— this is really happening

November, 2007 Monthly archive

My close friend Seofon can be smartly quoted as saying, "All things invisible only want to be noticed. If you give something a name it will leave you in peace." Let’s unsheathe the invisible then, shall we? It is time to give name to a particular modus operandi. Foot in mouth, even as I write this brief post, I am guilty of said action. Call it a terrifiying fear of being alone, or in a brighter light, a tremendous fascination with the creativity that is potentially being uploaded into ether cables across the lands. Heretofore AND henceforth, the need to "check blogs, check emails, check NYT’s homepage, refresh, refresh, check mail, refresh, check blogs" will be referred to as, "researching the history of ink." (credit: Ben Marcus) The idea behind this new gambit being: who gives a shit about the history of ink? I mean, come on. And yet, as if awakening from a stupor, sometimes we each find ourselves nose to screen, poring over line after line, inhaling as much info as we can about these inconceivably ridiculous topics. Just because we can. Just because Firefox took us there. Just because Kirk Cameron has a fan page. So I ask you, history of ink? Interesting, sure! Necessary, not so much. Dangerous, definitely.

To fight this need, my friend and I have scribbled visible reminders on our arms. A day of writing thesis or short story need not be completed by researching the history of ink! No, friends, on the contrary! I already know the history of ink … 


and for my friend, the history of ink is within. 


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Let’s welcome into the universe a beautiful baby daughter, Maya Ame’lie Waldorf. Maya was born at 3:06 pm on Wednesday Nov 21st – 6 lbs. even – 19 in. – perfect in every way. Congratulations Dave & Heather, two of the best parents a girl could dream of. 


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Shoot me to the Moon! Today I love all these things desperately:
curly locked red hair, someone sitting backwards in a wooden chair, coffee in a glass, newness, not being afraid, Dan Reeder, high ceilings that I can touch, my favorite pair of jeans that just ripped in the knee, driving in the car machine to get where I need to go, "Jehovah’s Witness tagteams," cooking messy messy cooking … And in conclusion, today I even love my first parking ticket.

(Boldly risking irrelevance, I stand by my shamelessly self-oriented, potentially uninteresting list.)

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I got my girl Kaki on the dial. Listen up with me to the sound of the chaos holiday. This one is called "Steamed Juicy Little Bun."

After nearly 30 years of participation, I finally earned a hall pass from the cooking. STOP! – thesis time! I’m actually merrily barred up in my Mom’s office just off the kitchen. But, I’ve been stepping out into apron land every hour or so, and this time I gathered a few thoughts while I was out there:


Mom forgot I hate sweet potatos again.
Her eyes go to me across the room.
  She is fleeting like this llight
  and the coffee. Almost 60 years old.

She comes at me with a fork full of orange mush.
Big smile, I swallow and remind her I am home.

It’s Thanksgiving; some kid in the house has always grown up.

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I’m no skeptic. The energy it takes to be one doesn’t make sense to me. You want to take my pulse over the phone! Sure, why not? To a fault perhaps, I’m usually willing to wholeheartedly believe the story you told me about the voice in your head, or the demon in your soup, or the spirit guides that speak through you, etc. etc. blah blah etc. And if I don’t 100% believe (which is hard to judge), I at least believe that you believe it, and I can dig that, and that’s usually sufficient. So fine, "cheerleader of the irrational," or whatever AC called me a few years ago. Fine. Gooooo team! I’m glad to have been named as such. In 1985, I thought my Pogo Ball was the bees knees and I wouldn’t shut up about that for six months, either. I like to let it ALL be there in the universe, as opposed to questioning if some of it is, and some of it isn’t. And although things have quieted down, and I’m no longer muttering hermetic incantations over dinner, CWG might still say that I "require the mystic life." And without question, I’d tip my hat to that.

All that out of the oven, it turns out the rational mind operates in conjuction with the body, as opposed to being the control center for it. I’m talking about Descartes’ Error, a book that I encountered a few weeks ago. Skeptics heads up, the author looks at the mind from a neurological point of view (being that he’s a neurologist) and asserts that the rational mind requires emotional and corporeal information in order to make what we experience as "decisions." Funny, because when I think "rational," I immediately think of a device that ticks, clicks, and exists outside of emotions. Au contraire mon derriere. Apparently the author’s studies have revealed that there are areas in the brain which bring the messages from the body into the brain, and then back. And if those areas have any kind of lesion or tumor, people can know all the facts about a particular situation, but they can’t make a decision. So take that out of the context of the study and the idea is you can’t logically figure out what you should do in life, you have to have a kind of gut feeling, and then you can be rational on top of that. If not, you’d have to have a computer twice the size of California to figure out where to go for breakfast!! Yar yar.

What I love about this is that it’s the age of Aquarius! Find your intuition! Trust the hell out of it. It makes you rational.

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shorthand_dictionary.gifRemember the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie Parker finally receives the Little Orphan Annie secret decoder pin in the mail? … The snowy mailbox, the run up the stairs in kid glee? With me? Remember he locked himself in the bathroom (the only room in the house where a man could stake out some privacy away from little bro’ Randy). It was there where he was able to punch out the secret encrypted "message" from the Annie radio broadcast? And then the look on poor Ralph’s face when he was pounded by the lameness of the capitalist marketing message: D-o-n-t- F-o-r-g-e-t- T-o- D-r-i-n-k- Y-o-u-r- O-v-a-l-t-i-n-e ???

In the above vein, I share with you this informative graphic attached to the e-bill just sent to me from my ‘telecommunications giant of a cellphone provider,’ T-Mobile. Take special note of their glossary’s definitions. "Super happy/toothy smile," really? And, I’d been wanking my head against the wall wondering if BBL was a command to another, or a personal reference of upcoming location … Thank goodness T-Mobile has finally cleared up that it’s "[I will] be back later," and not someone telling me to "be back later." 🙂 🙂 😉 <g> ((lovingly sarcastic))

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Lexicon can become graphicon. Word, to pic. Vice versa. Tonight, we’re exploring what my lexicon has done with certain graphical stimuli, as well as the graphical stimuli that could accompany select phrases in my lexicon. (Yes, this is confusing.) This first drawing here, with the flower just below? Yeah, that might be my favorite artistic representation in the history of humanity. I am easily amused though. And a shmaltz, as confirmed by the radiant EK today. Thus, I welcome your submissions to the lexicon-i-graphicon! Send it and I will add it!

"For The Win."


"Think ahead, people!"


The pictoral representation of a deadline?


Uhm, I’m not sure, this one makes me think of the word mayonaisse.


What goes on in your brain before you speak:


News headline: Grammar becomes art, comedy


Et … Le Way "Classique." Je me souviens.


Illustrative work by Lloyd Scott for the grade 8 grammar, Using Our Language, by T.I.Davies for J.M.Dent & Sons (Canada) Limited (1942).


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