flon, possibly in a stolen truck, or possibly on the surface of a half-frozen slough. Especially if the husband/spouse/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/Significant Other insists that the last time they saw their husband/spouse/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/Significant Other, s/he was "still gay". And did not have a blue mohawk. Or pierced nipples.

The stupidest thing I've ever seen someone else do while under the influence of mind-altering substances is to play Russian Roulette with his grandfather's Colt .45. Predictably, that was one of the very last stupid things that person ever did. In fact, that was one of the very last things that person ever did, period.

Labels: questions

I was going to wait a while before doing this, but since this one is *rather* pressing, I thought I'd start with it. This is in answer to Neuba's question for cenobyte.

Neuba asks:

Could you tell me about your labour experience with your children?

Also, a second questions if you don't mind.

What is the most valuable piece of motherly advice you would give to new mothers?

Well.
Both of my labours were extremely fast. With The Captain, I was having Braxton-Hicks 'contraptions' for a couple of days, and then Wade drew forth the dark spawn from my womb at a Cthulhu Live game - I went in to labour later that day. At 6:00 in the morning. My water broke, and it was nothing like what is described in the books or classes; I could completely control the flow, and it wasn't gushy *or* drippy. I did notice, however, that I did not feel like I had to pee, but...kind of could. The contractions started in my lower back with The Captain. I had a back labour with him (he was facing the wrong way, and putting pressure on my lower spine and pelvis).

I won't go over the horrible story of what happened to me in the hospital.

Physically, though, I went in to 'active' labour only about three hours after my water broke. My contractions were more painful, more constant, and - here's the ticket - I could *see* the shape of my belly contract with each one. I spent an *awful* lot of time labouring in the tub. Water really, really, REALLY helps.

I had no anaesthetic with either of my labours.

I don't remember the most painful part of T's labour (the "ring of fire" when baby is crowning and stretching your perineum past where it's comfortable being - perineal massage REALLY helps. REALLY), but I do remember the feeling of delivering him. The part I was most scared of, going in to it, was not feeling ready. I felt the same way with The Nipper. The Captain was born at twenty past ten in the morning. I was in labour for just over four hours with him.

I did a lot of walking and moving around to alleviate the pain. And I forgot pretty much everything the useless prenatal classes had told me. I learned pretty quickly that I just had to let my body do what it needed to do, so I willingly gave up control and that made some of the fear go away.

With The Nipper, I'd been having increasingly strong Braxton-Hicks contractions for about a week. I'd lost my mucous plug about a week or two before my labour started, and was somewhat nervous about that, but in the long run, it was all good. His Nibs got nervous when we were walking through a parking lot and I had to stop when a particularly insistent B-H hit me. Probably, looking back, probably that was the early stage of labour.

We went to see "Sean of the Dead", and that night, at 2:30, I woke up to use the bathroom. As I got out of bed, my water broke. It didn't gush; it just kind of splooked. So I woke up His Nibs (who is *terribly cute* when he's nervous and frightened). By the time we'd driven in to the city and called the doctor and the doula, my contractions were strong enough (not staggeringly painful; just strong, kind of like a prolonged mild electrical shock) that I was uncomfortable sitting *or* standing.

Our doula arrived and she began massaging my hips (which was AWESOME) because I could feel my cervix effacing. I could feel my pelvis being ripped apart. That was painful. Contractions, not so much. I walked around a bit, did some stretching, and when I started feeling actual "real" pain, I got into the tub. After about 10 minutes, I had this HUGE contraction where I saw my belly change shape, and I said,
"ooo".

His Nibs said, "Ooo? What do you mean Oooo? Is this a good Ooo or a bad Ooo?"
And I said, "this is an "I need to push, Ooo""

My doula leapt up and got the nurse, who came in and it took all three of them to get me out of the tub - I would have been perfectly happy to birth in the tub. They got me into the delivery room and up on the bed. They said, "just wait, now. The doctor is just up the hall doing some repairs..."

And I said, "Well, if baby's coming, he's coming, soo..."

The doctor arrived just as the second big contraction hit. Then there was the 'ring of fire'. Then, The Nipper squipped out. The doctor pulled on the umbilical cord to deliver the placenta, which made me angry, but all in all, it went perfectly smoothly.

The Nipper was born just after 6am. The worst thing about the entire experience with the Nipper was a) I was not at home (I desperately wanted to have my kids at home), and b) The head nurse kept coming in, after we were moved to the maternity ward, to rip open my gown and squeeze my nipples.

Here is something not a lot of people talk about after you have a baby: it burns when you pee. Even if you don't have any stitches, it really burns when you pee. And you're going to be scared to poop for a couple of days, because you'll think you're going to tear everything open, and, let's be honest. Your muscles are sore as all hell. It's like going upstairs when your glutes are stiff. But, you know, waaaaaaaaay more intense. But at the hospital (if you're going to birth in the hospital), they don't want to let you go until you've had a poop.

The blood clots are weird, too, because you can feel them passing.

And the pads are bloody annoying. I hate the pads.


The most valuable piece of worldly advice I would give to new mothers is this:
It takes a whole village to raise a child.

All the new-agers and hippies are telling you to trust your instincts and to do what feels right, and that you'll know what to do when baby arrives.

That is, pardon me, hippies, bullshit. Having a kid is like any other thing in your life: it's a learning experience. Ask questions. Don't take the first answer you get as canon. Let people help you. Sleep whenever you can. Don't worry about the dishes. The house won't kill you if it's messy. Love your baby. Spend time just watching him nurse. Worry. Don't worry. But seriously, don't bother cleaning the house. There's plenty of time for cleaning and dishes when J is home, or when baby is getting ready to go to school in five years. You DO NOT (and should not) have to do it all. Or even most of it. The only thing you need to do is be well.

Most importantly, don't freak out if you don't know what's going on or what's going to happen or what to do or how to do it. You're not supposed to know. You're supposed to *learn*.

Also, if you feel overwhelmed and sad and anxious, **talk to your nurses/doula/midwives** about it. Your hormones are going to be **all over the place**, and so emotions will be buggy.

And love. Always love.

Labels: questions

My friend Schmutzie Pickles is doing this thing where she asks her readers to ask questions. I like that. I realise that you probably already know *more* than enough about cenobyte just from reading this bournal. But go ahead and ask. Ask away. Ask often.

I'll post your question(s) and my answer(s) here at the centre of the universe.

That was a bit of a joke, there, in the title. For church nerds.

The Roman Catholic church has made an overture and invitation to 'conservative' Anglicans (read: the more 'orthodox' Anglo-Catholics) to join the Roman Catholic church. Those people who have serious concerns about the Anglican Church's position to ordain women as priests and bishops, to ordain homosexuals as priests and bishops, and to accept (and in some cases, to bless) "same-sex unions".

The Anglican Church's official position on this is that the Anglican Church "approves" of the move. Individual Anglicans have always been "allowed" to convert to Roman Catholicism...but this is a welcoming of all kinds of stuff, except homosexuals, homosexual unions, and the ordination as priests and bishops of women. What I find interesting is that the RC Church is agreeing to ordain Anglican priests as RC priests, even if they're married. I find *that* interesting. Very interesting.

The Eastern Rite churches still in full communion with Rome have married priests...priestly celibacy is an ongoing discussion in the RC church (spurred on, I suspect, by the fact that fewer and fewer people want to be priests if it means they must be celibate and/or cannot get married). I guess I'm a little peevish because the RC church is offering to "ordain Anglican ministers". That pisses me off, actually. The Anglican church has Apostolic Succession, which means that Anglican priests and bishops are ordained by bishops and archbishops who have been ordained by a succession of bishops who can trace their apostolic lineage right back to the original apostles. So first of all, according to ME, there is no NEED to do so.

Of course, the RC church doesn't recognise the Anglican church as being in any sort of communion, since the splitting of the factions, first in the eleventh century, then in the seventeenth century when Old Hank got pissy with the Pope in Rome. Sure, Anglicans don't believe that the Archbishop of Canterbury (the canonical leader of the Anglican church) has a red phone line to God, but there are differences that run a lot deeper.

I think it's wonderful that the Roman Catholic church is making this overture, for those people who feel their very souls are in danger because of the Anglican Church's willingness (and eagerness, in some cases) to ordain women as priests and bishops, and to ordain gay folk as priests and bishops, and, in some cases, to bless "same-sex unions".

Ultimately, who benefits from this invitation? Well, the Roman Catholic church gets more priests. Disaffected Anglicans who demand less tolerance and more divisiveness, I guess.

Look, I have no problem with Anglicans wanting to move over to a more conservative form of worship. I'm firmly ensconced in the "High Church" on the more 'orthodox' side of the Anglican couch myself. What bothers me about this move is that it seems like the nasty old uncle with pockets full of pre-licked hard candies covered in cat hair and bits of fluff opening up the door to his musty old bachelor suite for his much younger nieces and nephews. Not in a kind of cool way like in The Magician's Nephew, either. This old codger gets his nieces and nephews in the house, tells them to sit nicely on the ancient settee, and then proceeds to get the nephews to fix up all the baseboards and wiring that's gone wonky, while the nieces prepare to remain in a perpetual state either of virginity or of pregnancy. There's a certain patronising patting of the head done on the part of the old Uncle that really picks my panties.

Regardless of what you think of religion in general, or of Christianity in general, this is an interesting move, politically speaking.

Labels: Bad Mojo, Politics, religion

I've been thinking a lot about theory. All kinds of theory: literary theory, music theory, soup theory, game theory, education theory, social theory, scientific theories...etc. etc. etc.. It occurred to me that I might not at all be thinking about theory, depending on what you mean by theory versus what I mean by theory. So I'll break it down a bit: I've been thinking about the way I think about these things, and the way other people think about these things. I've been thinking about the way these things are explained, and the methods by which these things are done or get done...I've been thinking about ruling or guiding principles evident in these things. So I really mean theory not in terms of a theorem, nor in terms of something which needs to be proved or disproved, but rather in terms of methods and principles. If you will.

Maybe this is just a thinkin' time for me; I'm not sure. But seriously; I'll read something, and I'll think, "what led the author to say this in this way, and what are the implications saying this in this way has on the reader...and could it have been said differently, and if it had been said differently, I wonder what the implications might have been in that circumstance on the reader. I wonder what these symbols actually *mean*, or whether they have meaning at all." I've been thinking about little tiny particles, and how there's no way at all we can know what exactly it is that they do; I've been thinking about particles vibrating and twisting around and folding back in on themselves through time and space. Then I start thinking about all the numbers and mathematics involved in this, and I go a bit boggle-eyed and move on to music.

So what I've really been thinking an awful lot about, it occurs to me now that I put this down on pape...um...screen, is game theory. Now I've never studied game theory (I have studied aspects of most of those other kinds of theory), but I've done an awful lot of gaming. I also don't mean 'game theory' as in the branch of mathematics and economics which tries to define behaviour in strategic situations. I mean 'game theory' in terms of 'theory about games, and gaming in particular'. But that being said, there are some similarities. There's talk of a 'zero sum game', where one player or group of players succeeds at the expense of another player or group of players...and that does come in to what I've been thinking about. As does the idea of equilibrium.

I've put in a fair share of time and effort and emotional investment. I prefer, when given the choice, to participate in LARP (Live Action Role Playing, in case you've forgotten, which I know you haven't). So I've been wondering why that is. I've been wondering why it is that I like a certain style of gaming, and why other people like different styles.

I was about to say 'feel free to wander away at this point and then come back near the end', but I've decided against saying that because it might give the impression that what I'm going on about isn't important, and I think it is, because it has deeper ...erm... thingies.

So.

First. In Game Theory (big letters = the mathematical/social/biological terminology I said up there I wasn't necessarily going to discuss), there is a distinction drawn between 'one-player games', which basically means a single person making decisions that, in theory, only affect their own self. And I haven't really thought much about that, so I'm not going to talk much about it except to say that what I've been thinking about has much more to do with the other sort of game; the two-plus sort of game.

Infused in traditional Game Theory (which may or may not actually have to do with "games") is this insistence that there must be a binary win-lose outcome. I find that ridiculous. Correction: I find that supposition ridiculous in terms of the games I play. Now you know that I'm a competitive person (something which I only just discovered about myself within the last few years. Duh.), and sure, when I'm playing cribbage or Sorry! or any of the multitude of board games or card games or darts games out there, or some competitive sports, I understand the basic win-lose tenet. It's simplistic, and, in my opinion, for the most part it's boring. The fun of those games is not in the outcome, but in the process.

Moving along to RPGs:
The win-lose outcome is now stretched...it is no longer so clear who is the winner, if there is a winner. If you get a TPK (Total Party Kill...different from a Total Buzz Kill), have you 'lost' the game? OR have you encountered an insurmountable force working against you that necessitates your making new characters? Is the need for making a new character a sign of 'loss' or 'failure'? Or is it a new opportunity to solve the mystery/mysteries proposed by the GM (Games Master, in case you'd forgotten)? Or does it have to be one or the other? RPGs are terribly interesting because they become, if done well, a collaborative storytelling process, and if you have the right people sitting around the table (people with whom you feel comfortable enough), it does become a somewhat immersive experience.

Which is to say, when you play a game of chess, you're not really *immersed* in the game. You might be intensely concentrating on it; you might have an intent of focus that blocks out other stimuli. But you're not *becoming* a part of the game. You're analysing strategy. To me, strategy analysis in RPGs is, to put it bluntly, boring. And unnecessary. There is no real 'winning' in RPGs, unless you're playing in a contest or tournament. Which is why I don't play in contests or tournaments. For me, an enjoyable gaming experience is one where I can immerse myself in the story. I do not believe that the mechanics of a game are paramount*.

Let me be clear about something: I don't mind competition. I don't even mind competitive storytelling, or competitive acting, or competitive improv. But competition is not what drives RPGs, in my opinion. A friend of mine once described TT (Table Top) gaming as a 'direct competition with the GM'. I don't think of it that way. And I think I'm paraphrasing when I say that same friend described LARP as a 'competition against the story itself'. And this conversation included discussions of mechanics and rules and guidelines. My friend said that the rules (again, I'm paraphrasing, so I might not have the point exactly right, but I think I have the gist of it) are there to provide a framework by which players can compete in a relatively "equalised" or "normalised" environment - if everyone understands the same rules, they then understand the paramaters within which they can play the game.

To me, that's a game's setting. If elves can fly in my world, that's kind of important information to know when planning a strategic retreat from a battle. If the supernatural being you're playing in a LARP can regenerate, but only by taking the life of another human being, that's important information to have before you play a character who's lost his arms, legs, and buttocks seven times a year since he turned eight. Setting does not equal rules or mechanics. That's pretty straightforward.

...but I go on, don't I? Maybe tomorrow's installment of 'cenobyte's gaming theory' will have to do with rules and mechanics specifically.

Labels: Button Theory, gaming

You know where that day's name comes from, don't you? That's right! Two days of beautiful weather before everything goes to hell in a handbasket again!

So here's the deal. I've always wanted to live close to water. In my dream world, I'd live *on* the water, in a grand yacht or houseboat with a slide off the back and a hot tub on deck. However, this is not my dream world, so I live in a house that is firmly moored to the earth, near some water. Sometimes, I am fortunate enough to stay with people who have houses within spitting distance of the water.

I don't honestly remember what lake it was we were staying at, but we'd been there an awfully long time; long enough that our friends came to visit us there. The Smarty Pantses and the Neos, and the Arnisadors. But the Arnisadors didn't stay; they just came out for a visit. Late in the night, after many fermented malt beverages had been consumed, Smarty Pants decided to jump in the lake. Neo did as well. There were several young ladies out swimming in the lake at the time, and so this decision made perfect sense.

Yours truly also leapt in, although Yours Truly was wearing underclothes; the boys leapt in fully dressed. It turned out this lake was extremely shallow (6 feet at the deepest) and alkaline. I watched the gents flop around out in the water, and then joined them. They teased each other about not being able to get out of the water in front of their wives, if they kept swimming with the naked young ladies, and I grinned and swam off to the west. The water was warm - it had been heated by the sun all day, and with such a shallow lake, free of algae due to the alkalinity, it was pleasant to swim in. The bottom was caked hard with mineral deposits and felt strange on my feet.

Neo and Smarty Pants splashed around, practising the martial art they do, but with the added resistance of the water. Then I noticed a current in the lake. A very, very strong current in the lake. It was pulling us all to the east, as if the lake became a narrow channel to the east that tumbled over a cliff...then I noticed The Captain was swimming with us. I grabbed him and gave him hell. First, because he was out of bed, but also because he was swimming in a lake that developed a hell of a current that he would not be able to swim against. I grabbed his arm and dragged him back to shore, noting Neo and Smarty Pants were far, far out to the middle of the lake. I handed The Captain over to His Nibs, and swam hard, letting the current help, to reach the guys.

"Do you realise how far out you are?" I asked. They grinned and turned to look.

Smarty Pants looked a little concerned, but not as concerned as Neo looked. They both swore a little and started back. I suggested they try an angle to the shore rather than directly into the current, and apparently all ended well as the next thing I remember is being in an antique store four houses away from my Nama's house in the thick of the hot, dry southern part of the province. A store that had never actually existed. And the owner seemed to think I'd be providing him with sexual favours.

I woke up with a feeling of disgust and rage, so decided to go back to sleep for a while and dream about that houseboat I mentioned earlier.

Labels: dreams

1) Am completely tired of having bad heartburn. Bleck.
2) Did a Stupid Thing and deleted, like, five hundred emails before they'd been properly gone through. If you've sent something to me and don't hear back in a day or two, please resend.
3) Did I mention the heartburn? Glack.
5) I deliberately did not put down the fourth thing.
6) I have a *brand new* drive in my shiny red laptop, which is craploads faster than my old one. Thanks to the Digital Digs guy. Super fast website (don't know if *you've* noticed things loading faster, but I sure have), fast computer with less chance of physical failure...it's pretty sweet.
7) I'm'a have one headless kid and one jedi for Hallowe'enie beanie.

Whereas cenobyte has found the last week incredibly beautiful and wonderfully aromatic, and
Whereas the leaves are still green and the ground is not yet frozen,

Be It Resolved That we get another week or so of warm weather.

Futhermore, cenobyte has much to say on a few things, but it running short on time in which to say it. cenobyte promises the bournal will get back to its regularly scheduled shenanigans soon.

We are dealing with the leftovers from Thanksgiving: stuffy noses, rivers of constantly dribbling snot, chest congestion, hacking coughs, low-grade fevers, and General Malaise.

I tell you, that guy shows up and everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

I haven't done this in a Really Long Time. But since I've told the same thing to more than five people lately, I figured it would be a Good Thing. Also, I'm not about to review *every* book I've read in the last two years. That would just be silly. Because it's been such a Very Long Time since I did reviews, I should like to point out that I use a ten-point rating system (I had initially typed a 'ten-pint rating system, which sounds much more fun). The more there are of this symbol:
the more I like the item being reviewed.


I will begin with my favourite book of the year. Past few years.

Come, Thou Tortoise by Jessica Grant
This is a book about...well, it's told by...the thing I love best about it is....I'm'n'a start this over. Grant's writing style puts some people off. Probably because they are unimaginative, stodgy old farts who also don't like things like whipped cream and sunshine and the word tuber. I read one review of this book, in the Literary Review of Canada that said the book would have been just as good at three-quarters the length. That is wrong. This book is perfect at precisely the length it is. There is not a single coma (hee hee hee) I would change, not a single word out of place. Jessica Grant tells a number of stories in this novel (her first), but by far my favourite is that of the main character, Audrey Flowers. Other reviewers, and indeed the author herself, talk about how the most unique thing about Come, Thou Tortoise is that it has two narrators, and one is a tortoise named Winnifred (this year). And far be it for me to contradict the author on her own work, but that is not the best part of, nor is it the most unique part of the book. The best part of this book is the bit that happens in between the two covers, like make-up sex. In fact, that's a really good comparison. Make-up sex is frantic and passionate and sometimes a little silly, and it makes you feel so good, and the orgasm bits are amazing because you just release everything and go. And that's what this book does.

But how's about I actually review it. Do the plot summary thing. That every reviewer does.

You know what pissed me off about studying literature? What pissed me off about studying literature was the insistence everyone seemed to have on taking these beautiful works of art apart, these perfect constructions, breaking them down into their component parts and analysing the smallest portion of them. You know what you'd get if you put all of the letters from a Hemingway novel under a microscope? Eyestrain, that's what. So I'm not going to take the book apart. I'm not going to analyse it.

I want you to read it because it makes your heart bigger. Because it makes you dream more frequently, and more vividly. I want you to read it because it will make you laugh out loud. Because it will make you cry. Because it will make you scratch your head and say "Doubleyou Tee Eff?" and then go "OOOOHHHHHH!!!", and grin like an idiot. I want you to read this book because there is not one single thing that isn't awesome about it. Not one. Single. Thing.



The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

Meh. It's been done better, many times before. If you've never read a book of science fiction, and the thought of doing so puts you off your breakfast, try this one on. It has training wheels.



Marseguro and Terra Insegura by Edward Willett

Kay. I didn't think I'd like these books (sorry, Ed).  But I was kind of intrigued by the descriptions of them (Ed is an AMAZING promoter), and so, in preparation for an interview on the radio, I read the books. In the hot tub. At the lake. When you read the books, you will understand why that is completely appropriate. There is just enough nerd factor in these books to make them sciencey, and there is just enough of a fabulous story to make them fictioney. In fact, both of them are the perfect blend of those two things. Marseguro is about a planet colonised by genetically modified humans. I don't want to tell you in which way the humans are genetically modified, because I want you to read it. However, "Marseguro" means "safe seas". 'Nuff said.

There are themes of racism, colonialism (don't those two go hand-in-hand anyway), civil rights, and, ultimately, survival. Terra Insegura is more than a sequel; it takes everything that happened in Marseguro and ramps it up a notch, including a *second* race of genetically modified humans.

The story is set in the far future where the separation of church and state has gone so far as to come back around like the ouroboros, biting its own tail. The politics which lay gently nestled within the margins of the story provide a framework that is at once startling and utterly believable. Willett's characters are fascinating and real, although at times are frustrating as hell (I totally did *NOT* nearly throw the book INTO the hot tub, shouting at one of the main characters: "For EFF'S SAKE, Richard. What, are you STUPID!?" But the fact is, even if I HAD almost done that, it would mean that I was so invested in the characters and the story that I nearly seriously rebigulated the book). But what really makes these books for me is the villain.

The primary villain, not who you suspect it might be - not the easy choice (although he/they is/are villain/s too), but is the absolute *perfect* choice. He is pretty much an utter tool, which makes me smile every time he shows up. But he's not maudlin; that's the ticket. He's almost - but not quite - a caricature, and he's one of my all-time favourites.



Of All the Ways to Die by Brenda Niskala

Okay, first, this review is a little coloured by how much I loves my Brenda.

That being said, this book is a novella (a difficult form, to be sure) about, among other things, a pot luck dinner at which all of the invited guests are dead. I'm going to leave you wondering whether it's a zombie book. And the interplay at this pot luck is charming and witty and wonderful. But that's not what did it for me with this book.

What really gets me about this book is the way the author has managed to tell a single story in the same way that you might hear that story over the course of an evening, maybe at a pot luck, or maybe just in a quiet corner of the living room. What amazes me about Of All the Ways to Die is that in 100 or so short pages, Niskala packs a hell of a whallop every time a word appears on a page. You'll cry a whole bunch of times during your stay with this book (and it only takes an evening to read, so get out the tissues). You'll smile so much your face hurts. You'll be tempted to put the book aside while you go fix supper, and then you'll change your mind because you want to copy down the recipe from the book...the one with the lasagna, but then you'll realise you have no spinach, and while you could go to the store to get some because you REALLY want that lasagna, you figure, "ah, but there are only a few more pages in the chapter", and before you know it, you'll be hungry and sated, all at once, and the book will be finished. THAT is the power of this book.

Contained within its slim body are stories of sex trade workers, drug addicts, acquired brain damage, pow-wows, family, love, war, dreams, hope, royalty, life, death, food, and mystery. Because that's what this book is, is a mystery. But it's not. It's also fantasy. It's also historical fiction. It's also sci-fi (oh, sorry..."Speculative Fiction", if you need to apply for a grant). It's also a recipe book. It's also a brilliant tribute to many inspirational people.



I'd do a whole lot more, but the walls aren't going to wash themselves. Are they?
Incidentally, you should read Robert Sawyer's "Wake", if you're a sci-fi fan. Particularly if you're a fan of William Gibson and Neal Stephenson.

Labels: Books, reviews

My friend RJ and I went for lunch together yesterday. I love going for lunch with my friend RJ. In fact, I love doing a lot of things with my friend RJ. And what's cool is that if it hadn't been for my friend AJ, I might never have met my friend RJ. So thanks, AJ, for introducing us!

So RJ and I were finished having lunch (actually, I didn't quite finish the pressed fairy cider, but that's because I was trying to untangle a Ball of Uncooperative Yarn what Bad Cat had tangled...and was secretly (not so secretly) enjoying the look of Great Consternation I was getting from RJ who gets so uptight when she knits that she breaks the needles. Or so I've heard), we were walking back to where I work so's she could get her own self to work. And it was miserable and sleet was "falling" sideways and the wind was cold and it wasn't at all a nice day like there ought to have been but weren't very many of in summer, and after half a block, I said, "let's walk indoors".

Because when you live in a wind tunnel (I'm fairly certain the Winterpeg folk will back me up on this one) it's really Rather Nice to have a series of warrens and burrows indoors that you can follow from point A (place what serves pressed fairy cider) to point B (place what pays you money to read books). So kudos to The City, who allowed contractors to build buildings with lovely connecting bits. Anyway, on the way to the connecting bits, which sounds vaguely naughty but really isn't, I saw A Sign.

First, before I get to that Sign, I need to tell you something.

You know when you're walking through a department store and first, there's all the womens' clothing that looks like some poor geriatric cat was fed day-glo kibble before being shoved in a paint mixer inside a cement truck...and then, when you're done with that ocular feast, you usually walk through one of the 'specialty' sections (Fat Broads, Short Chicks, Really Really Old Farts), and then, eventually, you are faced with a full-frontal assault on every single sense at once? You know how that happens? That happens when you walk from the *outside* doors to the *inside* doors. What happens when you walk through the mall and enter the department store from the *inside*?

I'll tell you.

First, it's the visual cortex that dies the little death. There are shiny things, and sparkly things, and colourful things (and often, you can just see past the mall entrance to the geriatric cat/day-glo kibble/paint mixer/cement truck section). Sometimes, there are moving things. Sometimes, they even have Made Up Ladies hovering about talking about Very Important Things with other Made Up Ladies. Your best bet here is to stare very hard at the floor and hope you don't end up in the Hideous Scarves section. I've heard Sir Edmund Hillary actually died in the Hideous Scarves Section in the 80s, and not on Mount Everest as had previously been suspected.

Next, the aural centres shrivel and die. This is because anytime from November to January, the department store is playing the Christmas carol. There really is only one Christmas carol that department stores are allowed to play. It starts out with "O", and it never, ever ends. For THREE MONTHS. If you happen to be in the department store when there is no Christmas carol playing, you will hear the loudspeaker, which is always calling Missus Somebody to Somewhere. I suspect this is where they send the Really Bad Angels to re-train them for the Trump and Call.

While your visual cortex and aural centres are dying, the skin on your hands and face, and any other exposed area, is actually in the process of flaking off *all at once*. In one big, huge, chunk. As you enter the department store, it makes an audible 'thud' as it falls off. Cue the Made-Up Ladies.

And, finally, your sense of smell, and taste, simultaneously, are annihilated by the Horrendous Stench caused by all kinds of tinctures, balms, eaux-des-toilettes (seriously. TOILET WATER? Gross), perfumes, colognes, creams, and cure-alls. It is the depleted uranium of the cosmetic industry, except rather than killing you slowly with radiation, it kind of causes everything you've ever eaten and every breath you've ever taken to immediately vie for top billing somewhere around your larynx. It is most decidedly Not Pleasant, and I dislike it Very Much. In fact, if you know someone with a flame thrower, or some kind of mortar or shells, or even a tank...I'll settle for a tank...please have them immediately eradicate the cosmetics section of the department store.

This brings me to my point.

RJ and I had managed to survive the majority of the Cosmetics section, and I was, to be honest, kind of sprinting through, when I saw this sign. This sign had pictures of tinctures and balms and sparkly things and eaux-des-toilettes, and the Big Lettering on the sign said this:

FREEDOM TO CHOOSE

And I thought, What the fuck? I mean, please excuse my language here, but really, what the fuck? I thought, Germaine Greer, and Gloria Steinem, what would you think if you saw this? What would you think if you saw the words we most often associate with equal rights and reproductive freedom emblazoned across an advertisement for face-paint and perfume? When did 'freedom to choose' move from the anti-censorship movement over to the cosmetics department at the department store? When the hell did Roe v. Wade get reduced from the right a woman has to choose what happens to her own body, to a catchy jingle selling cubic bloody zirconias and cheap lipstick? Isn't it bad enough that women are pressured to look younger, thinner, better than they did at 20? At 16? Isn't it bad enough that we, as a society are pressured to buy, to consume, to HAVE? But now this? Now, you take a statement that is so full of meaning, so pregnant with important ideas, and you reduce it to materialistic prattle? 

What does "freedom to choose" mean to you? Does it mean you get to decide which watch to wear with that eyeliner, or does it mean you have the right to read whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want? Does it mean you can mix and match your earrings with your perfume, or does it mean you have the RIGHT to decide to have an abortion - that nobody else gets to make that decision but you? Does it mean you can pick a toner shade from this pile and a nail file from that pile and put them together for an all-in-one beauty care package, or does it mean that you have RIGHTS enshrined in law that make you a *person*?


Rousseau held that freedom is inherent to humanity; it's what you get for being self-aware. The Greeks differentiated between inner freedom (freedom from anger, fear, and lust) and external freedom (conquest over enemies). Philosophers have long discussed the difference between "freedom from" and "freedom to".  And I guess being able to pair stinkfume with skin poison is one of those 'free choices' you have...but what an utter insult to the very idea of freedom.

My friend Smarty Pants will probably say (as he does when I go on tears about things), "so what do you do to change it?"

Well, my opinion is to rip the bloody thing down. Anyone interested in a downtown flash mob to take back our freedom?

Labels: Bad Mojo, equal rights, women

So.
Today, at 6:21 am, this kid turns ten.
TEN.
Ten.

When he was born, he looked like a grapefruit stuck to an orange by a few popsicle sticks. A friction mount, if you will. His eyes were purple and swollen shut, and he was not so good with the breathing.

Today, he looks like he's built out of bricks (and feels like it), he's starting to smell faintly of goats (particularly after hockey), and he has NO PROBLEM breathing. Especially when he's shouty.

Ten years ago, he slept in my laundry basket at the foot of my bed (technically, ten years ago, he slept in an isolette the size of a bread bin, but I'm waxing poetic here. Or something). Today, he can't fit in that laundry basket unless I smoosh him in and use some lard to help. Not that I've tried it, but...you know...hypothetically.

He is smart, funny, and caring. He smiles easily, laughs often, and gets a twinkle in his eye when you talk about farts. Or nards. His favourite books are about Samurai and adventures, but he also appreciates Calvin and Hobbes on many levels. He plays roleplaying games and he creates his own roleplaying games. Watching him skate makes me wish I could do things better.

He's grown in to a pretty amazing boy. He always was.

Happy Birthday, The Captain!

Labels: Happy Birthday, kids

It's not like a politician has never played a musical instrument in public before. What pleases me more than Stephen Harper showing a little bit of ...I dunno...soul? (If I were being particularly uncharitable, I'd say the soul was completely scripted and that if you're a faithful Dr. Who fan, you'll know that even very, very evil creatures can pretend to be something other than what they are. But I'm not being that uncharitable.) What pleases me more than Stephen Harper doing this is that he's not particularly good, and he knows it. What pleases me is that he's set a precedent, and now ALL the other politicians are going to have to go off and do something (Batman Jack is busking on Dundas in support of a charity, Michael Ignatieff, who is, if possible, stodgier than Harper at times, will be doing a reading) artistic. The fact that they *can* ought not surprise you. They are, after all, public speakers. Even if someone writes their lines for them, they are actors; they must know how best to deliver those lines.

So this is getting media attention for the arts. That's always good. It's giving news announcers something to talk with their sports announcers with other than the Riders' suckage in BC. That's nice, too.

But I'm thinking of this: I wonder what his kids think. It must be tough to have a Dad who's the Prime Minister of Canada. Particularly the Prime Minister of Canada whom nobody really likes much. Look what happened to the Mulroney kids - that's something I wouldn't wish on people I don't much like. Entertainment Canada? Is this something you really want to be proud of? Particularly since your father was all about the stupid Free Trade selling out to the Yanks thing anyway, maybe it's fitting that you be resigned to a fake tan worse than death. Anyway, it must be tough to have a Dad nobody's a huge fan of except the folks who kind of sound like douches on talk radio shows. And I just think that this stunt might make the kids a little happy, because all of a sudden, everybody kind of likes Stephen Harper because he's done what Canadian politicians are supposed to do.

He's allowed himself to look like a bit of a goof.

I think, if you really look at it, that's part of our Canadian identity: we're willing, as a country, as a people, and as a nation, to look like a bit of a goof. Really, I think that's okay. Speaking as a *complete* goof.

Labels: Canadian politics

Last evening, His Nibs and I hosted the monthly Providence KC LARP at Chez Relaxo.

It was very, very fun. I would like to have many more of the games at Chez Relaxo. However, there are Limitations. Such as: if someone really really really needs to hit something with a sword, it's a Rather Small Space in which to do it, particularly when there are nineteen other people standing around. However, it was Good.

The bad thing is that The Nipper got the pukes at 4am, so I did not go to dance on Sunday am.

The autumn here is one of those mutable, changeable things. It's rather like your grade 2 (or any grade, really) teacher who was nice but who had a hair trigger and a handful of chalk.  There's nothing like taking a hunk of chalk in the head when all you're trying to do is find out what's going on at recess. Maybe this is why I'm not the sort of person who is good at planning things (always been more of a spur-of-the-moment person) because Mrs. B could hit a fly off the ceiling fan at thirty paces with a piece of chalk, and she wielded that power like a superhero whose mother has just been taken for ransom by people with one-syllable names which are usually used as nouns. Maybe I was conditioned against making concrete plans because every time I tried to discuss recess plans (what game we'd be playing, whose marbles were most vaunted, whether the girly girls would lower themselves to playing Red Rover, or whether they'd stick with hopskotch on the uneven sidewalk) I got dinged in the side of the head.

Anyway, that's totally what autumn is like. Sometimes, it's bearable. Sometimes, it's very pretty. Sometimes, it even smells really good. But more often than not, it's just kind of there, winging chalk at you from across the room and trying to get you to do long division.

So I decided that I should probably go to the God-forsaken damnable shopping mall. It's one thing to send the kids to school with last year's usable school supplies; it's another thing entirely to claim that the shoes they wore last year for gym must have shrunk in the sun. Stupid feet. I don't remember if I first saw the gorgeous, sexy, and wicked-smart Ms. A at the God-forsaken damnable shopping mall, or if I managed to literally run in to her.

You see, I don't like crowds of people. I especially don't like crowds of people I don't know. God-forsaken damnable shopping malls are particularly awful. So are their first-cousins, effing big-box hell stores. So after I'd been at the God-forsaken damnable shopping mall, I really had to unwind, so I decided I'd take a long, relaxing walk in the park at Depot Division. (That's the RCMP training barracks.) I think I must have met Ms. A at the mall, because I remember apologising to her for having to leave so soon, and she asked what my plans were, and I told her "to go for a long, long walk in the park at Depot Division", and she said, "I've never been there!", and I said, "you should come!"

So Ms. A and I wound up on winding trails that reminded me of the Kinsmen Park in Prince Albert, or that city's graveyard on the hill; the trees were tall and deciduous, shedding their golden and yellow leaves on the pathways. Groundskeepers came by with mulching machines and blustry machines that cleared the leaves from the paths, because the baby Mounties need the paths clear for their joggery. Which gave me an idea. I started running. I haven't run (unless something was chasing me) since sometime in grade nine when I realised how painful it had become, since the advent of ten pound breasts. But it felt great, and I had someone to talk to!

Later, as Ms. A and I sat on a small hill beside the path, laughing and talking about all manner of things, we leaned our heads together conspiratorially and began kissing each other. The leaves were surprisingly warm to lie down on, and the baby Mounties were surprisingly not interested in a) kicking us out of their park for trespassing, nor b) staring at us making out.

Much more happened later, after we'd left the park. But I'm not the sort to dream and kiss and do stuff and tell.

Labels: dreams, fall, Sex dreams about Brad Wall

Well, hopefully, you won't be able to tell the difference once all of this goes through, but the centre of the universe has a new home.

There have been a few problems with cotu's up-to-now home, and so after the last spate, I found a new place to put it. And I'd like to thank the folks who held my hand (my virtual hand, of course) through the whole process.

So.

Jim Nickel, who is The Guy over at digital digs, is very, very, VERY patient with me. Incredibly patient with me. They have great services, and great service, and I'm'a do some SHAMELESS promotion because I'm really very appreciative. I'm sure the centre of the universe will love its new home.