Archive for the ‘Way of the world’ Category


Friday, February 15th, 2008

Speaking of napping, I had a corker today. Only I also had one of my “dreams”. When I’m busy and/or stressed and there’s lots of factors to be considered, I have a blindness dream. Invariably, I’m in some situation which absolutely requires that I see what I’m doing, only I can’t see, nor open my eyes. These dreams are always meta-dreams, in that I am physically aware that I’m sleeping and that I can’t open my eyes and that if I could, then the dream would resolve itself. I know there’s some physical explanation regarding how one’s body is rendered inert during certain stages of sleep. Though I can’t say that aliens have ever visited me when this happens.

In this case, I was napping on the couch in my dream (as in reality), but it was at my father’s house that isn’t really my father’s house. And some cousins were visiting (dream cousins – don’t know the blokes from Adam), and they had a nice car. The “danger” part of the dream was that I had to get up and drive somewhere, so I got in the car and backed up but of course, I couldn’t see where I was going because I couldn’t see. Driving blind is not good and the most blatant of metaphors.

The next step will be that I go back to that dream tonight and I’ll open my eyes and fix the situation. Sometimes it goes with it that an answer comes to me for whatever issue I’m facing.

This one’s nothing like the dream I had a few weeks ago whereby I was paid by a wife to bed her husband who was a small French man in a pirate shirt who had a thing for Postal vans. Oh, and I speared a crocodile in their moat (like an Amazon!) at his request.

Glass half full

Monday, February 4th, 2008

In 1999, I went to visit some friends who were living in London, England. While they were at work during the day, I wondered off on my own. It was a bit liberating and a bit scary a times, particularly when I once got off the bus at the wrong place and figured out I was in Brixton.

Anyway, coming out of the Tower of London, I was approached by a middle-aged man with several cameras around his neck. He said he’d take a picture of me, and if I’d pay him in advance and gave him my home address, he’d mail the picture along once it was developed (remember, 1999 – no digital camera).

I had a half-hour conversation in my head that took a few seconds in real time about how he could be a perv, or a murderer, or a murdering perv, and why would I give my home address to a complete stranger, and…

And I went ahead and did it for some reason. Gave him my address and my money.

Months later, I received a “Do not bend” package in the mail. I had totally forgot about the murdering perv at the Tower, but when I opened it up, there was a decent picture of me – one of the only ones I have from that trip with me in it.

It was like receiving a little trust in the mail.

Glass half empty

Monday, February 4th, 2008

I need me some cute kittehs or chocolate truffles, or maybe I should just avoid tv. They used two girls with Down’s Syndrome as suicide bombers in Iraq – wtf? Seriously, wtf? Then, I watched a travel program about Cambodia that featured the War Museum at Pnom Penh.

Cantankerous, indeed

Tuesday, January 22nd, 2008

Hard to pick my “favs”, but…

  • “Older women who have never contacted the public have a hard time adapting themselves and are inclined to be cantakerous and fussy”
  • Husky girls are… more even-tempered.
  • Hire a doctor who specializes in “female conditions” to detect any “female weaknesses”
  • They lack the “initiative” in finding work themselves, which is why they need strong supervision
  • They need numerous breaks and will work better if they have time to fix their hair and apply lipstick
  • They are sensitive to criticism.

Link from Melle


Sunday, January 6th, 2008

I’ve never met Andy Olmsted and had never read his posts before today, but I followed a link from Maggie to a blog entry he prepared before he left for Iraq:

This is an entry I would have preferred not to have published, but there are limits to what we can control in life, and apparently I have passed one of those limits. And so, like G’Kar, I must say here what I would much prefer to say in person.

You can know a man in one letter and cry for his passing.

A picture’s worth

Tuesday, January 1st, 2008

Spiegel Opinion piece: UNICEF photos of the year. The “winner”  – of a 40 year-old man and his 11 year-old bride – is hard to look at, as are the rest of the photos.

I think the hard part is that we look at them, feel anger or wonder or shock, but then what to say about it? Is the author right in saying that, through cultural relativism, it’s hard for us to sustain an outrage, to pass judgment on an action that doesn’t take place within our country or culture, or to call it like it is?

It seems a struggle for some to say flat-out, no matter what someone thinks is right or were raised to think is right, that they are WRONG. Categorically wrong. Except for god people, who seem to have no problem telling all of the rest of us what we shouldn’t do and why we are going to hell. Maybe explaining why people fall back to relativism if only not to be like them.

Read the article. What’s your reaction?

Darwin Awards 2007

Sunday, December 30th, 2007

“His face disappeared. If someone has no face left, you know it’s serious.”

Choose your favourite! Fornication on a pyramid? Litres of alchohol up your arse? Jengo with a barn? All that stupid-ass humanity can do. The Darwins for 2007.

Take, don’t ask?

Monday, November 26th, 2007

In two books I read back to back recently, there was a female character in a “happy” marriage who sleeps with a rougher man because she feels like is that all there is? A husband who listens to her and gives her flowers now and again and with whom she has a routine of life and relations – regular sex, shared tv shows, discussions about the news over toast in the morning.

Each woman comes “alive” (actual word used by the authors) with these other men. The sex is rough, and they want to be mounted, to be f*cked, really. At odds with their good woman existence, they respond sexually to men who come at them, who harbour thoughts of hurting, or even killing, them.

It’s a nasty business discussing the ravish fantasy. Good, liberated women aren’t supposed to ever go there. But I know more than one who wants to be taken once in a while, to feel like the man in front of her wants her so badly that he might not let his ego get in the way of his id. Interesting enough, in both novels, the women give up their careers (or plan to) to be with the dirty men. The narrative evolution doesn’t seem to be to the point where she finds a bit on the side and continues with her own life. Surrender must be outside and inside the bedroom.

I wonder if this is becoming normalized? Is it a fantasy of a generation of women who can earn their own keep to submit? But since it’s not okay (in society) to admit to it, it’s expressed as sexual liberation?

This isn’t discussion one has in “polite” company, but it’s discussion that’s been done at girl’s nights and in ladies’ washrooms and in blog entries that don’t see the light of day. But it’s not a no-means-yes thing, more like a take-don’t-ask thing, provided that you are the man or woman that a particular woman wants to be ravished by.

I can understand how enlightened men end up so confused. Respect a woman, ask, think of her and be content to have a regular life, when really there’s a whole other narrative going on in which you are vilified for your hesitancy or your niceties.

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this, other than to say that I noticed it, and then to ponder if this is women being honest, being selfish or being screwed up.


Sunday, November 11th, 2007

poppyRemembrance Day today. I sometimes forget that wearing a poppy is mostly a Commonwealth thing. In the days leading up to November 11th, I’d guess well over 75% of the population around here wears one – left lapel, generally (by custom or happenstance, I don’t know). It used to be that WWII & Korea veterans did the selling, but they aren’t as plentiful as they used to be. These days, you’re as like to get one in the mail (with a donation card) as from a young cadet.

This year, I thought about my cousin and her husband, each of whom has served a tour in Afghanistan, and back to my grandfather, who served in WWII as a labourer. After he died years later, we received his discharge papers. In the place where he had to sign for his release, there was an “X”. What I don’t know is if he really was illiterate, or if an “X” was used for expediency. We also have a novel written by my great-grandfather about WWI – mostly I just remember this one scene where two men are facing each other across a wall in the desert who take pot shots at the opposing hat now and again, but share food when they get it. I like the idea that my g-g was more focused on being human than on killing humans.

Would that we had a world where none of this was necessary.

In case you weren’t sure about Mother Nature,

Tuesday, November 6th, 2007

she really is capricious.

Scotchneat’s front yard view around 3pm this afternoon:


Blue sky, some pensive clouds and a rainbow.

Scotchneat’s backyard view at the exact same time:


Sleet. Heavy downpour.