today’s non-events

Got into a beatdown with a bunch of one of the most self-righteous pot activists (like there’s another fucking kind) on twitter today.

Come ON I smoke, but I don’t smoke and blow smoke in the faces of the allergic and the elderly, and they’re announcing it’s their RIGHT, because this is VANCOUVER, home of TOLERANCE. Yeah I’ll believe that when Canada gives back the unceded lands, you unregenerate failure of logic. I’m like a homophobe for harshing their mellow. Srsly. Got accused of equivalency to homophobia for objecting to people dousing the entire west end in pot smoke for their stupid fucking 420 festival (which leaves heaps of trash mounded everywhere and they’re all cryface because they didn’t get a fucking permit.) F*ck me!

I realized that when you put asterisks in f*cking swearwords you’re putting a leedle asshole right in the meedle of the word and since when you’re swearing there’s usually an asshole involved, it’s mesmerizingly poifect.

I love Buster, he’s an amazing cat. And he loves me too, I know it. I don’t think Miss Margot cares if I live or die, but Buster does.

My latest piece of fanfic smut has more than five hundred likes (it’s cute and hot, so there)

I’ve written a BDSM scene in the same ‘verse but I’m not happy with it yet. I had to put in about 200 words about how the scene is ‘necessary but non-consensual’ which kinda blows (or not!) since scenes need consent if they’re to resonate with me writing, at all. So it’s like “We’ve talked about this – I hate it when you want me (and need me) to top you but I’m s’posed to read your mind – and topping when you’re angry at your partner is a bad bad bad idea” followed by “Do what ya gotta, man, just hit me really hard.” Oh, and there are minor children in the house while this sh*t’s going down, just to make it even more like real life, and our heroes must deal with the domestic consequences of Daddies fighting. I LOVE A CHALLENGE. After all, continuing to have interesting sex after kids *is* a continuing challenge in real life. People want carefree smut? they can look elsewhere; to me smut always has a cost. Who bears it depends on who’s being responsible, or not.

Not that anybody wants to know, but I’m really not into any of those behaviours in real life. Nagging at volume is sort of where I max out, ask any of my exes.

Continuing to have the poly life discussion with someone. It’s painful. Really painful. I feel like I have my nose up again a particularly interesting window. I can smell bread baking. But no. G*ddamned heteronormative uncommunicative bushwah (on their end, not mine.) But at the same time there’s NO F*CKING POINT to becoming an elder if you don’t understand that real life takes time, opportunities for growth don’t wait, and if you don’t consider who’s going to be impacted by your decisions, your years, your grey hairs and and your learning means squat. I am still 22 in some corner of my persona, for my enthusiasms still have all the joy of my youth; I just can’t write everyone affected by my behaviour out of the script any more. I do from time to time, but not all the time.

Fortunately, since I’m pushing 60 with a broom, I can contemplate my greed like the gorram caged bear that it is. Still here, but not running the show.

Katie is still having a rough time and she and Alex are both sick again.

I am not having a rough time. I feel pretty good, all things considered. I have another two weeks of full time work. If that changes, I’ll deal with it. I actually have a plan to deal with it that I think will make almost everyone happy, at least temporarily.

Rogue One is a fucking fantastic movie. Getting eaten by Disney was the best thing that ever happened to the franchise.

Now to check if my money transfer has come through.

I posted the first para on fb, now look what my friends said.

I have now learned what happens when you put bubble tea in the fridge overnight, and I have a big first world sad. The tapioca pearls become tasteless rabbit pellets of regret.

Kevin M said:  Yuck

Shane said :  Rabbit pellets of regret. BAHAHAHAHAH!
Diane said: Become?
Allegra Sloman said : I swear it was translucent and looked like fairy snot not six hours ago.
Andi said: And that was….better???

Juliana said:  Personally, I think it starts out that way but YMMV.
Andi said: I don’t drink lumpy drinks.

Debbie said: Man, you kill me, Allegra.

Lynn said: Interesting. I tried making bubble tea at home and wound up with a pot of lumpy tapioca paste (and no, I did not use the microwave!).

Janice said: Oh! That’s what regret tastes like!

Allegra said: Believe me, regret has *many* flavors.

Kevin said: I’ll have the rabbit pellets of regret please. Unless the leftover stir fry of soggy disappointment is on special

Lois said: Leftover stir fry of soggy disappointment……..Yum!

Erin said: That’s the best thing I’ve read all day!

Miles Vorkosigan said:  The Tasteless Rabbit Pellets of Regret is now the name of my Robin Thicke cover band.

Sundry and various

Jeff pointed out this article to me. Scary stuff.

At Mike’s. The sky is grey but little dabs of blue and white are starting to show through. (an hour later…. not so much really, sigh).

Goddamn Hurricane Matthew.  I have a bad, bad feeling about it. If the track holds steady a lot of people are going to be dealing with seawater where it ought not to be.

It would be tragic if the hurricane hits the East coast at the same time as the (not very exactly) predicted West coast quake.

Just had somebody point my transmisogyny out to me.  That damned Donald Trump.  I know that doesn’t make much sense but the two things are connected. Also Barry Blitt. This cover is transphobic, but how I laughed when I saw it.  Then two transwomen mentioned they’d laughed their asses off, and sometimes allies are quicker on the draw than the people they’re trying to protect, and I felt a little better, because if I was a transwoman I imagine my sense of humour would be even more vile than it is now, since there’s something about (ed. – Shut the **** up now, please.)

I am two days ahead on writing, so I’m probably going to make notes and take the weekend off from writing.  VCON is this weekend, but J and Paul are going for parts of it so “yay” I’m not going.  There’d be no point hiding out in the filk room even, even after Dara sent out a call for minions for her rousing song, “Sad Muppets.” And yet I’m really okay with all this and I’m just pretending to be put out, because I’m broke, and all I can think about is how much money I spent in the dealers room the last time I went.  Conflikt is in January. I’ll go filk among my friends.

Finished season 1 of Supernatural. Sadly, you cannot make Vancouver and environs look like southern Georgia but by god that doesn’t stop the locations scouts from trying. Also, Jensen Ackles can whisper advice about how to deal with demons in my ear an.y.time. I like Jared Padalecki but he brings out my maternal instincts (sadly withered but still present).

Saw Alex and Katie the other day.  He is a busy little bee, sweet and biddable and mischievous and noisy. And he has a VERY good memory. Katie recounted the story.

He and Katie had only ever walked to Julie’s house. She left town six months ago.  As they were coming to my place the last time they visited me, Alex pointed at Julie’s old house and said, “Julie house.” So he dredged up a memory from before he could talk, after seeing the house from a completely different angle, and put the two together.  Katie was flabbergasted.  I suspect his memory is better than the rest of us put together.

 

Walking distance – a consultation with the spirits

Back in my 20’s I read a book or a manifesto or something about how you should walk every inch of the city within a five km radius of your house.  Yesterday I learned to recognize that as wise, yet again, having forgotten it.

Slept over at Mike’s after a wonderful supper of the salmon of wisdom, the preserves of friendship and the taters of sustenance.  A deep, roborative sleep.  Then astonishment, as the whole city was fogged in and we were above it all in the Eyrie, watching it burn off. Then a brekkie of coffee, hash browns, bacon and eggs. We went a-walking in Byrne Creek Ravine park.

The day signs were most impressive; the Trickster appeared, facing the sun. Then three black dogs.  The first two were on leashes; the third was free walking with her owner. Then a Korean family, joking in English and Korean. Then a troupe of dancers rehearsing Chinese opera on the tennis courts.

THEN a dry big-leaf maple leaf, in the shape of a death’s head, lodged against the ivy twining up a snag.

Then the old man.  He came down, down down the steep incline to the water, and as soon as he saw us he BACKED UP THE TRAIL, never taking his eyes off us.  When I saw him later I tried to acknowledge him, but he would not meet my eyes, although twice I caught him staring at me. Most unnerving.

Each leaf swayed and sang; there was a deeper stillness in the plashing of the water; I could feel my brain trying to calculate things, all the tiny incremental movements, as if they could be calculated.  My vision cleared.  It was a wonderful feeling.

As we paused, walking back, looking down at the ravine from the railing on the other side from Edmonds station, a young First Nations family walked by.  The mother was saying to the toddler while the father pushed an infant in a stroller, “You can’t go climb down to the stream! You’ll scratch your bum on the blackberries!”

Safe back at the Eyrie I asked the spirits if they could help me find my family crest. I’m not knowing what to do about the answer.

At first it was all random stuff, a doodle in white letters against my closed eyes; it looked like Kufic script, and then script in no human language.  I was sad, because I could not interpret the dancing, ever shifting letters.

They gave me the bones of a salmon, the curl of a fern, the head of a vulture, a toad, and strange, gap-toothed cogs, fitting into all these things.  Ground and figure were constantly shifting, but it all felt fitting, and as I’m receiving these teachings, I’m thinking, yes, this is right, this is as it should be.  The salmon and the fern are how the land and the sea connect, the head of the vulture is the acknowledgement of the cycle of birth and death, the toad is welcoming the stranger and the orphan, the cog is the knowledge that all things fit, the gaps the incompleteness that comes with being human.  Then the last part.

It was the outline of a subdivision.  I think I know what it means – that I’m a colonial born and bred and living on the land on sufferance, but damn it is NOT what I wanted to hear, and so it is probably the most valuable part of the teaching.

All these things were interwoven.  As I looked at one thing, it turned into something else.  Everything kept shifting; animal faces into letters, into stylized hands and fingers, curving railroad tracks with swaying ties. All rendered in brilliant white, as if the world’s most skilled tagger was drawing it on my sensorium at the speed of light.

At this point, on behalf of Cousin Gerald, I would like to interject, “Wot, no MOOSE?”

I remonstrated with the spirits, who laughed very heartily at my tears (I was weeping pretty much continuously at this point).  A great woman’s voice said, “It’s nothing for you to parade around! You have no family crest! You couldn’t draw it even if you could understand it!” Then, after a pause, as if reconsidering, the same voice said, more quietly, “It will be there when you close your eyes,” and I’m back to myself and Mike’s handing me Kleenex.

It never ceases to amaze me, what’s in my head.  None of this was real, but I assure you, it happened.

Today I’m going to go keep a promise, but this time I get to drive.  Paul and I are going to Nanoose Bay for a restorative justice conference, or at least the part of it he is presenting at.  I had meant to bail, but all things considered I have a few things to tidy up before I get back to writing.  The characters are once again speaking, though. Theo came and sat with me while I was in the forest.

“I was not a philosophical person, and now I am.  At first I was angry, because I did not need to think about what it all means.  I was happy to move around in the space my people occupy, which is life and death and reproduction, and possibly looking at beautiful things. Then I was angry, because all my previous understanding was not wrong, just too small. I had thought myself as big as I needed to be.  But since I got philosophy I can only think of myself in relation to others, and that makes me angriest of all, for I don’t like most Sixers and hate most humans, and now I am stuck with them all, and I really don’t have the temperament for a philosopher.”

Poor Theo.  There’s nothing worse for a hard-core narcissist than waking up one morning and finding out you’re too small.

Meltingly grateful to Mike for his most restorative and sacred hospitality.

I’d also like to thank mOm for her bracing phone calls of late.

Tom U. is back working with Mike again, isn’t that wonderful? One half of the lunch bunch is back together.

Are you Mary?

Instant mini housefilk at Cindy’s place; me and Paul and Cindy and Miss K for appreciative audience. SUCH A GOOD TIME. Also we gave blood then we ate Indian food and went to the Bloedel Conservatory and I got into a discussion with a parrot and then nearly passed out from being down a pint and Paul sat with me for the 20 minutes it took for me to recover… all this happened before the housefilk. Feeling fine now but tired obvs, it was quite a day. Funny story… go to give blood at the Oak St Clinic, gal at reception asks “are you Mary?” which I hear as Are You Married, and I say no we’re divorced. So now on top of everything else I need to get my hearing checked.

 

Miles does it again

My filking buddy Andrew, who goes by Miles Vorkosigan on facebook, read or pretended to read a book that would allow you to write better horror.

The book made him facepalm.  So he decided to write a trashy horror novelists description of a facepalm, and then got carried away and did multiple versions.  I hope you enjoy this cascade of awful as much as I did, because I laughed until I sprang a rib.  Since I didn’t write this, copyright belongs to Andrew.

 

ABOMINATIONS OF HUMAN ENDEAVOUR: Before reading this book: “Face, meet palm.”

After reading this book:

My palm described a perfect arc as it rushed towards my face.

There was an audible CLAP as my palm struck my face.

I felt a sharp stab of pain, every bit as intense as the emotional pain I felt from reading this link, as I struck my own face with my palm.

Before my face even had time to brace for the impact, my palm was upon it.

My palm swished through the air and landed with a dull, sickening thud across my face.

It was like that legendary baseball game back in ’42, when Babe Ruth hit the winning run right out of the park–only instead of the final, inexorable crack of the bat hitting the ball, it was the final, inexorable crack of my palm meeting my face.

My palm struck my face with all the impact of a Mack Semi, having left Chicago heading east at 2:pm at 60 mph, colliding with a freight train that left Cleveland heading west at 1 p.m. travelling 80 mph.

Out there, in the darkness, something *watched* me facepalm myself.

My palm was out there at the end of my arm, mocking me. “Mi-yuls”, it seemed to say, “Here I am, Mi-yuls! And I’m coming to GET you! You know you lose control over me when you read something breathtakingly stupid enough—you always do. And now it’s party time. I’m coming for your face. And I’m hard. Hard and calloused from that workout this morning. And sweaty too. Get ready, Mi-yuls, for the mother of all facepalms!”

Once again…. this is Andrew’s, but really I think it belongs to the world.

anecdotal trigger

Ah, me.  The decluttering group I belong to on facebook posted the 40 bags in 40 days challenge.  That made me think.

Time was, I lived in Amedeo Garden Court (5 different apartments over almost ten years) in Toronto.  When I was living in the northwesternmost building, my downstairs neighbour, who was our childcare provider at the time, reported a most amazing story.

It started with a dispute between the landlord and her across the hall neighbour. Other tenants reported that this woman, a slender, sad looking person in her 40s, had an apartment that was full of garbage (when the door was open, you could see a human wide path through a debris field of pizza boxes and trash).  It smelled, it was attracting pests.  The landlord lowered the boom and told the woman to clean or move.

She hired two little Portuguese guys (in those days in Toronto every cleaner was Portuguese – I bet that racial balance has shifted dramatically) to clean. I’m sure their hearts sank when they saw the scale of it.

Well, in one day they hauled out forty large trash bags, forty empty 40oz liquor bottles, and disturbed a veritable army of mice and cockroaches.  You couldn’t get close to the garbage bin; it was surrounded by the most noisome collection of trashbags shy of a garbage strike. The woman came home from work (and we’re talking about a hot day and no air conditioning) and berated them for ‘not finishing’!

My downstairs neighbour’s husband spoke Portuguese, and he said he heard combinations of curse words he’d never heard before, as he eavesdropped from across the hall.  They demanded their money, told her in English that they’d see her in hell before they came back and did a stitch more of work for her… and then the troubles began.

We took five mice out of the apartment over the next week (I caught two with my bare hands, we trapped one, and Bounce got two), and I’ve never, ever seen that many cockroaches outside of films from the tropics. It was months before we got the influx of roaches down to a dull roar.  Hoarding isn’t about moral panic, it’s a health hazard. Also, alcoholism.  My neighbour was amazed this woman would arise from her trashpile everyday and go to work.  I bet her clothing stank, even when it had been laundered.  You can be really really sick and hold down a job.

I may have forty bags  to declutter and take out (actually, I doubt it), but I think apart from spiders and silverfish it’s all good, and it won’t smell.  After all these years, I don’t keep food in my room….

Explain to me why….

Keystone XL needs to run a pipeline through my city when we’ll be able to make fuel from algae?

This is funny even though the circumstances are not?  (Kingston fire picture).

Sabotaging birth control isn’t already a crime in the US?  It’s certainly a whopping great tort, even if there’s no criminal law on the books….

Anybody is surprised fewer kids are driving?  Between making a conscious decision not to contribute to pollution and the crappy economy, it all makes sense to me.  Both of my kids were well into their 20’s before they even started learning how, whereas I was 17 and wild to have my license.

Anybody wants to argue about what colour Santa is (when he’s an imaginary figure largely promoted by the Coca-Cola company) Link goes to retro Afro American Christmas cards, some of which are the ‘essence’ of charming.

When I no longer have a car, I can finally get a decal which adequately represents my tribble of a cat?

Science news keeps saying that a new species has been ‘discovered’ when the indigenous population knew they were there the whole time?  This is really annoying; saying it’s received a Latin name is different than “New Discovery.”

I didn’t know that Diana Cooper once referred to Winston Churchill as looking like the good little pig who built his house of bricks?

This is even a thing?  (Fundraiser to make a headset that reads dog thoughts which sounds like BS as yet).

Losing three traffic wardens causes chaos in Aberystwyth? It reads like an Onion article.

More judges don’t use their hearts as well as their brains in sentencing?

I didn’t start watching Call the Midwife until yesterday?

 

Crad Kilodney is back.

Crad Kilodney is one of those people you have to file in the part of the Venn Diagram where ‘literary treasure’ ‘full bore pain in the ass’ and ‘exceedingly rude bastard’ meet. Author of Lightning Struck My Dick, Pork College and World Under Anaesthesia, he used to sell his little chapbooks on the street in Toronto, where I first made his acquaintance on Yonge Street when our Saviour was still commuting by T. Rex, after he had escaped from New York City. Now he has rewritten the 38 canonical Shakespearean plays for the ‘don’t stop me from texting just cause the Royal Vic is performing’ crowd, and I’ve read portions of several of them…. Okay, you’ve been warned.

Margot made a tribble noise this morning, which is where cute meets alarming.

Physio this morning was great. I walked back, picked up some groceries, and feel much better about my recovery.

No joy on the shop sale.  I have a lot of work to do but at least I’m feeling a bit more like doing it.