Heroes on a Holiday Monday

Happy Victoria Day Weekend!  I’ve worked the Saturday and the Sunday of it, so it’s hard to get overly excited about a Monday off, although any day off work is worth celebrating.

For the past week or so I’ve been watching the tv show “Heroes” on Netflix.  At first my intention was to view only season four, which I never watched the first time around.  Then I thought it might be a good idea to watch it all from the beginning, so that season four would make sense.  THEN I got completely hooked on watching every single episode, and ‘just one more’ before doing whatever else needed doing and should have been a priority.  Like going to sleep, for example.

Today at last I’m going to get into the fourth season.  Even though my brain is now completely overloaded with villians and heroes and time travel.  And people who die a violent death in one episode and then come back for a do-over in the next.  And change the future and save the world so many times that you begin to wonder why they persist.

I think I’ve discovered the reason why I’m still kind of hopelessly drawn to the whole thing and need to see it out to the bitter end.  It’s because of Mohinder Suresh and his wonderful voice-overs.  The fact that he’s easy to look at doesn’t hurt either.  I tried to keep the list short, but decided that’s impossible.  So here they are.

Where does it come from? This quest, this need to solve life’s mysteries when the simplest of questions can never be answered. Why are we here? What is the soul? Why do we dream? Perhaps we’d be better off not looking at all. Not delving, not yearning. That’s not human nature. Not the human heart. That is not why we are here. Yet still we struggle to make a difference. To change the world. To dream of hope. Never knowing for certain who we’ll meet along the way. Who, among the world of strangers, will hold our hand. Touch our hearts. And share the pain of trying.

We all imagine ourselves the agents of our destiny, capable of determining our own fate. But have we truly any choice in when we rise? Or when we fall? Or does a force larger than ourselves bid us our direction? Is it evolution that takes us by the hand? Does science point our way? Or is it God who intervenes, keeping us safe?

For all his bluster, it is the sad province of man that he cannot choose his triumph. He can only choose how he will stand when the call of destiny comes, hoping he will have the courage to answer.

When a change comes, some species feel the urge to migrate, they call it zugunruhe. “A pull of the soul to a far off place,” following a scent in the wind, a star in the sky. The ancient message comes calling the kindred to take flight and gather together. Only then can they hope to survive the cruel season to come.

Evolution is imperfect and often a violent process. A battle between what exists and what is yet to be born. Amidst these birth pains, morality loses its meaning, the question of good and evil reduced to one simple choice: survive or perish.

You do not choose your destiny, it chooses you. And those that knew you before Fate took you by the hand cannot understand the depth of the changes inside. They cannot fathom how much you stand to lose in failure…that you are the instrument of flawless Design. And all of life may hang in the balance. The hero learns quickly who can comprehend and who merely stands in your way.

The Earth is large. Large enough that you think you can hide from anything. From Fate. From God. If only you found a place far enough away. So you run. To the edge of the Earth. Where all is safe again. Quiet, and warm. The solace of salt air. The peace of danger left behind. The luxury of grief. And maybe, for a moment, you believe you have escaped.

You can run far, you can take your small precautions. But have you really gotten away? Can you ever escape? Or is it the truth that you did not have the strength or cunning to hide from destiny? That the world is not small. you are. And, fate can find you anywhere.

In the beginning there was discovery. A confusion of elements. The first snowfall of impossible change. Old lives undone, left behind. Strange faces, made familiar. New nightmares, to challenge sleep. New friends, to feel safe with. Only then comes control. The need to impose order unto chaos, through determination, through study, through struggle. All in defiance of a thundering truth. They’re here, and the earth shudders underfoot.

When we embrace what lies within, our potential knows no limit. The future is filled with promise. The present, rife with expectation. But when we deny our instinct, and struggle against our deepest urges… Uncertainty begins. Where does this path lead? When will the changes end? Is this transformation a gift… or a curse? And for those that fear what lies ahead… The most important question of all… Can we really change what we are?

To survive in this world, we hold close to us those on whom we depend. We trust in them our hopes, our fears… But what happens when trust is lost? Where do we run, when things we believe in vanish before our eyes? When all seems lost, the future unknowable, our very existence in peril… All we can do is run.

The sun rises on a new dawn. Yet few of us realize the debt we owe to those responsible for this. To those who dwell among us. Anonymous, seemingly ordinary, whom destiny brought together to heal, to save us, from ourselves.

It is man’s ability to remember that sets us apart. We are the only species that is concerned with the past. How memories give us voice. And to bear witness to history so that others might learn. So that they might celebrate our triumphs and be warned by our failures.

There is a moment in every war where everything changes. A moment when the road bends. Alliances and battle lines shift. And the rules of engagement are rewritten. Moments like these can change the nature of the battle, and turn the tide for either side. So we do what we can to understand them. To be ready for change, we steady our hearts, curb our fears, muster our forces, and look for signs in the stars. But these moments, these game changers, remain a mystery. Destiny’s invisible hand, moving pieces on a chessboard. No matter how much we prepare for them – how much we resist the change, anticipate the moment, fight the inevitable outcome – in the end, we are never truly ready when it strikes.

There is good, and there is evil. Right, and wrong. Heroes and villains. And if we are blessed with wisdom, then there are glimpses between the cracks of each where light streams through. We wait in silence for these times, when sense can be made. When meaningless existence comes into focus, and our purpose presents itself. And if we have the strength to be honest,  what we find there, staring back at us, is our own reflection. Bearing witness to the duality of life. And each one of us is capable of both the dark, and the light.. the good and evil, of either, of all. And destiny, while marching ever in our direction can be rerouted by the choices we make. By the love we hold on to, and the promises we keep.

Generations unfold — father to son, mother to daughter. Where one leaves off, the other follows, destined to repeat each other’s mistakes, each other’s triumphs. For how do we see the world if not through their lens? The same fears, the same desires? Do we see them as an example to follow, or as a warning of what to avoid? Choosing to live as they have, simply because it’s what we know, or driven to create one’s own identity? And what happens when we find them to be a disappointment? Can we replace them? Our mothers, our fathers? Or will destiny find a way to drive us back? Back to the familiar comforts of home?

It is our nature to protect our children. For each generation to pass on their cautionary tales to the next. So it is with the myth of Icarus, the legend of a boy who fashioned wings from feathers and wax, daring to fly into the heavens. His father was fearful and warned Icarus to be careful, begging him not to tempt fate by flying too close to the sun. But in the end, the boy couldn’t resist. His waxen wings melted from the sun’s rays. And he plunged to his death.

For every being cursed with self awareness, there remains the unanswerable question, “Who am I?” We struggle to find meaningful connections to one another. We are the caring friend, the loving father, the doting mother, the protected child. We fight and we love in the hope that somehow, together, we can understand our significance in the universe. But in the end, no one can share our burden. Each of us alone, must ask the question, “Who am I? What does it mean to be alive? And in the vast infinity of time, how do I matter?”

There are nearly seven billion people on this planet. Each one unique. Different. What are the chances of that? And why? Is it simply biology, physiology that determines this diversity? A collection of thoughts, memories, experiences that carves out our own special place? Or is it something more than this? Perhaps there’s a master plan that drives the randomness of creation. Something unknowable that dwells in the soul, and presents each one of us with a unique set of challenges that will help us discover who we really are.

We are all connected. Joined together by an invisible thread, infinite in its potential and fragile in its design. Yet while connected, we are also merely individuals. Empty vessels to be filled with infinite possibilities. An assortment of thoughts, beliefs. A collection of disjointed memories and experiences. Can I be me without this? Can you be you? And if this invisible thread that holds us together were to sever, to cease, what then? What would become of billions of lone, disconnected souls? Therein lies the great quest of our lives. To find. To connect. To hold on. For when our hearts are pure, and our thoughts in line, we are all truly one. Capable of repairing our fragile world, and creating a universe of infinite possibilities.

There are many ways to define our fragile existence, many ways to give it meaning. But it is our memories that shapes its purpose and give it context. The private collection of images, fears, loves, regrets… we choose the importance of each. Building our own unique histories, one memory at a time. Hoping the ones we chose to remember don’t betray us or trap us. For it is the cruel irony of life that we are destined to hold the dark with the light, the good with the evil. This is what separates us, what makes us human. And at the end, we must fight to hold on.

HEROES
HEROES (Photo credit: Keng Susumpow)

If you read all of that, wow – good for you.  You must have almost as much time on your hands today as I do!  But all this philosophical meandering is what sets this series apart and makes it worth watching, despite all the blood and violence.  It’s not so much about heroes and villians and black and white, but about the myriad of traits mixed up inside every one of us and the things we ultimately do for whatever misguided reasons.  Who is right and who is wrong?  Who really knows.

The Things That Matter

This is a completely lazy post, but every so often on Facebook there’s something shared that’s worth passing on.  I’ve seen and heard different versions of this and it may have originated here  or maybe that’s just one of the places it ended up ready to be shared again.  If you’ve read it before, that’s okay.  It’s worth a re-read.

The Mayonnaise Jar and Two Cups of Coffee

When things in your lives seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.

Golf Anyone?

Golf Anyone? (Photo credit: Amber B McN)

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full.  They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous “yes.” The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
“Now,” said the professor as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things–your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions–and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car. The sand is everything else–the small stuff.
“If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first–the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

Just two cups of coffee

Just two cups of coffee (Photo credit: Destructive Compliments)

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled. “I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.”

 

 

My Inner Gardener


I was wandering around in my backyard in the rain yesterday because things are turning green and I thought it might be a good idea to see them up close and in more detail than I am able to discern from my kitchen window.  It was a sort of aimless and ultimately futile search for my inner gardener, which is buried so deep inside me that I fear it will never surface.  Due to lack of encouragement actually.  The above picture is not supposed to be of the dirty basement window or the stepping stone my sister-in-law made for me, but those lovely little white blossoms – or flowers – or whatever they are on my red leafed tree!  Or bush.  I guess it’s a bush.  They’re on only one branch so far.  More would be nice, but I never want to be too optimistic about such things.

This is my idea of a fun addition to the landscape.   It’s one of those creepy solar lights that never worked properly but is too hideous to throw away.  By that I mean that I’m hoping it will serve the purpose of making whatever is growing look awesome in comparrison.  Or something like that.  I haven’t got it all worked out in my mind yet.  But gruesome guy is not going anywhere.

I call this shot “Fake Owl and Strange Bird House Amidst Dead Branches”.  But the branches, on closer inspection, are actually covered in lots of little leafy buds so I trimmed way fewer of them than anticipated.  Plus trimming stuff is a lot like work and I soon got tired of doing it.  Less of them are overhanging onto the grass for now.  Mission accomplished.

I’m including this picture from the front yard because it illustrates how talented both W and I are at putting strange things in flowerbeds in a misguided attempt to draw your attention away from the fact that we can’t really grow anything worth looking at.  I can’t take credit for this amazing little floating head, although I am the one who originally purchased it when it was a cute and colorful ladybug with a body and wings which have since gone missing.  It should be in the garbage.  I have no idea why W felt it belonged here.  Perhaps he is mocking me.  I don’t know.

The fake sunflowers are faded but thriving amongst the empty yellow tomato cages.  And the snake-like garden hose.  We need a new dryer vent.

Ha!  Look at that – rhubarb growing, despite out best efforts to kill it.  I actually put some water on it, and on the place where the meter moving guys dug up our lawn and put down sod which is drying out and looking half dead already. I really don’t think that one is my fault.  And last night we got more rain, so I don’t know why I bother.

But before that, later in the afternoon, the Green Oasis weed control people came and sprayed and fertilized the lawn.  Proving that with a little help I can at least grow grass.

Compositions Circa 1928 (Part Two)

"Horse & Buggy"

“Horse & Buggy” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The School Fair

Many preparations were being made for the school fair which was to be held at Port Elgin on the 20th of September, 1928.  The morning dawned at last but to the great disappointment of all it was raining.  But it did not rain all morning.  After getting our vegetables, sewing and baking ready we had no way of getting it to the hall by 11 o’clock.  But we got a chance of sending it in with a neighbour.  Then the suits were to be pressed and packed and this did not take long.  Then we were all ready to go.

So we piled into the buggy and away we went as happy as larks.  Then we got to the Park.  And discovered it was to be at the rink.  When we got to the rink, it was to be at the Park.  When we returned to the park we were very busy dressing in our sailor costumes.  We had blue collars with two borders of white around them and an anchor in the corners.  The girls had white middies and skirts while the boys had white middies and trousers.  Some of the boys had to dress as girls while some of the girls had to dress as boys.  This was done in order to make the lines even.

Then we started to march.  After marching, we lined up to be judged.  Then we sang our song.  It was a sailor one.  Then the judge called out the results.  We got 1st prize for the parade.  After this was Physical Culture which we did not take part in.  Jean Nelson did very well and got 4th prize.  I also gave a speech.  After this was the judging of horses, cattle, sheep, and other farm animals.  One boy from our school took first for colt.

M.E. Scott, 1928

(I love the fact that over half of this story involves preparation and anticipation.  The fair itself, and the speech, and the winning of prizes are all jammed into the final paragraph and a a bit of an antic climax after the thrill of getting ready for this special day.  Did she run out of time, or space, or energy? Perhaps it was all three.)

Birthday Art

The absolute best thing a grandma ever gets is random works of art.

 

 

Here’s what I got for my birthday (and mother’s/grandma’s day):  A tower plus some interesting red and purple things, enough coffee to add up to coffeeness, a yummy looking pizza dated “saturday”, a beautiful loving princess with a crown, pretty flowers, incredibly thoughtful compliments, a vicious looking snow person, and lots and lots of love.

Don’t It Always Seem To Go….

Strangle knot (ABOK #1239)

Strangle knot (ABOK #1239) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ever had one of those days where so many little things happen to piss you off royally that you just want to strangle somebody at the end of it?

And then the next day in hind sight you realize that as traumatic days go, on a scale of one to ten, yours barely reached a one?  But thank God it’s over with anyway?

Yesterday in the morning the power was off for three hours.  The land line phone wouldn’t work.  The internet connection was gone.  I couldn’t make my protein smoothie without a functioning blender.  I hadn’t yet put my wet clothes in the dryer.  I couldn’t blow dry my hair.  My car was trapped in the garage behind a door that normally opens magically with the push of a button.

But yay me, I managed to get ready for work anyway, albeit in a thoroughly bad mood.  My I-phone and lap top were fully charged and when connected to eachother gave me internet access.  I was able to google the power outage and discover it was due to some kind of scheduled line maintenance, for our street and surrounding area, from nine to noon.  I called work and let them know I’d be there as soon as I could get to my car.

Everything lit back up around 11:30, so I was only a minute or two late.  But it’s still work, right?  Who in their right mind wants to be there?  The air conditioning doesn’t work properly, it’s too hot, there’s too many of us there with too little to do, the carpet is ugly, our chairs are crap, everything is covered in dust from the on-going renovations, people are stupid and their kids are screaming annoying brats.

Wow.  Even I didn’t want to be around me.

But, whatever, you carry on and try to appear normal and cheerful, until there’s that last straw.  The rude jerk who wanders in in the middle of the doctor’s scheduled appointment time, is two weeks over due for his contact lens appointment, makes no apology for never having booked one, demands to pick up his order, grudgingly agrees to wait to be seen until the doctor is finished, and then proceeds to stand around in the middle of everything talking loudly on his cell phone for 45 minutes, telling his buddy, among other things, that this waiting around thing is total bull shit.

I’m so glad someone else finally saw him for his recheck.  If it had been me he might be dead now.  Or at least seriously maimed.

Anyway, the good thing about bad days is that they eventually end.  I came home and used my microwave and watched a feel good movie with a happy ending and no power outages.  I now have a much better appreciation for electricity.  I am showered and blow dried and full of hot coffee and well blended fruit shake and ready to take on the world.  I even feel a bit remorseful about my murderous feelings for jerk boy, who after all is no doubt some mother’s darling child.

I think I will be a much nicer person today.  (Unless some random act of God or nature suddenly annoys the hell out of me, and then all bets are off.)  In the meantime, I’ll be trying very hard to appreciate all the little things in life that make me happy.  You never know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.

Compositions Circa 1928 (Part One)

I have a scribbler that belonged to my mother in 1928 in which she wrote stories for English Composition.  She would have been eleven years old.  They are done with a fountain pen, or with a pencil, or sometimes with a combination of both.  The pencil lead broke, the inkwell went dry – who knows.  The penmanship is sometimes exquisite, and sometimes a hurriedly scrawled mess with a careless spelling mistake or two.  I think these must have been assigned subjects, because some of them are less enthusiastically done than others.  No matter.   I’m just thrilled to be able to get a small glimpse of the child my mother used to be.

A Tramp In The Woods

“This is a very good year for nuts, isn’t it Marguerite?”  I asked one fine October morning.  “Let’s go to the bush after Saturday’s work is done.”  This was agreed to at once.

The Saturday’s work was done in a few hours.  And away we went after making up a small lunch.

The leaves were very pretty.  “If we would stand still or even sit here for awhile we would be covered in leaves,” I happened to say.  “Indeed we would”, said Marguerite.

We saw very many small animals and at last caught a small white rabiit that was lame.  It was a very nice pet.  After lunch we visited the Maple Syrup Camp, an old cave, and an owl’s home.

At last we were on our way home with the rabbit.  We were all as hungry as bears.  But as happy as larks.

*****

A Tramp Coming To Our Home

One fine summer afternoon mother asked me to stay at home while she went to town.  I said I would.  As my favourite pastime was reading, I sat behind the table and read a very interesting book called “Edna’s Escape”.  In a little while I heard a rap at the door.  It made me shiver for I had been reading about the awful time Edna had been having.  All I could do was to go to the door and this I dreaded.  But at last I gained courage and went.

There in front of me was an ugly tramp.  Mother often said that tramps are dangerous.  I made up my mind to take no chances.  “Well my girl, you are a regular housekeeper.  What are you going to do when you are big?” the tramp began.

“Well I don’t think that’s for me to tell”  I said.  The tramp frowned at me.  “But what do you want?” I said.

“A match, a piece of bread, and any other things you have”, said the tramp.  “What do you want with all these things?”  said I.  “I want the match to light my pipe, and the bread to eat, of course”  “But where is your pipe?” I said.  The tramp turned and walked to the other side of the door and then he said “Get me the bread.  Then I will tell.”  I went and got a loaf of bread.  He smacked his lips and said “Give it to me.”  I gave it to him.  He turned around very quickly and said as he went away “I’ve got the bread now.  I’ll come back for the matches another day.”  He then disappeared down the lane.

I thought he had played a good trick on me.  I never saw him again, nor he never came back for his matches.

Margaret Elaine Scott, 1928.

Ophiuchus? Really?

Yesterday was my birthday, the 13th of May.  I had a brief panic attack, which surprisingly enough had nothing to do with my age.  It’s all this nonsense about a thirteenth sign of the Zodiac. And a perfect example of a little knowledge being a dangerours thing.  And jumping to conclusions being stupid.  And stuff like that.

Turns out it’s a technically inaccurate description of Ophiuchus when it’s being called a ‘sign’ of the zodiac, although the public misconception dates back to the 1970’s  and a misunderstanding about the differences between the Tropical and Sidereal Zodiacs, and the Parazodiacal Constellations.  Which, when you think about it, is not that hard to imagine happening with all this astronomical gobbledegook being thrown about as if we’re all supposed to understand what the hell they’re going on about.  I blame it entirely on the stars and the planets which don’t seem to remember from year to year how to keep themselves properly aligned.  According to Wikipedia “the irregular astronomical demarcation of visible constellations does not relate to the separate frame of reference provided by the equally spaced twelve-fold longitude division of the ecliptic into zodiacal signs.”  So we all need to calm down.

My alarm was caused by suddenly noticing a discrepancy in the dates.  By the Tropical (Western) Zodiac I’m still a Taurus, but by the Sidereal (Eastern or Hindu) Zodiac and the Constellation calculations I’m Aries.  Inconceivable.  No offense to Aries people, but seriously, I am nothing like you.  Even on the cusp, I do not share your traits.

Adventurous.  Not even remotely.  If you ever ask me “Where’s your sense of adventure?”  your question will be met with a blank stare.

Ambitious.  Huh.  Not really.  I strive not so much for success as for creature comforts.  I am ambitiously involved in the pursit of laziness and inertia.  With a less than normal  level of enthusiasm.

Impulsive.  Rarely.  Everything I do requires thought and planning.  Sometimes to the point where nothing much at all gets accomplished because the thought and planning hasn’t yet ended.  Maybe it never will.

Impatient.  Never.  I am the most patient person on the face of the earth.  I can wait you out no matter what.  Let’s just wait and see what happens is always the relentless phrase in the back of my head.

Self-reliant.  Well sort of, I suppose.  But I’d never refuse help.  And if you want to do whatever it is on your own for my benefit, that’s certainly fine with me.

Undiplomatic.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I will do just about anything to avoid conflict. I will knock myself out to see the other person’s point of view.

Then there are the Taurean traits which (in some cases unfortunately) describe me a whole lot better.

Stubborn.  Sigh.  Yes.  Just because I’m diplomatically seeing your point of view and smiling and nodding like I get it, doesn’t mean I’ll ever change my mind about anything.  Because I’m always right.  Just ask W.  And if he says no, he’s obviously lying.

Dependable.  Yes, I am reliable and responsible to the point of boring everyone to tears.

Persistent.  Yep,  In an elephant never forgets sort of way. In for the long haul.  Stick in the mud forever without end.

Materialistic and Possessive.  I admit it’s true.  I do like lots of things. I like lots of things to be mine.  I prefer that you do not borrow my things.  In fact don’t even touch them.

Affectionate.  Of course. It almost goes without saying.  Doesn’t all of the above make it sound like I’m just bursting with love and kindness and benevolence and magnanimity?  Well, I can be sentimental and emotional.  It’s the same thing, isn’t it?

What it all boils down to is the fact that I am not adventurous or impulsive enough to embrace a different zodiac with altered dates after all these years of stubbornly and persistently believing myself to be a Taurus through and through.  If I ever move to India perhaps I will have to accept the Sidereal one which tells me I’m Aries, but since that’s not ever going to happen in this lifetime, I’ll just carry on and wait for the next one and then see what happens.

And if you think you might be an Ophiuchus (November 29th to December 17th) chances are you’re still a Scorpio or a Sagittarius here in the real world and some hot shot astrological buff is just pulling your chain.

Never Say Die

Here we go again with the questions you never wanted to ask and the answers you never wanted to think about.  Come on, read it anyway.  Things you don’t like are usually good for you.

Have you ever wanted to build your own house?  What would it look like?  My mother always used to say there was an ideal house for every stage in your life.  On your own, newly married, with little kids, with teenagers, with an empty nest, retired, needing care.  But who wants to start over that many times?  Your needs are met and then they change.  So yes, I’ve wanted to build a house.  I love the look of an A-frame chalet with towering windows, a huge stone fireplace, cathedral ceiling and an open loft.

But – so many buts.  It would look rather silly in a city suburb, next to a mall.  Too many windows to clean, too many stairs to climb.  It was, and still is, a lovely dream.  I’ve designed it a hundred times in my mind, perfecting all the details.  Probably the reality could never live up to my aspirations. I’m not unhappy if it remains a castle in the air.

What’s your favourite way to cook eggs?  Broken, flipped, mutilated.  It might as well be my favourite, because that’s how they end up.

Do you think people can change?  Well of course they can.  The process starts with growing up.  For a lot of us, that period in our lives is very long and drawn out and we think we’ll never get to the end of it.  If you learn one new thing a day, it’s impossible to stay the same.  How great is that?  You need never be stuck with whoever you are right now.  You can just keep on getting better and better.  Promise yourself you’re not going to die until you’re perfect.  My gawd, think about it.  You could live forever.

Share a story about someone you admire.  It’s Mother’s Day.  I admired my mother, although I never told her that.  She would have been embarrassed and shrugged it off because conceit to her was a deadly sin.  Funny how the people who have every reason to be proud, generally aren’t, really.  Mother’s are a strange bunch.  Even when they’re doing a crappy job, they mean well.  Hug your mother today.

When you need creative inspiration, where do you go?  To sleep.  By the time I wake up I’m usually over it.

Do you support same sex marriage?  What a funny word – support.  Do same sex marriages, or opposite sex marriages for that matter, need my encouragement?  Does ANY marriage need me to be an advocate for it?  Go ahead and get married to whoever you want.  Make the choices and the promises that work for you and leave the rest of us out of it.  Because, guess what – it’s really none of our business.   People are people first, and sorted out into categories second.   Any loving relationship can be a beautiful thing.

If tatoos lasted for only one year, would you want one?  Are you kidding?  Go through all that pain and agony to have it fade away to nothing in a year?  There’s a reason why it’s done with sharp needles – to ensure that you’re damned serious about it and willing to suffer for it and live with it forever.  Sort of like marriage in a way.  As for me, just give me one of those painless stick on ones that disappears after a couple of showers and I’m good to go.

Movies! and More Movies!

Man, I have become some kind of movie watching machine in the last little while.  Trying to get my money’s worth out of Netflix I guess. Or trying to prove that as long as it involves sitting down I’ll watch just about anything.

 

If I had to pick just one out of all of these to recommend, it wouldn’t be this one:

Age of Darkness in French, but Days of Darkness in English, with English subtitles that someone complained were very poorly done.  And the story was just plain weird.

I love Lost in Austen, but never watched it from start to finish before.  I’m sure it’s been on tv.

And NOW, I’ve decided I need some Will Ferrell, best of, volumes one and two, from SNL.  Then I will blame the fact that I have nothing to write about on all this zombie-like movie watching.

Which is actually what I’m doing right now, if you think about it.