Settler words&music in S'ólh Téméxw, (leanpub.com/upsun) living where privilege meets precarity in MST country. she/her/they———– Novels: Midnite Moving Co., Upsun; Sweep Off Those Waves coming soon, Hair Sinister after that. —Restore All Indigenous Lands!
The ongoing crisis looms a little closer to North Americans. Sell your Airline stock. I’ve asked Paul to retire. Or to consider it if and when we get an Ebola sufferer coming through town via YVR.
Katie is having a rough go, poor lassie, not getting enough sleep.
Turkey soup is bubblin’ away.
Jeff’s at work and going to bring home treats. I am going to curl up with Thomas Piketty.
Comments having nothing to do with Alexander:
Margot likes babies. She doesn’t even leave the room when they cry. Every time I think I know my cat she reveals unexplored depths of character and personality.
It was so good to feast the folks, including Mike and Casey. The meal consisted of (because mOm will want to know, not because I am a food porn type): Roast turkey stuffed with parsley, one head of garlic and a lemon, boiled and roasted yams, brussels sprouts parboiled in chicken stock and sauteed in butter, sauteed parsnips, iceberg lettuce salad, stuffing made in the crockpot (sadly lacking onions, but still damned good), boughten cranberry jelly, homemade gravy and possibly the worst – the most gluey and lumpy – smashed potatoes I ever made. Everybody else ate them so it’s not like they were inedible, they just weren’t choice. Absolutely no sweets, but white and red wine, plus beer, to go with the meal. I did promise Paul his mother’s lemon snow recipe for dessert but that will wait for our next meal together; he very kindly did veg prep and ran people ’round town and brought wine glasses and suchlike, for which I offer thanks and praise.
Keith got off work early; Katie turned up around 4, so we all sat down together around six.
The carcase, less the sandwich making leftovers, is in the stockpot; I made beef and bean burrito fillings yesterday as well, so I don’t think I’ll have to cook for a while, yay me! I mean apart from deboning the soup ingredients.
Around 8 Katie got toothpicks, and Casey was in the same boat, so Paul took them home. For another hour Mike, Jeff, Keith and I sat around downstairs and watched Archer, and then since the boys both work in the morning, off they went.
It was not a spectacular meal, but it wasn’t one that anybody else in our group would have WANTED to cook, so I’m glad I stepped up. After I could sit down, I had a lovely evening.
And Alexander was there.
Or my cooking will be screwed up.
And I have Some Load of Cooking to do today.
Having fun with the song I wrote last night,
The boys of Planet Bachelor were here yesterday; Keith watched some Archer with us and Paul took me for a walk in Oakalla and consumed cake (I made some more chocolate cake). The walk was simply lovely, and took place in the only block of fair weather we’re going to get for the next few days. Keith is considering getting a pufferfish.
THANKS TEXAS YOU RATFONDLERS. Ebola is in the news and you sent a man with a fever who had just returned from West Africa home. ZMapp is a long way from commercial production. A million dead by January 2015, and everybody from the WHO on down lying; the only people I really trust to report with any candour are Medecins Sans Frontieres.
2020 says ha ha fuck you
Haven’t heard from Katie, but I imagine the babymoon is continuing quite nicely without me. Keith will go see her and Alexander today and make the acquaintance of his new nephew.
I love my friends. Mike took me out to dinner (lamb) and pummelled me until I felt a lot better. I had no idea I was sore! He told me about some of the stuff that’s happening at Schneider and I laughed quite immoderately.
Check out this example of divine decadence, being a chair shaped like a scorpion.
REALLY glad I mowed the lawn yesterday; the rain is going to last 5 days. So the place won’t look like an abandoned house when we have guests on Monday.
I have a big table for Thanksgiving. My immediate fam in town plus two orphans. (Neither of whom are technically orphans). This totals 9. We are going to eat like FOOLS. Really looking forward to it, even if I’ll be trapped in a tiled cell with a dead bird for a day. There will be parsnips. I found a crockpot recipe for stuffing that sounds nommerful.
Batman and Dilbert are spying on ya?
That central Africa would like to drop out of the headlines for a while?
That I have the wrong hobbies?
That every time you think racism can’t stoop lower….
That you simply cannot have enough hats?
That the answer to this question is frustratingly obvious?
Tonight I’m heading over to Mike’s place for music and mayhem of some description, hope it’s low key.
The Natal chart is Nine Cards formed up in a tree of life:
Father (or father’s family) – 5 Pentacles
Mother (or mother’s family) – Queen of Pentacles
Family (of birth or adoption) – 8 Swords
Health – Ace of Swords
Longevity – Knight of Pentacles
Occupation – 7 Pentacles
Contribution – 6 Pentacles
Need – The Magician
Life Motif – Ace of Wands
This is the life flow of a practical, not particularly talkative or spiritual individual who may be depended on to work hard, show up, be kind and jump in where others hesitate. He will rise above family disputes when not called upon to broker them. His longevity will be determined by his habits, but he will tend all his life to be old-fashioned, and to enjoy the work of those who have a lot to teach him. I see someone aloof and kind, intelligent and unimpressed by book learning, glitz and laziness.
I know I shouldn’t care, but the last episode of the Killing made me want to find the showrunner and bang her head into a coffee table a few times. A happy ending was NOT REQUIRED for this show, it feels a painted on thing.
On the plus side, by Grabthar’s hammer, I have finally seen Galaxy Quest, and I had a damned good time.
Now to see if Jeff is conscious enough for breakfast.
mOm will get more of them, but here’s one.
Grandma laughing. That’s me with 4Hr Callback (a perfectly acceptable nickname for a kid who made his appearance after 4 hours of labour) and his exceedingly mellow mom. The delivery room nurses, when she left the hospital at 8 am on Monday (literally the soonest they would discharge her without putting a big fat AMA on the chart), told her that she had no right to look like she hadn’t just given birth. Apgar 8 and 9 and a solid feeder, although still quite sleepy. He has the least annoying cry of any newborn I ever heard, and only demonstrated it to show he could do it, as far as I can tell. A solid, well-fleshed child, the image of his da.
Now that is a very nice use of the gif format.
I haven’t seen Alexander yet. Katie called yesterday and she’ll call me when she’s ready to receive visitors at home.
This infographic on prayer made me alternately very uncomfortable and amused. As an atheist, I can’t separate prayer from ‘wishing so hard that you’re practically grunting so that an imaginary being of its infinite kindness rearranges causality and the laws of physics for your personal benefit’. As a church lady, I have to say I understand the benefit of GROUP prayer, which is a form of prosocial entrainment. Personal prayer, the petitioning kind unencumbered by meditation or humility, is just plain gross.
Somebody on Reddit said that Gilbert Gottfried and Fran Drescher “should have children. The marines could use them to clear public areas.”
Stop motion parkour fight. I laughed out loud watching this.
The pet relationship is very important to humans and now of course we have the science to prove it.
Dealing with bullies changes with the technology. Professors deal with bad reviews.
Am I jealous because the last time I was catcalled I was 36? No, it’s one of the best damned things about getting older.
Gosh, if only dealing with conspiracy nuts was this easy. Cause it really isn’t.
I know that sounds strange, but it’s true, and I can’t really talk about the other birth; it’s a creative birth, happened right in front of me, on line, in real-time, and I was a midwife. And that sounds very self-serving. I will be still and just post part of what I wrote for the occasion.
being a bard
you write even when your heart
can’t be in it
the people depend on
the story and song you bring them
without story the people die
and without song
they don’t remember the story
;
the bard can’t always be there
.
facing illness
rejection
ill-temper in others
and whatever griefs and shames
and inversions of purpose
may be the bard’s
forward
!
you think you have
a dry stick in your hand
you strike the earth and water comes up
and you have a hand on a tree
and sun in your eyes through the leaves
.
After an easy and fast labour, Alexander was born this morning. More details later.
Church yesterday was wonderful, wonderful. Choral singing is good for brains.
November has long been my favourite month. Most years I get lovely runs of creativity, a spell of anxiety-free gold-spinning from straw in the form of song writing. Sometimes it emerges as prose or poetry. I can feel myself getting that way already, which is good. It keeps me mentally occupied rather than spending every minute worried about whether Katie (who says she doesn’t want more kids) has a relatively hassle free birth experience.
I wrote a thousand words on the novel (the name of which I must now change… Calamari Boy? Underlings: Part 1? Squid Surprise? Sixers? Who Let the Squids Out? Not Really Human? Something Something George?) in three blocks yesterday, practiced with the filk inflected chorus (and WORD OF GOD WILL SOUND SO AWESOME o yes it will). Jeff and Jeri-Lynn are two of my favourite filkers, even if Jeri-Lynn’s strong voice pulls me into the tenor line. It’s like a valence electron popping into a different shell.
I found out what my vocal range is yesterday!
A2 D5!
That A2 sort of depends on what time of day I’m singing, but the upshot is that I can sing tenor or alto, which is good ta know.
The Fountain of Exposition (hereinafter referred to as the FoE) was also at the choral practice yesterday. Little children are squirmy and screechy, but I was in a good mood and every time he screeched I thought, “ah me, this will be my lot in three years, chasing after a squirmy and screechy toddler!” instead of thinking about earplugs and how I really wanted to fold up like an armadillo, and then I thought about moving to Fort St. John again. And then of course I’d start worrying about the birth again. Worry and anxiety are so frikkin useless; the intelligent thing is to channel them into housework or mending or mowing the lawn, or blocking out the arrangement for Just Might Stick Around (which has glued itself, grr, to the inside of my earworm tunnel). One thing I’d forgotten – Keith was particularly notable for this – is that if you do manage to accomplish the impossible (note heavy sarcasm) and say something that amuses the child, you’re gonna get it repeated, at various volumes, for the next 15 minutes… and sometimes for years. I enjoy being able to understand the FoE when he talks. I like to think my auditory fluency is pretty good; small humans can be a challenge but not in this case, especially when it’s so powerful windy today (all kids are drawn like magnets to light switches, fans and power tools, it’s a law of nature.) Dreffle windy (fan blows). Powerful windy today thar, boys! (Infectious giggling).
Keith saw the car parked in front of Tom and Peggy’s on the way home and invited himself to dinner. (Think for a moment how an otherwise reticent individual feels that he is perfectly okay to do that, and it burnishes their reputation for unstinting hospitality yet again. He gave us a slow clap after we practiced Word of God, and I have to tell you, he never likes anything I sing so I guess being drowned out by other people is the way to go. Around 7:30 I felt a wave of nausea and exhaustion come over me and begged off. I had to sit in the car for a bit before I drove, but I was fine when I got home (??!!) and wrote some more.
MUST REMEMBER TO PUT COOKIE TIN IN CAR.
I am pleased to report, that for this Sunday at least, the size of the youth group went up 50%, from two to three.
Katie is talking to Kai on the phone. Matt hasn’t phoned in 5 days and they are discussing how they will abuse him. Fortunately she is just blowing off steam. It’s too bad, really, he seemed like such a nice guy. I said she should wait until he’s explained himself, but she’s justing waiting to see him again so she can dump him.
I’m glad I’m not young anymore.
http://worldbeardchampionships.com/
Go nuts, ma, your Dream Boy is in there someplace…..
I am trying to intuit what Katie’s school fees are this morning; I have emails from the school saying pay up but there’s nothing to indicate what the Viking tax is to keep Katie in school. Yes I know they just declared school fees illegal.
Her boyfriend is trying to pre-emptively break up with her so he can walk away having dumped her. Young love! Katie doesn’t even appear upset about it.
Keith and I watched I Dood It last night. I don’t know what to say about this movie except that it has some of the wildest stuff imaginable in it with interminably long spells of not much happening. The song by the Jimmy Dorsey band and the Eleanor Powell rope dance at the beginning was enough to make my eyes pop out. Anyway, it stars Red Skelton and guests Lena Horne and Butterfly McQueen and the INCOMPARABLE Hazel Scott – her guest bit had my jaw on the floor – what an A MA ZING ivory tickler she was. (Dr. Filk wandered in just before that started and HE was pretty gobsmacked too). Oh, and there’s one piece of physical comedy (Red Skelton trying to get a passed out Eleanor Powell, who appears to be shapely string stuffed into a wedding dress, from the floor to a bed) that was so funny I ran out of air.
If I appear cheerful at the moment, it’s partly because I have a happy secret! I will tell you if you ask me nice, but I can’t post it publicly.
Tonight I would like to rant about the lack of menstruation rituals in our culture. Tonight I’m going to take the man’s view, as the woman’s view about it isn’t nearly transgressive enough for me ce soir la. Jeez, where’s an accent grave when I need one…
If I was a man, I would want rituals and predictive patterns in young women’s lives that preserved their fertility for their true purpose, namely, making babies with me and not with other men. Having some kind of ceremony where it was drilled into the girl’s head that she had one shot at the childbearing game and if she slept with the wrong guy it was game the fuck over would be useful if my strategy for access to childbearing women meant I was employed and civil. Mind you, if my strategy is to just rape the shit out of her and hope for a lucky plug, it’s still better than if she was really trying to save it for the right guy. Her body may betray her and pop an egg for me. I’d be the ‘wrong guy’ — but I’d still be first. Now, the sperm competition theory of fucking, which holds that guys enjoy sharing girls because if you’re second (or later) you come way harder (your sperm will ‘wash away’ that of your, uh, competitor/buddy), so if you let your buddy go first, because you don’t really care if you get her pregnant, and you’d prefer to come harder because of your wiring, you’ve more or less dropped out of the discussion about breeding. You’ve actually given some consideration to the notion, which is why you’re wearing a condom while all of these shenanigans are going on. I mean, it’s still rape, but there’s a different angle. You get it now? All different styles of thinking about ‘the breeding thing’ lead to different results in terms of how it affects the woman’s life. Oh, sorry, I’ve gone back into the women’s way of thinking about this, ‘scuse me all to hell.
So mOm, did I make you laugh really hard on the phone tonight, or what?
Back to the subject at hand. Women should have menstruation rites so that they actually have two whole chunks of time to think about fertility without having to do any work. That is, in part, what rituals are all about. It’s about the whole “stop working and start thinking” thing that has made humanity what it is. Having enough excess capacity in your life to be able to stop and think is what makes for civil life. Having the spare time to develop morality makes morality. Leisure, in short, makes ethical life possible. But don’t worry, in the end it’s all about sex. Yeehaw. Hurry hurry love.
Did I ever say why it was I refer to my mother as mOm? It’s because when I spell her title that way, it is the “Kilroy was here” or “Clem” sign. See his hands, on either side of his head? Te he. But I also do it because of where I got the idea of it, pOp — which is a clown face with a big nose in the middle. Squint and you’ll see.
October 4 2008 – no post
I got off the plane and went straight to Jan and Soon’s. Jan blinked at me and said, “Weren’t you supposed to phone me?”
uh.
I had forgotten how beautiful the underlit sunsets are in this town.
Anyway, life in her household was sufficient for a cuppa, but not really for crash space, as she had hella work to do (I still hung out and we flapped our ears for a couple of hours and she had lots of news, good bad and odd).
So I called Catherine, and we had a very pleasant evening catching up (oooo, gossip about exes, I loves me some of that!) and eating at the Mt. Everest which has berloody awesome food and I had my first Kingfisher in ages. Then we came back here and shot some more s*(t and then I crashed. The wireless here works very nicely. At some point I’m going to ask Catherine for another drum solo. She has a really intense Chinese cymbal that sounds like part of the soundtrack for The Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires.
While ScaryClown was sending me a link to This I was showing Colin a picture of him stretched out on HP Lovecraft’s cenotaph.
Ain’t the internet grand?
