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

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

Someone told me once that you leave a part of yourself everywhere you've been, particularly in those places that have touched your soul. This leads me to wonder how many fragmented shards of me there are wandering this city. If I should meet myself, walking along the riverbank, shirtless, would I know myself? Assuming I remember that particular fragment, perhaps.

But what of all the times I have, by now, time and again, forgotten? What is it that causes us to remember some things, some times, while others are lost forever?

The little boxcar house that's now burnt to the ground - someday will they film ghostie programs there, and wonder who it is laughing in the middle of the night? Will they ask that shard who it is? Will that memory of me-who-was bang on the wall, once-for-no or twice-for-yes? The two-storey white and green house with the strange little room at the back; do the people there smell things burning on the stove that have no right to be burning? Hashish and cigarette smoke?

This has been a time of remembering, these last few weeks, and it gives me pause to wonder: what is it like to grow older? Do you ever lose the sense of who you *are* as who you *were*? Does it continue changing?

Honestly, I am tired of this moving forward, always moving forward. I am tired of this forward motion. Do you, like I do, wish that there would be a grand suspension of everything? A cosmic hiccough that will give us time to catch our breath? I am always concerned with the future being a time of loss, a time when all there is is for me to remember things that were. How, then, I ask, do I begin to look forward with joy? How do I cast my senses forward and not see a time when there are kisses and snuggles from little children, instead taking joy in the knowledge that they, too, will someday have little ones of their own, to run laughing through the mud-filled yard, into my open, waiting arms? How does that happen?

Labels: questions, remembery, Saskatoon