Compact Fluorescent Lamp Dies: Man Regains Sight

Burndtree, squinting Marpole resident and blogging whiner, seemingly has regained his eye-sight in an unscheduled household chore involving a failing compact fluorescent lamp in his living-room torchiere.

"I dug out the spare CFL in its dusty bag. It's been a few years. Happened to read the packet." explained Burndtree.

"Besides the fact the CFL contains toxic mercury, the packet recommends the 13-watt CFL in place of those 60-watt incandescents I used to burn there. Then I read the lumens: how bright each would be. My eyes just about popped from my head. 850 from my good ol' fashioned incandescent. Only 800 from this...thing! No wonder the place has seemed so gloomy. For years. No amount of positive thinking on my part ever was gonna lighten up the place..."

Burndtree continued cracking jokes until the reporter threatened to leave.

Burndtree got to the point: "Screwed in a 60-watt incandescent. Had to squint, 'coz it was so bright. I can read my scribbles now. I can see!"

1200 Limos...Now There's a Number

So...the Copenhagen Summit's one for the history books, is it? Should really edit that line, insert here that So. Adding a question mark, naturally.

Same regarding their zero-hour agreement of sorts before parting ways. About as binding as Kyoto was. Sooo? I am forcing a smile, really.

1200 limos — oooh, there's a number!

Usually these summits, as they call them, produce at the end a group photo, grinners and growlers wearing something colourful, like a holiday snap. Media photo-op and a souvenir: as much for them as us, watching them — some of us even waiting on them. The eye-popper of 1200 limos will be how I'll remember that august gathering. That most recent august et cetera. 1200 limos. Cyclist-and-Public-Transit friendly Copenhagen hadn't enough limos of her own for ferrying the august et cetera about their august work: limos had to be got in from Sweden and Germany; I imagine driven in, or onboard fragrant diesel transports.

And the lake of jet fuel: who could not see that? Globe-trekkin' jetsetters, their entourage, and accompanying media, they gotta burn that jet fuel. Perhaps an exaggeration, there. Perhaps not a lake. Perhaps I'm imagining just a bit too imaginatively, there. Just as I've been imagining too, too long now that all this getting-together could be managed best via this teleconferencing I've heard has made massive techno-leaps since soup-tin and string. Most greenly, these summiteers could summit, via the blessed phone. And no need at all then for a promised forest in carbon offsets every time they yearn for another get-together someplace exotic.

But they do love their buzzwords, eh? As much as they clearly love to talk. And meet, evidently. Canada, too. We have our own career summiteers. And entourage. And hypocrisy.

They're as a group mildly entertaining. They're hardly guides. I believe I shall now go stomp down some soup tins: that always puts me in a lighter mood.

Wonderin'

I'm in a wondering mood. Wondering, first off, if I still remember how to write stuff such as this. Wondering if this moment, and anything I might manage doing over on Protag, will be a fading memory Monday morn: I might catch myself staring in the bathroom mirror, like someone back from vacation, and only the sunburn reminds it really happened.

Wondering about the seafood tanks at Superstore this morning, too. Live tilapia, nosing into the current bubbling from the aerator. Among them, a tiny not-tilapia: a whiskered catfish, sleek and agile as a torpedo, and more like a specimen you might purchase for the aquarium than dinner.

"Prob'ly not from around here," said the old gent, who had stopped by to eyeball rainbow trout in the next tank.

Old gent then recounted fond days of his youth, in Alberta, in the Rocky Mountains near Montana, and pulling out trout by the dozen. We both remarked about the price stuck on the tank edge: that two-pound trout, about twelve dollars.

Neil Young, along with the Shocking Pinks, Wonderin', just on the radio, started me wanderin'. Work's been...work. I'll leave it at that. It's been a long busy season.

Telegram from Undisclosed Location

Dearest Mama STOP
Agree Dada most loud on wireless STOP
Agree visit from Big Bro likely STOP
But loud most needed Dada shouldn't stop STOP
Allowed to say am well STOP
Love All Bingo

--

Been re-reading Orwell's 1984. Can't say why. We have so many freedoms, don't we?
Okay, am mapping out a story. Rants don't feel the way to go.

Seriously, now, my latest Writing World newsletter put me on to this unsettling bit o'news.
I encourage you to go read it. Yes, and at this point I should poke my usual fun, eh, add 'Read it, while we can' — and a Haarr'Haarrr all around.

The link will take you to the Telegraph, Uk: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/lawandorder/6533107/Every-phone-call-email-and-internet-click-stored-by-state-spying-databases.html

A Bit o'Play

Dear Brother,

Havin' returned from weekly shoppin'...

Naah, let's go a bit more imaginative than weekly — Cummon! I needs t'cut loose, after all that bleepin' work.

Dear Brother,

Havin' returned from the monthly drive...

Betterrr.

...monthly cart ride along the river road, the engineers' road, to the landing and Harry's General Store for provisions, I take these moments while tea's a'simmerin' to Hail You, to scribble this greeting you likely shall not read 'til spring breakup, when the river again is ice-free, and Ol' Prosperity, the mail steamer, can steam. Hello.

Harry wore his Saturday shirt, though it is Monday. In every other way, Harry remains Harry. Will likely go broke extending credit to settler and forty-niner alike, the kind ol' soul. He took it in fair trade, my thirty pelts, all manner of furry critter, from fearsome marten to vicious gnu, for flour and sugar, blackpowder and shot, for miso, and mojito mix.

Harry's a saint, a'right, and well deserving of Ingrid, as you pointed out to them envyin' naysayers, you surely recall. Harry won her fair, and Ingrid woulda brooked no other, so I'd have called it as you did, a match. She remains as fine, and a dead ringer for the corset gal in the Eaton's catalogue. There weren't a dry eye when Captain Mack, from Prosperity, married the pair of 'em on Steamer Beach just before the ice came.

And this, too. As I mounted the cart for going, Harry sent out his Ingrid, in her swirling apron, to catch me. Smiling on me and fixing me in her bright eye, she put in my hand a butcher's packet of chilled kangaroo, just arrived from the other end of the world. "A sampler", she said: for my adventurous palette. Aye, Brother, Harry and Ingrid are good people.

Is city life agreeable with you? How ARE you? I ask this with utmost concern and sincerity, not as newfangled smalltalk. In your letter of June 21st last (received, at last, November 12th), you mentioned political corruption, rampant, if unsurprising, and impending influenza. I hope you have remembered your unsophisticated brother's cautionings at your goin'away, and secured yourself both a reliable stock of garlic tablets and a hazmat suit. Regarding the political corruption, rampant, if unsurprising, I agree: mocking laughter sometimes our only recourse, perhaps.

Brother, my tea has stewed nicely. Perhaps I shall add to this, as this missive ain't goin' anywhere soon. Or, perhaps I shall afix missive to missile, to firework stuck in the sand of Steamer Beach, once I've worked out the guidance software. Aye, am perhaps becoming a mite silly. And yet, am glad at last I could play a little.

--

That was fun! It's been non-stop busy at work, y'see.

Uggghhh, and a WooHoo

Uggghhh...
6 megs to update for my antivirus...
Wonder if that means Avira, the AV solution currently installed, is going to dig through this machine's pre-installs and decide, again, WildTangent Games, and such, are this malware Avira so enthusiastically works to protect me against? Avira did that last year at this time, after a similarly huge update. I keep records, yesss, patiently keep these patient records: my huge red binder. From Norton, through CA, and now Avira. And all the special little gifts from Windows Updates over the years. Every hiccough. Every event. Every session 'til shutdown.

37 minutes...Yeah, on dial-up. Reality in a half-century old apartment building. I'm not gonna muse further on that: not on the obvious advertised alternatives, not on what's actually available in a half-century old apartment building. When the building super's around to let Mr.HighSpeed in to do his magic below in the utility room. When I've time for it, when I can get time off in this much-yammered-about economic slowdown, I'll go do it.

It's not that I especially want to be online right now, anyway. If I'm online, I'm not writing. Even this blogging: it's talking about writing, I might even think-out something I want to write, but it's not writing. There are weeks of projects I haven't had time for. Much-yammered-about economic slowdown, again — and the usual pre-Christmas busy'ness, here, as usual. So I'll do my online banking next. Check-in and see what's happening at Protag.

And whatever else...Ohhh, special! Was gonna add...can't remember now. Windows Updates wants to share my dial-up bandwidth.

Oh, right — Get some writin' in, too. Obviously.

I did, one time, this week. Remembrance Day, Nov 11, was a holiday. Managed a lovely section of outline and 1600 words. Something to woohoo over.

Idling...

The Light was Green

Light was Red

Light Stayed Amber, for the Longest Time

He Always Said “I’m Late” – Now He Is

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Silly epitaphs are running through my head. Humorous scratchings across headstones. Can’t say why they’re there, one after the other. Maybe it’s the same as humming a tune: after the umpteenth hum-through, changing the words for a bit of play. I’m just wiped, after this day at work. My mind’s being playful. Craving play. Want to do more of my NaNo plot. Want to go to Protag. Belatedly, to say Thanks to Tasha for her congrats re my mercenary’ism. ‘Isssm. And say “I like that” – at least that – for Miss Bolsheviki’s Skin Deep Damage, and her latest for Mage Hunting. And read – anything.

But there’s still work here. And I shouldn’t even be idling in my blog.

Ain't Afraid of No Zombies

Bought 2 kilos of Rockets, for Hallowe'en: those tart candies, a fave when I was a kid. Do foresee myself savouring them into the New Year. I may take forever to finish writing projects, but I am disciplined about rationing sugary treats.

Reports are true. Zombies already are ranging freely, shambling along sidewalks, failing to navigate around each other, during Saturday shopping at Superstore.

I've barricaded doors, and windows especially: movie zombies always grab the stupid who stand in front of windows, after all.

I've deleted all that wordy yada'yada re the busy workweek just ended. It's really irrelevant, in light of what this night will bring. Perhaps might have to rush out later, rescue trapped friends, round-up survivors, transport our pitifully small number across a nightmarish city someplace safe, properly illuminated, noisy with music, and twenty-eight floors up.

For the moment, I'll play some more with my NaNoWriMo plot.

...At Ease...

Well, I've visited fave folks over at Protag.

There's a lot of enthusiasm building over there re this NaNoWriMo.

I'm finding the enthusiasm's contagious. Contagious in the best sense of the word. No disease. I'm feeling kinda...at ease...over quite probably, actually gonna'be'giving this month-long writing exercise a go. There's the point I keep hearing about participating, doing this NaNo. Do it for the fun of it. I intend to.

NaNoWriMo'a'Go'Go!

Yeahhh, can't think up any good reason why I shouldn't simply...do it. Not Try. Actually stopped myself tapping in try. His words popped in my brain, the master's voice and all his mannerisms, Yoda, pop culture sensei of my generation: Do...or do not...there is no Try.

[Recovering, after embarrassing hacking cough] Might've hurt myself there, strangling my voice like that, and hobbling about, feigning decrepitude, and banging my head against the furniture.

About banging my head against furniture, I just excised the next long bit about banging my head against the day job. Enough to say it's busy, wearing, isn't helping the writing. Also, isn't going away: part of me knows to be grateful. The point, though: no sense in waiting for miracles. I simply have to find a workaround. As always. As they say: There's no time like the present.

So. NaNoWriMo. Write a 50,000-word novel in November. Roughly 1700 words a day. And no works-in-progress, if I recall right. Hang on...is it cheating to start plotting and peopling now, mid-October? Hmmm...it's time to go visit fave folks over at Protag: a pack of them are doing this.

Last year, Tasha advised to leave all editing — even re-reading — until December. Simply get it all down — get it all done — and make sense of it in December. Sounds kinda freeing, eh? That's why I'm just gonna...do it. I can use the play.

SubSurface

Braver than me, he remembered dreams.

Imagined another life.

Dared to seek the edges.

Drew me maps.

Z List

There's a lot to be said for doing these lists, really. Did my Saturday to-do list, first thing this morn: trying again to make a habit of doing it, as I used to, and wiring it into my brain, so I'll simply do it now, scribbling it, along with breakfast.

Also did another kinda list. We all have...issues going or gone wrong in our lives we hate, or don't like, if hate is too harsh a word. Figured why not jot that down. Not some long-winded rant I wouldn't wanna write or read, let alone bore any reader with in a blog. Just a list. Things going left in my life I don't like...hate, actually. Recalling now I never used to flinch from feeling strongly about anything. It was stuff cluttering my view of Saturday morning anyway. Figured by jotting it down, staring at it, in effect, that maybe I'd see something I hadn't seen before: figure out some spectacular solution, maybe...could happen...sure...

Well. No. Not resolved in a simple list. No simple fix blazed clear as morning sun. But I don't feel frustrated about it, not at all now. I don't feel I might punch my fist thru a wall...if I was the melodramatic sort who takes a very hands-on approach to moving architecture. Jotting down all that...stuff seems to have put out the fire of it in my head. It's all only a list now. I'm left feeling, imagining it, even, that I might have done something about it already. And that'll do me fine. For now.

Could call it...Z List, I suppose. Names are good. Naming a thing makes it a knowable thing, eh? Z List, okay. Any other letter raises its importance. I don't want that. It could never be a B, for instance. Today's A, the to-do list, isn't even that big of an A. It's only an organizing tool, really: a thinking exercise intended for pointing me in the direction I want to go. Today's Big A, THE number 1 to-do I did scribble this morn: GO MEET FRIENDS. Well, of course! Because it's
S A T U R D A Y. Pretty hilarious outcome, wouldn't it be, if the exercise goes wrong and turns me from human being to human doing?

Oh yeah...To Do List

Once upon a time, when time was a thing I couldn’t catch if I swung the biggest butterfly net imaginable, I read some how-to…might’ve been How To Get Control of Your Time and Your Life. Yeah, thinking about it, that was the book. By Alan Lakein. Anyway. One useful and kinda obvious gem from it, thinking about that: To Do Lists. And I did find doing To Do Lists useful: for organizing, and prioritizing, right’right, the stuff whizzing about through my head. Wasn’t enough simply to do a To Do list: it’s only a mess of chores to do, until it’s prioritized…Do this first, then this, this, and so on. And maybe forget doing the ‘so on’, because the ‘so on’ is so low on the list.

Suddenly it’s gotten so busy…in this economic downturn, funny, eh?...and I’ve been feeling exhausted, and frustrated I can’t do more. Do more of my stuff. My projects. And I’ve just remembered this little coping device I used, when last I needed it – but forgot about until now.

So. Did my To Do list this morning. Scribbled it on some paper slip. Slipped it in my back pocket. Referred to it. Added to it. Subtracted from it through my day, as I did each, or enough of each. That was another bit of advice, I recall now: even doing some of a thing is better than doing nothing.

That bit of advice, and another…about trying to be flexible about everything. As I’m trying now. The dayjob beckons again. In overtime. Gotta go. I’ll be sure and do my stretching exercises, tho.

Sergeant's Advice

Dreamed a great one last night. A story character giving out advice. About how I might write the story. He's a soldier. More, actually: a sergeant, respected by the soldiers he leads.

"Come morning, if you find you can stand to read it, you'll know it might be worth making more of." he said.

The sergeant didn't appear...distinct. A cloaked big man standing on hard ground, and shadowed by a great tree overhead. I had the impression he wore armour under that cloak. Of course, he's only partly formed. Just like the story.

Here's the funny thing, though: I haven't recently scribbled anything featuring any sergeant.

Graphikty Truckin'

Couldn't get back to this 'til the day after.

[Whispers] The j-o-b, as always, or seems so.

Lucky, I suppose, busy workdays yesterday and today, that I got to post the prettified truck pic when I did. Can't say what I had in mind, as in comments, to go along with it. Whatever...the thought was gone by day's end.

Suppose I'm making do. As the artist did: found himself a canvas, or wall. Though I thought there was some sorta code, among graffitists, not to illustrate private property. Well, maybe artist and driver of the rolling art shook hands on some deal. Might happen, in a world perfect as this.

Saturday...Half Empty, or Full?

It doesn't feel it, still this is perhaps the most productive first half of any Saturday I've had in weeks.

Usual Saturday morning chores already done. Groceries gotten, and put away. Bills paid, online and effortlessly, and banking records recorded. Laundry's laundered, too, and all the rest of it's no longer in my way: the accumulated domesticana I hadn't time for all this workweek.

Even done, the correspondence not related to Protag, the blog, writin' projects. While the day was young and my head clear, three emails composed and sent to family and one remote friend scattered around the geography.

Still, it doesn't feel totally satisfying, nooo. It feels like desk-clearing, that spent away half the day. Now that I've done the chores part of Saturday, I'm all too aware it is a Saturday. And the sun's out...out there.

Beauty where U Find It...Aw, it's only because I can't abide untitled stuff

I have no idea what to...blog about. Don't especially wanna think. Been thinking all week. Tired of thinking. Tired of work. Wanna write. Play. Go...somewhere. Go nowhere. Don't even wanna jab at that Canada Line, easy tho it'd be to. Or maybe I do.

Spotted more Canada Line hilarity this morning, y'see, returning from grocery shopping along Kent Avenue. Drizzly Saturday. The calm before the return to work storm, I'm antici...pating, after this Labour Day long weekend, when commuters will demonstrate reality. Many of their bus routes simply gone, or re-routed. All those souls being routed to feed this. This unifying snake. Effective on Monday, the only way across the river between two swarms of population. Compelled aboard two-car trains. Now a brain might anticipate, and increase the frequency of rush-time trains: say, from a train every four minutes, to every...two.

I dunno why I'm thinking about that. It's not my job to think about that. I don't want to think about that. I just wanna jab them. Just in passing. Only to sneer about this morning. How this morning says so much about this entire pre-Olympics farce.

Construction signage - flashing sign-boxes: CAMBIE CLOSED - [then some yada yada] - BUSINESS OPEN

I really felt for the delivery van, pulled over at wooden barriers — naturally — at Kent and Cambie, his hazards flashing. When passing traffic had cleared him, the driver hurried out from behind his wheel, dragged aside the barriers. Yesss, some little human mistake. Someone didn't get the message, or didn't think.

And that's enough thinking.
Snapped a little art through the smashed open side of an abandoned building. I liked the stacked pallets as much.

Canada Line Doesn't Stop Here

"Stop, please. I work here. Quite a number of us, actually. Customs brokers. Freight forwarders. Cargo handlers. All the business of the wide world passes through these terminals. Canadian exports. Hawaiian mango sliced in your dessert.

"There's...NO stop...not here, not any longer? But...that yellow kiosk, down there, the 100 from Marpole stopped there, for decades. Before this advancement in mass rapid transit. Even with that stupid Fare Zone crossing, and $3.75 one-way, it was just ten minutes to this stop, and work, riding the 100, south from Marpole, across the Arthur Laing, across the Fare Zone line drawn in the river, and west.

"Sweeping changes coming in September — really? Such as? Does it include this YVR Add-fare I've been hearing of? Sounds odd, that, as if the YVR track is...some kind of add-on, and couldn't be in anyone's daily commute. It would make it $12 a day, from Marpole, where the planes take-off past our windows.

"I see. My 100 no longer will brave the storms of autumn and winter south and west of the river. I'll have to get to my hole in the hedge earlier. Catch the 10...eastbound. Oh. Five minutes, east. Then catch this...Line, ten minutes, south and west.

"Two stations bracket these cargo terminals. I can de-train at the station a half-mile short. Only that's open ground, and a foul long slog in the storms of autumn and winter. I might just ride the train past, I suppose. Eye the cargo buildings in passing. And walk the half-mile down from YVR. Buildings along that stretch should offer some shelter during the gales.

"Actually, I'm feeling a bit stunned. Just now. I'd prefer not hearing about the YVR Add-fare, for the moment. Where'd I stow my foul-weather gear, anyway? Gonna haveta dress like Amundsen striking for the Pole, this winter.

10 Days in August

The 2009 World Police and Fire Games are just finishing in the Lower Mainland...Vancouver, and suburbs all around. From July 31 through August 9. 10 days of firefighters and police-persons from around the world taking a break from saving the rest of us; instead, doing their athletic best in competition that resembles more play, than anything Olympic.

Close to 10,600 participants. All events were free to watch, at any of 69 event venues. 69 pre-existing venues, as it happens. No Olympic'like anything monumental to build, nor fund for. Nor pay for, for the next thirty years. No billion-dollar athletes' village. No years-long construction nightmare for locals to navigate, and business to survive. I've only seen smiles all around.

And that's about all there is to say about these 10 days in August.

Day Stealer

There it is. The day stealer that blew in to my Sunday afternoon. And me feeling like writing — I dunno — a couple of novels, maybe. Little thing, eh?

Suppose I should be thankful for the other stuff, yeah. For what turned out right. For D, the apartment super, actually in. That I was able, at last, to convince D a fizzing water pipe inside the second-floor ceiling, and resultant dribbling thru my bathroom ceiling below, did actually warrant an emergency call to ANY plumber. I am especially thankful for the Chinese gent, coming on a Sunday, hauling upstairs his case of tools, three and a half hours later.

I wonder how the really good writers, the ones we all know and love, how they managed, or worked around, the little day stealers in their lives...

Picturing...mmm...Miss Shakespeare. For my fun of it.

"Millie. Millie, cut me free of these constraining garments. And set another ewer under yonder weeping joist. Wait. Ack, poor ewer. I knew him, Millie. Ewer bore my beer. Fetch another, Millie."

Meh, just funnin' about. Late Sunday night, I jotted a start to...Fond Memory...working title. Maybe something for Protag. Only put down the idea, and some imagery. Too hot, too tired, to do more.

How Do I Hate Thee?

No, not here. Elsewhere, I'll list the whys.

I've stopped myself polluting my blog, for today, with a particularly witty, I thought, though nasty rant. About so many colliding things I see wrong with this picture-perfect...place on the plain. I can't call Vancouver a city, not without laughing. And lose the by the sea bit — I'm writing this. Imagery of a mirage of a city splayed like a blurry dream across a broiling plain especially fits, for its ominous connection with a divine smack from on high, impending and even deserved, to my current mind. Of course, it's people who are responsible for the state of...everything. You and me — all of big-U Us — either group-hugging, or snarling, like the animals humans really are. In every small choice we make, we build, or destroy.

I've become a destroyer. In my small way. And actually don't much care. Fed up, after decades of doing my bit so that, as it's turned out, the clearly uncaring, and their progeny, could breathe cleaner air, I've parked my bike. I motor about, these days. Haven't barked once. There is a mean look in my eyes, when I glimpse myself in the mirror. Prob'ly I'm only squinting against the bright sun. I do especially like that because they wouldn't share with skinny me cranking along the road edge they now have to, with five thousand pounds of pick-up truck, and me, grinning, unpleasantly, in front of them.

Have to qualify my meaning there. I care that I don't care. I've lost something more than the daily chance to raise my heart rate.

But, again, the rant of all that won't blacken this blog. While going for groceries this milder morn, I arrived at that decision, and came up with the idea I could do it as a story. A most twisted story. A Rant, for the therapy. And writing exercise. So I can have my rant — make them eat it, too — Mwwaahh'Haa'Haahhh! Already thinking of a pair of characters, opposites, naturally. Really need to get going on my adds over at Protag, tho.

Snapped the reflective pic before work Thursday morn. Went out of my way to find a little quiet worth looking at...[odd sentence, that oddly works].

Green Tea Moment - July 30 '09

Taking a moment, late, during another of these days at work.
Consciously slowed myself, during this making of a tea. Green tea, this time. Sniffed the opened, fragrant jar I keep in my desk. Tipped out a measure of green tea curls. Swirled them around, around, around, the bottom of the cup. They rang like bells. Bells accompanied me, walking to the sink, to the tap, to the water.
It’ll take some more time.
I’m watching the curls unfold, becoming leaves again, swelling, tinging the water green. Not pond green. Nice green.

I’ve only been able to peek inside Protag, so far, these days most recently. Not proper visits. New stuff, everywhere, naturally. A young UK writer is asking around for a read-thru of hers. I’m forever amazed by all the young’uns on Protag. I had the imagination, when I was their age. And grammar basics, sure: rules, that I’ve kinda experimented around a bit too much, perhaps. But can’t say fer sure I was ever as natural a storyteller as so many of these. Lessons and fun, there. And the why I like Protag so very, very much.

Yeah…Bolshe’ added days ago, now…
And Febin’s got tons posted I’ve only glanced at.
And...and Elorithryn...sounds like a party's rocking the Pub...

Conversation with Miss Half-Empty

The weekend was a wash-out. You’ve failed.

So might say the little voice that nags in my head. The catastrophizer. I believe it prob’ly more helpful if I choose to see – not to pretend the weekend wasn’t a wash-out – but, instead, see that the glass, as it were, is half full. So I did not do all I planned, or hoped to do, this past weekend. Nor Monday – nor so far today, for that matter – those days, and today, so far, essentially used up by the job. Instead, I’m gonna celebrate what I did do. Am doing. It’s not like I’m hiding from my failings. Mister...no, Miss, 'coz I'll tolerate more barbs from a Miss – Miss Half-Empty is sure not to let me forget. She has her uses, to a point. So, let’s begin, shall…we?

Begin, Aye. You didn’t add to GodSeed Vector, and you were sure you would.

Work was busy. Is busy. I am thinking of possible ways to go. I call it, pre-writing. I feel whatever I add should be lighter, somehow. More...Saturday serial, like Buck Rogers. Keeping it light. Staying away from the angst’y character introspection: that only slows down the action. That’s slowed things in other projects, I have noticed.

Such as your clumsier adds to Mage Hunting, yesss. And You didn’t start on your next Mage Hunting add.

I did one...Friday. Tried it, minus the character introspection. Bolshe added, that morn. Am into more pre-writing. Also, praised Bolsheviki on her add. Gimme a break.

Actually, You did nothing over at Protag.

I praised Bolsheviki. Read some poetry. Read some new members. Peered about in the Groups: Flash Fiction, Editing, the Pub, World-Building. I’m calling that pre-writing, too.

There’s Pre-Writing. Then there’s making life’s work from it, from research, and notes, and endlessly thinking about…stuff, instead of getting on with it. The sixty-thousand worder you’ve been fiddling with since High School comes to mind.

Prob’ly right there, I’ll give you…er, me, that. Still, I’ve my notes. Years of ‘em. And 400 pages enthusiastically scribbled in a binder: a stalled early draft I'm long past, but the world there, and all one side of the story. True enough, endlessly adding nifty ideas and thinking about it all doesn’t finish any story. But, y’know, I’m not apologizing for wanting to do it right. I have a vision for it. I want it that way. I’ll do it that way. You’re right, sure, and I’ll make the effort to actually do the thing, as soon as I can wrestle the time for it.
Thanks, was helpful, that. Really.

Scribblus Interruptussss

My brother is so wise. Over the phone, he talked me down off the ledge this morning.
[insert curse word here...make an adjective of it, describing...] the microwave, suddenly and frustratingly busted...

Ahh...and now someone's at the door — just as I'm tryyying to empty my head of the rant crashing about in there, behind my eyes. Have to slip over to the spy-hole a moment. I'll be Bach.

No one's there. Though. I can hear the buzz-boxes buzzing, in other apartments in the building. Someone's out front, obviously, pushing buttons. I don't like being pushed. And I'm not feeling at all neighbourly. Besides, knowing the pack who dwell in this stack of boxes, I'm prob'ly not far off in assuming it'll just be "Heh, I fuggot my keys."

The world could end so simply for such as these, couldn't it?

Radio buzzing: Residents are reminded to remain indoors during the solar maximum. Specifically, between the hours of very early and the very hot part of the afternoon. Death is fer'sure, and can be got from repeated exposures, such as incidental glare through glass foyers of apartment blocks.

That felt good. Place is quiet again. Either the someone stirred another someone into an act, especially like that word today, of neighbourliness; or went away, prob'ly to stew in that coffee shop around the corner, about how unneighbourly Vancouver's become toward the forgetful and keyless.

That felt good, too.

Back to wise and consoling brother...

"It's a seven year old microwave. Doors break. Y'can get a new one for fifty bucks." said he.

There might have been monks chanting, somewhere. Maybe a temple, too, smoky in incense.

I don't like broken things, any more than being pushed. My repeated fiddlings near spent me. At that moment came the epiphany. He was right, my brother! Once this writing exercise is done, I shall dress again for the blazing summery outdoors. I shall seek this new and reasonably-priced microwave, of which he spoke. Also, I shall take a hammer to the offending former unit, and convince it to unlatch — to release to me my favourite cup — if I'm not later again in a mood to try fix it.

QuickJot - Sat, July 18 '09

Groceries done. Not a chance for thinking about what to blog about...about. Funny. Managed a blog post every day this past workweek. Actual little essay'like things. Started them in the mornings. Jotted down jottings, while at work, every chance I got during work, in between...moments in between...um, doing the job. I'm rambling. I've got writing to do, even Saturday, when I'd rather go play, or something. I'm still rambling.

My add to Bolsheviki's Mage Hunting: I have notes, puzzle pieces, and I want to do that, this afternoon. If I put it together right, then post it tonight, and she'll have it for reading Sunday, UK morning.

Wanna check out Protag, naturally. For anything. For everything. Protag's still this huge part of my every day. Never want it to stop. Feels like it's a party that never ends. Even the workshops, that feel like schooldays.

Have got more of these weekend chores to do...mumble. Need a haircut. 30 degrees C on Friday in Vancouver, and I need to shed some insulation, or the core could melt in its brain-pan — I might lose data.

Wanna pre-write re GodSeed Vector, again. Am in a sci-fi frame of mind. Prob'ly all these specials about Apollo 11. Wonder what's on Space, tonight? Space: next week's gonna be wonderful! Torchwood...Children of earth. Episodes every weeknight, 7 pm.
And Doctor Who...Planet of The Dead, next Saturday night.
Must tell Bolsheviki.

GodSeed needs some googling about for paintings re the Annunciation. Angels possessing mortals. Found some German philosopher...stuff. Notes are where? And those nasty Zirks. What are they? What do they need? How do they feed? Get all that and I get how to stop 'em dead! Febin's written lots I needta catch up on. TAS...not so much, recently. Where are ya, TAS?

'Mage Hunting' Delay: Understanding Why

It seemed odd that it should take longer and longer for me to add a chapter to Bolsheviki’s Mage Hunting over on Protagonize, when my turn, as it were. I think I see now why. It’s become a big story – 79 chapters big, so far – and my own pre-writing routine has simply slowed me down.

When it’s my turn to add a chapter, usually I’ll read over previous chapters, so I can keep straight plot points, character details, time of day, or night, POV, chapter tone, whatever…

In early days of writing Mage Hunting, we could write new chapters overnight, often quicker. The story was just being formed. Characters coming into being. It was plain easy to add to, because we could go anywhere, within the small map of story already written. Even beginning to see beyond the known edges of the world.

Mage Hunting has just become bigger, is all. There’s simply more that I have to re-read in my pre-writing. And I don’t feel I should fiddle with the pre-writing routine, not too much. Unless I can come up with some shortcut. Keeping the story true to itself matters most.

I have, tho, said my sorry re my delay to Bolsheviki.

100th Blog Post!...Gotta Make It Something More than a WooHoo

Glimpsed this commercial on teevee. Paper towels…really green paper towels. We’ve all seen that breed of advert.

Greenest car, ever! Look! Stick your nose in its tail-pipe. Don’t the exhaust smell like roses? Mother Nature’s in love with this car!

…With this Product!

…These paper towels! Snowcapped mountain and clear lake background. See? THE best thing EVER to happen to the good Earth, these paper towels! Y’gotta get these paper towels and save the Earth!

But it’s a disposable paper towel. Folks strip off a square of it, dry their hands, dispose of it, right? If – and it bears repeating, IF – used for more than drying hands, for dabbing the gravy’d mouth during picnic, or for swabbing up some countertop catastrophe, after that it’ll become a crumpled thing, briefly airborne, tossed in the bin.

Naturally, that brings me to the glowing subject of the Cloth Wipe.

Yeah, it’ll have its chain of impacts, production-wise, and environmental, the cloth wipe. All the steps, so that I can hold on high this cloth wipe. Besides the ethical considerations re use of labour. The chain, of growing the cotton, processing it, the making, packaging, shipping, even illuminating the supermarket aisle so I can read the tiny price tag somebody also had to make. But that’s a burrowing headache I don’t need just now. Every manufactured thing has its chain, the costs beyond the 3-for-$1.99.

Here, only comparing green paper wipe against cloth.

Well, simply, I’m biased. Only have ever used cloth. I’ll use cloth towels in the kitchen, washing them daily, until they’re unfit for the kitchen. They then go to bathroom use: countertop, walls, floor, tub and sink. Bathroom cloths still washed daily: to keep them useable as long as possible. When past presentable, the bathroom cloths go toward cleaning the bike, or the twilight life as a rag in my truck.

All this green talk reminds me I should probably call in the hazmat folks. Disposal time for prematurely dead CFLs (compact fluorescent lamps). Two of ‘em. Seems they’re not the bees’ knees, these. I have one that for two years continues to inadequately illuminate the space what passes for living room. But 2 dead ones…

And it really wasn’t funny, however many Earth Days ago it was, when all those genius politicians mounted the swinging big bell together, ringing out the death knell for the incandescent lightbulb – even pushing for its ban – while extolling…these mercury’d things.
MERCURY, you…!

Picture your local landfill. Your one of how many around the good Earth? Seagulls crying, wheeling in the sky. Crumpled paper toweling flitting about the place. Under it all, out of sight, and so our great grandkids’ worry, a lake of mercury gradually swelling, drop by drop, from these dead CFLs.

Not a nice note to end on, that. Needs a little Earth-hug closing. My spent cloth wipes! Their very last use. I’ll have to climb a mountain for this, maybe Everest, Chomolungma. Find a high Himalayan stone stupa. Add to the strings of prayer flags streaming our hopes…

Human On-Leash Zone…working-rant title

I’m just gonna make the point unmistakably clear.
Wouldn’t wanna somehow offend local, politically-empowered doggie-lovers out there. Y’know the kind: the kind kind who’d motor themselves and four-legged family-member in family luxury-Beemer thru wintry and unplowed Vancouver streets (if it were refreshing winter) that couple of miles to…um, Le Pet Boutique, say, because four-legged family-member will only eat his fave soft bacon’y blend. And the human averting his gaze from fellow human begging on the corner…or warming self over steaming grating.

An aside, that, tho not much of the exaggeration…that.

Clear point I’d strayed from, before mini rant: I like doggies just fine. I’ve been a doggie’s human. A doggie occasionally comes to work: he lets me take his tennis ball, and I let him close his mouth on my hand; our agreement. Out in the real world, I’ll actually greet doggo before accompanying upright ape. The disdain I feel – thankfully not actually feeling, because I was wearing shoes – I’m aiming, as if about to pitch a bagful of disdain’ings…at aforementioned accompanying ape.

Doggo was only doing his doggo thing, I’m realistic about that. Exploring the world his ape let him off leash into. Doggo only doing what comes, and goes, naturally. On sidewalk. Around the corner and out of mind. In our fair city’s many green spaces, as the buzzword-knowing call them, but which I call public toilets.

Yeaahhh, there oughtta be a leash law…

Lessons [dot dot dot] of Life.

Gaawwd, sounds so melodramatic. Lessons…of…Life. Should don a frilly shirt, mope about some castle, really.

Jotting it down, before I forget, tho. I won’t have much opportunity today, not here at the job, I’m figuring. Rather, I won’t be allowing myself the opportunity here, at the job. A precaution, this. A toning down. Recently I’ve been posting, with abandon, as the poetic may say, to blog and Protag, but from the job. That’s an employee regulations no’no. Last night, still at the job, during a break from the job, a half-hour or so after blog’fully expressing my desire to simplifyyy, I noted PCAnywhere suddenly active, and my pc desktop no longer my private own. Scary as encountering a ghost in my wanderings, that. And a reminder. A lesson, too.

No one’s called me in and shut the door for a talking to, not yet. It might not come. It might. If it comes, I’ll come clean, naturally. Wasn’t surfing porn, after all. Only a quick blog and short minutes perusing Protag. And about to update some inventory report, when Little Bro popped in.

But that’s just one lesson I’m wanting to jot. Wanting to jot these, as said so I’ll remember, maybe learn from, if there’s learning to be got from any of them.

There’s also the writing environment at home I’m having a tough time calling…a lesson. Picture the typical writer’s den…from typical writer biography, as illustrated on teevee. Camera following writer thru a typical day. He’s looking everywhere, but at the camera. Folks encountered in his day invariably are smiling, supportive, and also don’t seem to see that camera…and crew. They must be invisible. That’s just me envying the writer blessed with a quiet place in which he can practice book-jacket poses. Yeah, well, that’s someone else’s place. That’s not the box in the noisy stack of boxes I live in.

How do students study in those dorms, anyway? I didn’t have, or feel, so much distraction in my younger days. This then just my old brain wearing out, is it? Adaptation a possible evolutionary outcome of all this…?
Is that the lesson, then?

Note To Self...Simplify!

I’ve been playing with spreadsheets in plotting out bigger stories. Which works well in laying out cross-plots, who does what and when. Spotting more than once a nice moment when a pair of characters might overlap their bits of story, meet, and so on. Don’t have Microsoft Office on my home machine. There, I’m using Microsoft Works, that spreadsheet, which essentially is the same.

Anyway. Since it works well in the bigger stuff, thought I’d try it for plotting out my current add for Bolsheviki’s Mage Hunting, over on Protag.

[Meaningful pause]

Well…it worked, but not nearly as well. Perhaps because I was plotting it up on the laptop, and not under ideal jotting-down conditions. Tapping in the plot points, row after row down the sheet, was fun, sure. And each character’s action and reaction across the columns. But. Have you ever tried copy-pasting from a spreadsheet to any kind of working draft…using the f’…fiddly, laptop, pointing device? Tried it only the once.

If I felt like playing a game, then I’d fiddle with that pointing device, however I felt like writing. Laptop has a usb mouse, of course. But the awkward positionings of laptop, and lap, and tapper, as in me tapping, and mouse on paper notes as mouse pad – and inadequate slapdash mouse pad, at that! – frustrated even more so. I want to write, I want to jot it down fast, I don’t need to fight the tools I’m using.

I over-complicated the exercise.
There’s a lot to be said for pen and the back of some recycled fax scrap.
It’s how I used to do all of it, last century.

0 Yard Siding

Spotted that as I drove home, after groceries, after Air Care testing my motoring vehicle, and passing said test, with conditional okay re new gas cap; and after renewing motoring-vehicle insurance for another year. Spotted the small hand-painted plaque hung over the door of the portable that passes for the railman's office down here in the Marpole shunting yard. So this is 0 Yard, then.

Also, spotted a likely spot where I could snap a closer pic of that snoozing caboose.

The CPR never would've needed a caboose for shunting about railcars. Marpole, and 0 Yard, simply where it has come to rest, my guess, after decades of rolling and rattling at the back end of trains that got to see all of Canada.

Blogger Profile Interests Broken…but Being Worked On

Clicking on those diverse and nifty interests in our Blogger Profiles has suddenly returned NO PROFILE FOUND. Not for any of them.

For me, it was like suddenly being cut off from all the rest of the world and all the other bloggers riding along on it.
Yup, something broke, a very quick google about returned this morning.
However, no worries. They – the They behind the curtain who keep things working – they’re looking into it.
Interestingly, they call this Interests Search thingie the Blogger Profile Browsing Feature. Which is what it is, eh.

Here’s their reassuring link: http://knownissues.blogspot.com/2009/07/1971735.html

Shadows on Water...actually, it's a Test

A Test. I'm testing the Schedule a Future Posting thingie.

Set the date...in the near future...and I'll see, at the appointed hour, won't I?

-------

Thursday, July 9 '09,

6:47'ish, pm:

It worked.

Compose something. Even put in a pic. Under Post Options, set Post Date and Time in the future. Click Publish Post. And it is scheduled for publishing at that precise, future When.

Simple.

QuickJot — Wed., july 8 '09

I've fallen back into an old habit. Not posting until I'm more in the mood, as in feel I can do the thing right, to my satisfaction. It's no writerly calamity. Not even a creative block. Work's been busier, recently. Work, as in day job, and night job, in the busy season, and which ain't writing. There've been other demands demanding the hours I'm awake in every day. I'm tired. And wanting to play. And simply not wanting to have to work at any writing when I'm tired and useless. I like the doing the writing to be fun.

Was just about to stop there.
But the point here is to do the thing. Even when it feels wrong. Because not doing this, saying whatever my excuse for not doing it, falling back into that old bad habit means I don't get my scribbling exercise. And exercise should properly be a daily...exercise, if I'm gonna get the eventual good of it.

Gawd, that hurt. Felt the burrrn. So it's gotta be doing good...

QuickJot...Thurs, July 2 '09...Teatime for My Soul

Lonnnnggg work day.
Taking a break.
Just made a tea. Zapped a mugful of water and teabag three minutes in the microwave. Gave my soul the moment of quiet that was handy.

Pre- the zapping, I lay the teabag on the surface of that water. Did not…repeat…did not break the moment with spoon drowning that teabag. Stood, instead. Watched, instead. Water darkly seeping, sweeping up through the teabag, like the dark sea taking a ship, flooding her to the last bulkhead, and sinking her by the head.

Two sugars. There wasn’t any milk. I wanna go write something.

Canada day, July 1 '09

Formerly known as Dominion Day, Canada Day, this year, today, Wednesday, mid-busy-workweek, feels little more than a day of rest. Thursday's month-ending at work. Trying not to think on that. I've hung the red Maple Leaf boat-pennant in the window with care. Hoping ours, and others, keep safe in those wars I'm saying nothing more on today. Staying away from ranting, I've decided. As long as possible today, into tonight, keeping myself blissfully ignorant of...oh, that's almost a rant. Just adding I'll keep the news off.

In a brilliant distancing move, I've already gone walkies.

Down to the river. And snapping pix. Sixty-four snapshots in one half-hour. Way too much sunlight blowing out details. That's because I slept in. But I needed the sleep. And I needed to fill my head with the walk through tree-filled Marpole to the river. Stood there, like a tree, filling up on sunlight and sea breeze, and whispering river.

There's writing I wanna do. Some I have to do. Those exercises, too, in Protag's Groups. By another name, they're writin' workshops. And reminding how much fun writin' and workshoppin' it was a thousand years ago in school. Anyone can join any group. They're such a new addition to the fun'ness of Protag that there are certain to come more groups. Genre-writing, prob'ly. So far, we have groups re Poetry, Editing, World-Building...

...That reminds me...I should point Bolsheviki at this fun'ness.

The Other Way

I like that my morning walk to the treed lane where I’ve parked the truck presents a choice…
Do I march, like a drone headed to work, following the sidewalk?
Do I cut across the park, instead?

Chose the way across the park, this morning. Most mornings, actually, when I drive.

Followed, that little less dronelike, the short twist of sidewalk. This twist inefficiently and playfully twisting, like every good park path should, it twisted me so I’d notice. Even as I rushed. Beneath maples. Passing the green. And weeds I call flowers. Crowding bright dandelions tilting their faces to the sun.

Two park benches, here, where the twisting path stops, and I leave it. Here, I step into sand and slow. A playground. Wooden fort and slide shining silver in the morning. And swingset: the chains darkened by many small hands.

I like that I cross a playground on my way to work.

Blogger Copy-Paste Broken in IE8?...Compatibility View Fix

I'll pretty up this post later, if it needs it.

I had a problem copy-pasting text into this blog.
'Paste' no longer functioned in the Compose window;
strangely, tho, I could paste in both the Title and Labels bars.
Guessed it had to be because of Internet Explorer 8, which I had decided to upgrade to...from IE6.

A very quick google-about returned the solution, from a very helpful IT human at Only Information Technology Matters

Way up on the browser page, beside the red Stop X-button, and green Refresh button, appears the handy green Compatibility View button. As another poster commented...I'm paraphrasing...it looks like a green sheet of paper, torn in two halves. Selecting that fixes this, at least.

Just...Passing

If it doesn’t belong to the architect, or site supervisor, then it’s a Canada Line construction worker somehow able to afford a shiny blue Mercedes sporty coupe.

I believe I’ve seen it before, parked with the other cars, pick-ups, alongside Miller Road west, where they’re jigging up the ramps and steps for that overhead covered walkway across to the train station. Usually busy trying to get clear of it all on my bike, so I can’t be totally certain. As a rider, I’ve trained my eye to simply register, then disregard the stationary obstacles. Drawn back to glance at one only if there’s a head sitting behind the wheel. Driving, today, safely enclosed in steel, inside my pick-up truck, so I was able to eyeball, some.

Just observations, today. Yeahhh, I wanna keep it there. I could…rant. Don’t wanna rant, tho. A rant’s so less than satisfying. Does little more than turn my face umber. Everybody has rants they might…rant about. I don’t even wanna go there. I…don’t…wanna…care. Part of the why why I’m driving. Don’t even wanna wear green any longer. Maybe just the once a year, okay, like everybody else.

Vancouver's Number One Most Livable City...

Arthur Laing Bridge evening rush. Northbound gutter, aka bike lane. 23 degrees C, but feels like 50. Passing interview with a walker...

"So whaddya think about Vancouver rating the world's Number One Most Livable City?"

"Oh, I agree, wholeheartedly. Everyone's so polite, and friendly. Always smiling, too. Everything's so affordable. I'm walking, because the sun, the heat radiating off the roadway, it's good for me. Only incidentally saving the two-zone bus fare. I would be only tooo happy to work one hour of the four I got today, plug that hour into Exact Change Please, but, y'see, this is sooo great...It's a dryyy heat, man. I see your eye, man. Is this gonna be on the news?"

"Sure thing. Left eye's the zoom feature."

"It's like sci-fi out there, man...Soylent Green is PEEE'PULLLL! Fade to black."

"Oh...'kay..."

I am playing, yeahhh, creatively bending reality to suit my needs. So? No more than some others have.

All's Fair in War and Nightmare

Let's call this multi-taskin', shall we, yesss.
Jotting down this.
Letting the radio gently recharge me.
And every other moment taking a moment to take out a resurrected orc I've managed to trap at his re-spawn spot.
While Avira updates anti-virus definitions. If 'defs' is what Avira calls those update files. I was using Norton for so long that I refer to all anti-virus updates, whether it's Norton, or CA, or MacAfee, or Avira...as 'defs'.

Radio softly playing CISL radio. That's a Yeah, A.M. radio, and not a thing wrong with that. Everything from Edith Piaf to Elton John. Neil Young's next up, they're saying.

Playing Orcs and Elves on Nintendo DS. Finished the game on Normal last week. Trying another play-thru on Nightmare difficulty setting. Died more re-doing the first rooms of the Entrance Hall than in the entire game on Normal. Orcs and were-rats respawn, y'see. Eventually figured out where to place myself at my advantage, so they can't surround and hack me down, and where I can take them one after the other.

Now I'm turning their respawning to my advantage. Trapped an orc as he respawns. As long as I can dance with him, carefully. Killing him is worth 11 xp, every time. Thanks to him I'm leveling up my character. Level 5, already. Hey, all's fair in war and nightmare.

I Feel Sooo Much Safer

Profiled him...probably.

Profiled as a security risk around one of Canada's airports.

Keeping ourselves ever vigilant...the order of the day, these days.

Suppose he fits that profile, too. Clothes don't cost more than his bike.

Can't see if he's not wearing a helmet. Possibly a fine if he's not...Officer's discretion.

Suppose he'll have to pay any fine out of any earnings he might've gotten from that big bag of recyclables slung over his shoulder.

Maybe stopped him because of that big sail of a bag...danger for him and others. But then he shouldn't be allowed to proceed...right?

Probably just fit some profile. I feel so much safer.

Actually, I don't.

Not QuickJot...Sat, June 6 '09

Morning light just right. Cloudy, but in that milky way that warns you'd better take the shot before that sun boils it away and ruins everything. I've been meaning to snap a pic of that caboose on the tracks along SW Kent. Light's been wrong too many Saturdays. Too hard. Earlier, it'd be too low, in my eye. Later, too high. Figured the tracks should glow silver this morning.

Only go this way Saturday morns now, for groceries. On weekends, early, Kent's quieter than Marine Drive. Later on weekends, of course and weekdays, Kent can be as frustrating as any busy urban road: people in a hurry, the politest phrase for them, these who've ducked those other people in a hurry who've chosen to keep to Marine Drive.

I've always preferred Kent, tho, as in liked Kent. Kent meanders, follows the river; a river I'm very fond of, industrialized and siltbrown tho it is, six hundred miles from its Rocky Mountains green source. Kent's efficient, as roads go. It's like an old track, paved where truck traffic required it paved, and built for the mills and such down here along the river. People in a hurry to be elsewhere leave where Kent ends, west and east, head up into the city. But Kent doesn't seem to end where it shows on the map. The railway stretches on, for one. Walkers have worn trails alongside the track. Footpaths disappear in forest.

One thing I saw today, the other thing: driving has its drawbacks when it's photo'snapping I'm wanting. Gotta park the thing...somewhere...out of traffic. I'm much more agile on that bike. I'll be back.

Share...What Road?

Me got car. Me go. Me go fast. Teevee say so. Uh'oh — guy in way. No can wait — Foot on gas — teevee say so. Me no brake — Nawww — Naw, Me swinggg — Me pass. Me go — Me go fast.

Yeah, enough of that funnin' about, good tho it feels. Making a character from just one of the characters in my every day out there. Although, and only completing the thought there, I might have intro'd the piece reeeally appropriately, keeping to the theme bumping the edges behind my eyes, and done my best David Attenborough...decked out for a safari...his smile and soothing voice reassuring that it's gonna be all right...

"A moment with an automobiler. We are in Western Canada. It is morning, and the automobilers are on migration. This one is...a very brief moment. We might feel privileged to have witnessed this moment, however brief. It is rare, indeed, to record for, you see, this species has become brakeless."

Yeah, okay, the point. Waited almost one month for THE shot. Really, it is like wildlife photography, out there. Not much unlike John and Janet Foster squatting in a buggy blind in Canada's north woods. Waiting for days. Cameras at the ready. Waiting on an osprey's nest, and the eggs to crack.

Yup. My subject just about the same. Comes and goes as it pleases. Wild life.

QuickLot...Fri.Late, June 5 '09

Snapped the snap. Earlier this week, they suddenly filled-in one potholed shoulder alongside Miller Road. Where one section, as YVR calls it, of bike lane ends. Where the bike's expected to...share the road...with those who will not.

Okay...usually will not.

Ohhh, do I dare hope all the talk's not just talk?

Share The Road?

Camera's with me, as always is now. Deep puddles in cratered gravel shoulder reflect roadway nicely. Snapping pix of Miller Road's bike lanes in sections, as YVR calls them. Waiting for the perfect snap. The speeder, steel and wheels the closest to road-edge, and impossible for any cyclist to share the road with. Share the Road...riiight. What committee thought that up? So here, a couple snaps of reality, to go along with a rant.

Then a moment with a roadie. Passing pretty green Cannondale.

"What're y'takin' pictures of?"

I explain. Substitute "Going in a letter to YVR" for any yada'yada re my blog.

"Yeah," he says, "they'll try t'get by ya, if y'don't take the lane. And then they'll just about run y'down, they're goin' so fast. Nice up ahead, anyway."

"Yeah," I say, "four lanes and even faster, like they stuck Steveston Highway on one end of a beat-up old road."

"Yeah" — he's smiling — "last year."

"Last spring, yeah."

"Like everything round here's half-finished."

"And nothing on their website about when they'll do the rest."

"Well, maybe this year."

"Yeah, we can hope."

This should've been up over a week ago. Been busy. Overnight, they filled in these potholes. Topped them up with sharp gravel. None of it looks especially graded. Doesn't look as if the thirty-year old other half of Miller Road is about to be re-paved. But I can hope.

Hawk's Dinner

I've often enough seen herons striding along reedy ditches around Vancouver airport. Have seen them spear frogs, mice. Always from a distance. Raptors, too, from a distance, hunting over fields.

Spotted her on my way home the other eve. On the ground. In the green roadside verge. Eyeballing me, as if she had something to hide.

Son of Dada, Chapter 1, The Call

Da's world called, as if I belonged there, still. And was theirs to call. There, for the using. Fallen son of a fallen priest.

"Daniel. Mark. Fra Benedict said you're the one t'call, if we need one in your line of work."

Fra Benedict. I'd have hung up, except for that.

Mark said, "There are paper details. Perhaps we'll do tea, after matins."

Matins. St.Jude's filling up. Candlesmoke. Kneeling murmurers. Mark looked old. Offered his old hand. It cost me nothing to take it. Priest and stranger being eyeballed. He hid us in his private office, the confessional. Never subtle, old Mark.

"What?" I said.

Mark said, "Lucien's lost."

Lucien. Fra Benedict guessed right. I was the only one.

Breaktime: Tidying Son of Dada

Another month’s ending. Breaktime. Let’s see about tidying up those little textings.

Little experiments. Texting in a story in little installments. Too little, tho. Well…maybe not too little. Interesting exercises in brevity, sure. Might come out better with shorter words. Or simply very caringly picking words, for meaning exactitude. But. While a reader prob’ly will figure out quickly enough the posting order, the more recent at the top, said reader will have to hop over that ‘Sent by Text Messaging blah’blah’ distraction. And I can’t turn that off in the phone.

Had a vague plot thing going that the narrator’s a private detective recording his movements…just in case, dot dot dot. Too contrived. And I wanted each texting to be like a scene, a paragraph. That’s got potential. A single moment, and concise. Simple language, too. Less artsy…stuff. Real, maybe. Cleaner, at least.

Better just to assemble them together, like a chapter in something perhaps ongoing. I’ll leave the originals, for reference, tho not as 6 sprawlers down the page.

Son of Dada…

Break’s over. It needs a title, and tag, for easy finding. It’ll do.

Son of Dada…Text testttt

Never subtle, old Mark. "What?" I said. Mark said, "Lucien's lost." Lucien. Fra Benedict guessed right. I was the only one.

Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
Posted by Burndtree at 7:51 am

--

It cost me nothing to take it. Priest and stranger being eyeballed. He hid us in his private office, the confessional.

Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
Posted by Burndtree at 7:38 am

--

Matins. St.Jude's filling up. Candlesmoke. Kneeling murmurers. Mark looked old. Offered his old hand.

Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
Posted by Burndtree at 1:15 am

--

Fra Benedict. I'd have hung up, except for that. Mark said, "There are paper details. Perhaps we'll do tea, after matins."

Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
Posted by Burndtree at 1:06 am

--

"Daniel. Mark. Fra Benedict said you're the one t'call, if we need one in your line of work."

Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
Posted by Burndtree at 12:59 am

--

Da's world called, as if I belonged there, still. And was theirs to call. There, for the using. Fallen son of a fallen priest.

Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
Posted by Burndtree at 12:50 am

HubbleSite's Link Badge Woohoo!

It works...it works...it worrrks!
Fingers can't keep up and tap it down fast enough...just how gleeful I'm feeling.
Figuring the worst that might happen is the link badge doesn't work, so then I'll just remove it, I went ahead and pasted my little html poem into the blog layout using another of those handy html gadgets intended for the purpose.

As I did last week, plugging in the Protagonize link. In fact, that little exercise prepared me for this.

Already had the html string from HubbleSite for the link badge image source. And HubbleSite's url: the address to link to. And, thanks to Nick, the full beautiful html poem behind the Protag link to work from as example.

Three Women Standing

Dixie Chicks, in concert on PBS's Austin City Limits tonight.

Spectacular.

I'm not calling it a 'comeback'. They never went away, of course. Endured, that's the word. Endured the blacklisting, which is the other word. Three women remaining, standing, at the fading away of the Bush years not only the world outside that great democracy is trying to forget.

Not QuickJot...Sat, May 23 '09

Groceries done. Tea's brewin'. Hard sunny sky. Windows wide open and fan's on the floor, its face tipped up and blowing cool morning air thru the place, while the cool air's for the getting. Cooling the place as much as I can. Won't be possible later. Gonna be warm out today. And like Death Valley in here, if last weekend's anything to go by. Building heat is still on, past Victoria Day, the long weekend kinda the unofficial start of summer. The building manager's away, just for one more week, and seems we'd rather all bake a little while longer than call the landlord, and have his nosy daughters poking around, chattering summer projects.

Thought to spend all last Sunday writing. No obligations. Everyone away. But the sun blazing all day thru the curtains cooked me. And not a breath of wind. That fan on the floor blowing air that tasted of summer and dust. And cat urine from the lawn. I scribbled. Wouldn't call any of it writing. All in all, frustrating. Felt like my brains were cooking. Like crab in the shell. Did work out a little plotting detail — one little detail in all of the long long day — and that came late evening, and the thermometer still a tall red line.

This Saturday...nice stiff westerly blowing. Whitecaps will be rolling across Georgia Strait.

Aeon Flux, Digested

Aeon Flux, movie, again, Friday night. Okay...Peter Chung might not have liked it one bit...but I did.

Reminded of the xbox game I played, finished, and enjoyed. And a review read ages ago. Do they assign games to reviewers who actually like the genre?...at least like to play and try, and don't pre-judge? Already know the answer: 'games industry', a business like any other, and same with games reviewing. Crank out content...move on.

Which explains some reviews, some in-game screen captures, too...ammo and health stats max'd...as if they used a cheat, so they could hurry thru the game they'll prob'ly review as 'short', and make that posting deadline.

Move on...I got Aeon Flux, the game. It's been pegged as a platformer, but a bit more 3D. Really, tho, suppose any game that sends your character climbing and jumping owes something to that moniker from arcade days gone by. I had enjoyed the dystopian story in the movie. Game reviewers figured the story timeline that spanned hundreds of years, and placed us as different incarnations of Aeon, would confuse players, and we wouldn't want to get into the story, or words to the effect. I thought it a great idea. Potentially an enlightening expansion on backstory the movie didn't need and didn't go into, apart from some flashbacks, and revelation or two, but might make for a fun game. A stagnating culture resisting change. Philosophy and sci-fi, and Charlize Theron. And the clones' lifetimes it takes to solve all the twists and turns of Bregna and neighbouring Monica, a world meddled with.

A meddled world's sights, sounds, tone, that made it fun for the hundreds of years I had to play to know the game's full story. At the start, controls took some getting used to. It took some play. Playing Aeon, she died...a lot. I believe that might even have been the point.

QuickJot...Monday, Victoria Day, May 18 '09

Past Friday morn, as I'm leaving for work. Kaitlyn Herbst, grinning on tv. Global 1, traffic chopper blattering above the Fraser bridges...

"...Traffic volumes lighter than usual. Lookin' like most people are getting an early start on the long weekend..."

Me thinking, so that's what I'm doing! I'm not actually going off to work then.

- - -

Shopping carts queued at checkout. Bumping from behind. Impatient, even in a supermarket check-out. Explains slow-speed fenderbenders in highway traffic jam, and no one can go anywhere.

- - -

Pretty brunette neighbour from the other side of the building...hula'hooping...outside on the lawn. Not round the hips hula'ing. Not like in a wacko movie comedy. Not suggestive. Dressed in jeans and long-sleeved hoody. Hair back in ponytail. Swinging the hoop up her arm. Like this is rhythmics. Gymnastics exercises. Her side of the building faces the busy street, I know.

Re: Canada Line Rant - Number Whatever (originally posted May 7 '09)

Comment posted May 8, 2009 - 10:14 AM
Mellenger said...

When TransLink starts using smart cards I think the zone situation will be a lot better. TransLink has some public consultations and open houses coming up you should check out. Here's the link: http://www.bepartoftheplan.ca/upcoming-consultations/

- - -

Could've replied on the original thread, the usually proper place, but I've taken so long to reply that it might've seemed rude of me to seemingly bury it with the original post.

Before this, I did think to more personally reply you, Mellenger, tried to on your Blogger profile. Also, yeahhh, to have a looksie, see who you are, where you are. But, instead, got this: The Blogger Profile you requested cannot be displayed. Many Blogger users have not yet elected to publicly share their Profile.

Hmmm. Hmmm. Oh, well. Those were my little gears whirring.

Firstly, Thanks for visiting and reading my rant, Mellenger. And for your suggestions. Oh, I have felt frustrated, tempted to quit and no longer participate when Translink Listens comes calling. Quitting won't do any good, though, I know. So I'll be sticking around. Also do plan as well, in some way, to...'bepartoftheplan'. You know what they say...what was said..."If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem."

The smart card.

Do recall hearing about the smart card, its potential benefits, but it's been lost in the public relations morass that's left the public I'm around with the impression it'll be $100-million for turnstiles. A misinformed state that wants extensive, gentle clarifying, if Translink is to ever win over hearts and minds.

I'll give it a try...

Translink wants to implement a smart card system. $100-million is, or was, the starting figure. Not including turnstiles.

Some Provincial money has been promised. Because Provincial money is in the pot, the Province believes it has a say. In the months leading up to the Provincial election (now done), the Province, and other interested parties, wishing to allay widely publicized public fears over station safety, and figuring simultaneously to solve the somewhat debatable problem of fare evasion, have been pushing Translink to fast-track turnstiles that were not in the budget.

And the rest is the rancorous, half-informed stuff of online forums.

As to how good the smart card may become...well, we'll see. Possibly eliminate fare zones...we'll see. Perhaps enable cheap'cheap fares for short'short trips...my dream...would be nice. Knowing full well, of course, a human, or boardful of them, ultimately will decide how much good comes from anything.

Got Me My Pretty Protagonize Link Badge!

Been playing some with html today. Those links to other web sites arrayed in the sidebar, while functional, looked ho'hum. They wanted gussying up. Nick, our wizard behind the curtain over at Protag, made it sound simple to do, even un'scary, and I'd been meaning to add a Protag link badge to start.

As simple and un'scary as copy-pasting the desired link badge html code into the blog template: Nick's instructions.

Blogger made the simple even simpler. No need for me to dig through all that html holding up my template, and trying to find...wherever it's supposed to be spliced in. And that precisely the kind of fiddling about I felt nervous over, because inexperienced and random fiddling's bound to result in Oopsie!, and prob'ly mess up the whole show. Turns out fiddling isn't necessary. Blogger has gadgets, y'see. Gadgets that plug into the template without need of going into the html to splice them in. From the Layout page. Simply select the gadget, and drag n'drop it wherever looks best. Might bring in a Links list, for instance, or a game, or news blurb service. I haven't explored all the gadgets yet, for usefulness, or fun factor. For my purpose today, plugged-in a gadget that inserted html code: just the thing for someone wanting to add, say, a link badge.

Simple, done, and functioning properly in seconds.

Then noticed some other Protagonists' blogs' links sent the interested not to Protag's main page, rather to the authors' profiles. Seemed a great idea: easy enough to correct by deleting the gadget if broken after my fiddling with. There was a sort of Aha moment, and I felt adventurous. The html for the link looked to be in two parts. The second: the image source for the badge itself; its dimensions in pixels the giveaway. The first part obviously being the address, the where the link would link me to. Already knew the url for my Protag profile page. Carefully added the bits. Careful not to stray. The whole thing enclosed like a poem, after all.

It worked. Wanted to play some more. But the HubbleSite's link badges must be level 2 in this game. And that one will have to wait. Did as easily plug-in a HubbleSite news link, tho. Eventually will have to figure out html enough if page element dimensions are tweakable.

SW Kent Ave. Goin' Grocery Shoppin'

SW Kent Ave shunting yards. Grey Saturday dawn. Black braided rails. Dingy yellow graffiti'd CPR caboose alone, waiting.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
----------------------------------------------------------------

Good!
Got rid of that 'You can contact me at...' and cel number.

First Ever Text Message!

Have added the HubbleSite link in the sidebar. A longtime fave site. THE place for Hubble telescope images.

----------------------------------------------------------------
Sent by Text Messaging from a mobile device.
Envoyé par messagerie texte d'un appareil mobile.
----------------------------------------------------------------

It worked!

Just about wore out my thumbs, but it worked.

Am gonna have t'go into this pretty basic cel phone and change that setting, tho. It displayed, 'You can contact me at...' AND THE CEL PHONE NUMBER...for all the world t'see! And in French. Okay - gotta do some scribbling before bed. 'Night All!

Gordon Campbell...uhh, Liberal...Wins 3rd Term as BC Premier

There are a few contested ridings remaining. A few mandatory recounts, likely. However, the British Columbia Provincial Election is done, done for another four spins of our bluey world 'round our yellowy sun, and they who call themselves Liberals hold the majority in the Legislature. Again. Gordon Campbell...uh, Liberal...returned as Premier-elect, for a remarkable third term.

Astounding me only a little that he's still there. And his...Liberals. Despite the dirt I'd have thought should cling, when dirt sprays.

Once upon a time, then-BC Premier Campbell was arrested for driving drunk on Maui. Mug-shot'd. Compelled to sniffle and fight back his tears during his televised Sorry to the people of politically polarized British Columbia. Too busy, for he was BC Premier, after all, he sent his lawyer to stand before the judge in Maui, and say whatever wanted saying. The Right Honourable Gordon Campbell won that next election. And now this one.

Also once upon a time, came word of alleged dirty business dealings involving the sale of BC Rail and one of Premier Campbell's ministers. RCMP tramped from the Legislative offices, dollying out file boxes enough to fill a rail car. Only slightly exaggerating there, about the quantity of file boxes. Liked the 'rail car' bit, y'see.

And that's that. For another four spins, et cetera. Yup. Yup.

Except to say, as in snark, that it says a lot about the leanings and values of BC's electorate. Yesterday's 51% of BC's 3 million registered voters who actually voted. And about those who didn't. Probably scared away, those who didn't...by the death squads lurking about the polling stations.

Sumatra, or Bust!

Karta, Adelaide Zoo's ingenious orangutan, sussed'out how to short out the electrified fence around her enclosure, by applying rather advanced tool use. A stick.

Heard a snippet on the Sunday mid-day news. Couldn't not play a little with that! Wrote up the playful little something Sunday night. Sumatra, or Bust! It needed enough editing, and I wasn't confident I could edit properly Sunday night, so that and any plan to post it had to wait 'til Monday.

But Monday was a workday. I got in early to work. Started a quick look around Protag, while the office printers warmed up. Saw the Monday, May 11, was RiverTalker's birthday. I logged in, and had only just tapped in Happy Birthday wishes when the phone rang, this immediately popped up, and that. Quickly tapped 'publish comment', glimpsed that it looked okay for RT's eye, and shut the browser...not even able to log-off properly. I did find time at day's end for posting Sumatra.

Also, figuring it long past time I paid at least a compliment to Elorithryn re her Sarah's Tale, I said so. Even as I'm still playing catch-up, reading her chapters in proper sequence.

--

It's begun to annoy me. The gadgets...Dictionary thingie...Hubble pic...not fitting the page just right.

Playing with Gadgets

Ooohhh...Blogger's got gadgets...thousands of gadgets.
Pictures o'the Day.
News and Weather thingies.
Games!
Sudoku, even!
Been roaming fave astronomy sites, looking for some picture plug-in. And Blogger has a Hubble telescope space pix gadget.
Nice picture. Gadget frame doesn't quite size properly on the page, tho.
A bit too tired right now to start fiddling with html code, simple to fiddle with, so they say, they who've fiddled with html before.

Sun on My Face

Snapped that pic two winters ago, with my battletank Zenit SLR.

Walking the neighbourhood, and discovered the chair behind a warehouse. First pic I intended for posting here. I had intended to start up the blog with a character sketch. A burned-out, used-up, hopeless-feeling robot-worker's moment's rest. Would've prob'ly been some prattling rant...done stream o'consciousness'like, for the breathless quality. Maybe a clumsy poem.

AS A LIST — a to-do list would be the thing rattling thru robot-worker's idling mind...

Never did get to it. Got busier, and doing more pressing stuff. Protagonize happened. Other scribblings, too. Time ticked on in the blog. Earth spun around the sun, and the sun a spinning top itself, slow-turning in one outer arm of our galactic merry-go-round we're barely aware we're riding. That's still more than just a chair. But now I feel I'm outside, looking in. Pale winter's morning. Someone else's grainy life.

Not QuickJot...Sat, May 9 '09

Too tired Friday night to attempt anything much. End result of too many nights up 'til one: days spent doing the job, nights playing catch-up. So much fun happening in Protag, too. I need a list.
Rac7hel's started Woes of a Bublishing Combany.
And there's Craziantix's The Anjini Wars.
There are the ones I can readily rattle off the top of my head that I've had time to be watching:
Mage Hunting, of course.
And MHSofPS.
A Study in Nomenclature.
Jack's Clockwork: A World of Choice.
And GodSeed...Night Sky...East Wallingford Chronicles...Paddytum.
A Writing Exercise (not seeking a rating)...Tad's Clean or Go To The Gym?
Whenever I can, watching for the new and the updated anything.

On Friday, I stumbled upon Elorithryn's Sarah's Phoenix: Scouting(part 1). During a break at work, just to see a bit of what she's writing, I clicked her most recent post, Sarah's Tale, the chapter partway thru.

A wow of a read.

A contemporary gal, with her contemporary mind, transported by magic into a medieval fantasy. Fantasy and Scifi elements, one of my favourite mixes. Tension between the sexes and feminism. And who doesn't like a little romance, eh?

But I had only read that one chapter, mid-story. Opened the book and started reading where the pages fell open. Yup...so I have all her previous chapters to finish reading, so I can tell Elorithryn how much I liked it, and know what I'm talking about.

But too tired last night even to go online and copy off her chapters for reading. Instead, veged, viewed videos, some. Decompressed on Discovery channel. Spread those paper scraps, notes scribbled during work, made a little order from the scribblings, drew a mindmap, roughly, before BBC's Click, and bed. Midnight, again.

Does seem true, what them brain-parters say. Even after a long workday, and feeling done in, still I'll somehow find energy enough to draw something, like a mindmap, because I'm using the other parts of m'brain not as tired. The same obviously applies to those writing all-nighters, when it's all clicking along so right and don't feel I ever need to sleep. And finding from...somewhere the oomph that enables marathon gaming sessions into weekend wee hours.

Hmmm...really wanna game tonight. And sleep. And write. And chat. And watch a movie. Can't I have it all? Sure, I can...just..how much and in what order?