These Boots Are Made for Walkin’

My wee sister IM’d me at work one morning:

“Hey, sissy, are you free for lunch?”

“Sure,” I wrote back. “What do you feel like?”

“Shoes!” she replied.

Uh oh, I thought. The wee ’un’s on a bender.

My sister buys her shoes at the store directly downstairs from my office. She’s partial to Kubos and has acquired something like six pairs in everything from green to black to “aubergine”. Granted, the store regularly puts them on sale, so she gets them practically two-for-one, and on this day a sale was also in progress: buy a pair at regular price and get a second “on sale” pair at fifty percent off the sale price. Boy Sister had gone ahead and found a pair for himself; we were to meet him there and one of us could score the second pair in the deal for cheap.

BS hadn’t arrived when we did, so the Greig sisters were on the loose without our handler. I said, “I need boots”, so we started looking. And commenting. And cracking ourselves up with inside jokes and stupid remarks. I do enjoy shopping with my little sister. She’s a veritable hoot.

I really wanted/needed tall boots in which I could walk comfortably. Apparently, I was also in the market for some form of red leather. Crimson? Too dark. Candy apple patent? Too flashy (though they’d totally work under my boot-cut jeans). Scarlet? Too high in the heel. Plain black? Too boring. Then my eye caught a low-heeled black boot with burgundy accents and I promptly zoomed in for a closeup.

It met all my criteria. Black and red with low heels, made of buttery leather, and sporting a filigree button that kinda sorta matches my silver Lannister pendant (a bonus, not a criterion). Then I looked at the brand name: Dorking.

My wee sister looked dubious. “Do you want to buy a boot with the word dork in its name?”

Uhhhh … I bought it anyway. And I proved the greater dork because it wasn’t on sale, so when Boy Sister finally arrived, the deal didn’t work to plan. Not to mention that one pair of boots cost almost as much as a pair of tires for the Tiguan, but here’s the thing:

They are so comfy that I wore them all day every day for three solid weeks and my feet think they’re in heaven. I’m wearing them right now, in fact, so not only are they made for walking, they are made for looking cool while sitting still.

Today is New Year’s Eve. Looks like I’m walking into 2015 with style.

My Human

Ter coined a dandy the other day. She passed an unkind judgment on someone—hardly a criminal offense, but definitely out of sync with the higher level vibe we’re striving to maintain—and promptly smacked her own hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “My human.”

Bwahahahahahaha!

To be human is to be influenced by the five sense reality, the egocentric identity, the left brain, the intellect, the bane of pure source energy. The human experience is why we’re here, but it’s terribly restrictive when learning lessons of love, acceptance and forgiveness within that experience. It also provides a physical contrast to things of the spirit. We need it, but we also need to be aware of it. Only then can we move past it.

It’s okay to be human. It’s okay to be small, occasionally, especially in defense of someone we love (thank you, Ter). It is oddly gratifying to think savage thoughts toward someone who has caused us or our own some form of angst, but we must not let those thoughts consume us. Have the thought, get your jollies from it, then forgive everyone involved and let it go.

Easier said than done? Yup. Being human makes it so. Forgiveness, however, does not mean to say that an injury/insult is justified or acceptable. It simply means that we as individuals can control our response to the slight. Yes, the comment was unfair. Yes, the insult may have been unintended, but it also reveals something about the person who made it, and that is not ours to own unless we choose to own it. (And, really, do you have room in your life to wear someone else’s issues?)

Ultimately, you can only live your life. You can only control your feelings and your actions. You put out the intention based on where you are in your journey. How I perceive it is determined by where I am in mine. Sometimes we’ll meet in the middle and sometimes we won’t. That is when opportunities for forgiveness occur.

If, however, an intention is initially misread, then … “Oops. My human.”

Not Your Average Joe

the coveted Christmas prezzie

He’s on my radar once more—Aerosmith’s inimitable lead guitarist, known predominantly throughout the rock world as “Mister Joe Perry.” After 15 years of radio silence, I saw his autobiography on a shelf at the bookstore and stopped so abruptly that, had I been on the highway, I’d have caused a multi-vehicle pileup.

My heart did that crazy swoopy thing that hearts do when something too deep to reach is touched.

I dropped a five-ton hint on Ter, and if the book wasn’t beneath the tree on Christmas morning, I’d have gone out on Boxing Day to get it myself. (Sneaky Ter—she fooled my nosy fingers with a copy of Prince Lestat and disguised Rocks as a big square something wrapped in Nutcracker-themed paper. She knows.)

There was a time when I owned an extensive collection of Aerosmith albums. I even persuaded Ter to accompany me to a live show during the Get a Grip tour—the scariest crowd I’ve ever been a part of, but seeing the man himself made the risk worthwhile. He was in his prime at the time, when I believed that a man is at his best in his mid-to-late-30s. Mr. Perry was actually in his early 40s, challenging my parameters with flowing black hair and those long, smooth muscles. And he has aged in typically uncompromising style: he turned 64 on September 10 and still commands a third look.

So, what gives? I no longer have my Aerosmith albums, nor did I hang onto the band bio I devoured in the 1990s. I thought that he and I were done, that the affair was over. Gods are irreplaceable, of course, but even the vampire he sired has lain silent for almost two decades.

At one time, I considered him a strictly hormonal crush. Now I am unsure. Now I suspect a connection on some other level, a memory from another life in another world. It’s possible. It’s actually probable, given what I’m learning about how souls are but satellites of the mothership. I suppose it could be as simple as biological hardwiring, but if the appeal was purely physical, I doubt I’d care to do anything more than mate with him. This is not so. Not purely, anyway.

Rocks has jumped the queue to next in line after I finish my annual holiday wallow in The Night Circus. I am certain that it will be a fascinating read and reveal no common ground between him and me (except that we’re both Virgos). I am unlikely to buy any more Aerosmith albums, and when he played Victoria with his spinoff band a couple of years ago, I wasn’t the least bit tempted to get tickets … though I did get some cool pics of the tour bus.

What mystifies me is the crazy swoopy heart thing caused by someone I have not and will not meet. I may not know him, but I recognize him. Was he a lord in a previous life? Definitely. Was he my lord? I doubt it. All I can say is that he was on my radar before radar existed and he’s come around again.

It’s a deliciously, creatively compelling mystery, one that has borne fruit in the past and may signal something that I, as a writer, have been avoiding for more than a year. If Joe Perry is back, then Marcel de Chauvigny is sure to follow … and his is a story I don’t want to write.

Blethering

Now that Christmas is over, I have a solid chunk of time in which to write.

It’s also time to rethink the blog.

My original purpose was to share my creative journey with posts of process, progress, inspiration, and a little hockey talk tossed in for fun. I meant to offer food for thought, and perhaps some discussion, but recently the posts have been pure fluff.

There is nothing wrong with fluff. It’s light, it’s entertaining, it’s easy to digest and even easier to write, but it also takes time to compose and my true love has suffered for it. Momentum has stalled, assuming that momentum was ever achieved, on my meatier creative works. I have lately given myself permission to focus on completing a longer project rather than placating the bloggy voice that tells me a post is past due. Having to grant this permission was my first hint.

Somewhere along the line, Comfortable Rebellion became Uncomfortable Responsibility. The director of quality assurance has issued a warning: keep it upbeat, keep it creative, and keep it meaningful.

I will continue my writing exercises. I will post updates on my progress with the project du jour. I may also “publish” the occasional story in a series of Saturdays, since I fully intend to finish more short stories in the coming year. And there will always be room for gushing about heroes and icons and all good things. I do admit, reluctantly, that life makes means to kill our joy with stress, and I have been more stressed than I realized of late, but I’m aware of it now and am looking the monster straight in the eye. Toss in my Ter, my angels, and access to a universe full of opportunity, and you have a winner in Ramblin’ Ru.

Did I say “ramblin’?” No more of that. We’re going back to the egg, you and I. Back to the realm of dreamers and artists, magicians and vampires, poets and philosophers. Back to my happy place. The Rebellion is comfortable once more, so pull up a chair and I’m brew us some tea.

There are stories to be told.

With love,

Peace on Earth …

… and goodwill to all bears.

“Postcards From the Tree”

Hey, all—just staked my spot on the lower rung of the Christmas tree. The snow is fake, by the way, and I’m fine with it. I might be a snowman, but I really dislike the cold. Not sure what I was in a previous life—a sand dune, maybe? Anyway, I’m having a wonderful time hanging with Rudolph and Tigger and … gads, is that Darth Vader?? Tree ornaments are not what they used to be, that’s for sure.

Wish you were here, but since you’re not, I’ll send you my best for a Merry Christmas and look forward to seeing y’all in the New Year!

Festive Foliage

Work, work, work. Shop, shop, shop. Party, party, party. Oh yeah, and take the car in to have a nail pulled from a front tire—even at Christmas, life happens.

Amid the hustle/bustle of prepping food, wrapping presents, and getting together with people you haven’t seen all year, it’s easy to lose yourself in the hubbub. Ironically, during the season of giving, we often forget to give to ourselves. This doesn’t translate into buying yourself two gifts for every one you buy for someone else. Okay, maybe it does, but I’m thinking more along the lines of self-care. Taking time to paint your toenails Christmas crimson, for instance. Stopping for steamed eggnog during a whirlwind prezzie blitz through the mall. Curling up in a comfy chair with a cup of tea and The Night Circus. Little things to keep you in the spirit without succumbing to the stress of the season.

I’ve been fortunate in finding joy this Christmas. I’ve had fun dashing out on coffee breaks to buy sock stuffers, dropping my budget forecast to go for tea with a friend, and streaming carols on my work computer. Now that I’m on vacation, I’ve really enjoyed spending time looking at decorations, chatting with people, and generally absorbing the Yuletide vibe. It’s been crazy-busy as usual, but this year, I’ve been less resentful of the hectic pace. I spent Saturday morning downtown, finishing up the last of my shopping. I exchanged laughs with every store clerk I dealt with and the chocolate balsamic I sampled at the King’s Deli was divine; it didn’t matter that the rain was a steady drizzle and I had no umbrella, I was fully engaged in the moment. The eggnog cream from Chocolat didn’t hurt, either. It was a nice little reward for waiting while they sugared up the champagne truffles I was getting for someone else. Then, hiking up the street toward the car, I passed the florist and their glorious display of Christmas bouquets and paused. They were so pretty, all red and green and white, but I had no one to buy them for …

Oh, why not?

I told Ter that I got them for her … but they made me feel so loved that I think I might have done it as much for myself.

Take care of yourself today and every day, but do it especially during high-pressure holidays. You’ll give love more freely if you give a little to yourself as well.

With love,

PHI 7 - TOR 4

Despite the outcome, it was touch and go in the first ten minutes. Toronto sprang into the lead while the Flyers were still getting their game on, and if the Leafs had scored their third before the Flyers got their first, the end result might have been vastly different.

A wild 26 seconds saw the score change three times in Philadelphia’s favour, and after that, the Leafs seemed to quit playing. No complaints here, boy. Suddenly it was all about Jakub Voracek and Claude Giroux, the twin sons of different mothers who, last night anyway, could have given the Sedins a run for their money in the “mesmerizing-the-opposition” department.

What did I do differently? I didn’t wear my jersey and I spiked my buttered rum tea with real rum, though I’m becoming less and less superstitious about my part in how the lads play. You gotta wonder on some occasions, though. They recently eked out a win against Los Angeles, a game that would have been attended by a 26 year old hard-core fan had he not been killed in a car crash the day before. His two buddies draped a towel over his empty seat in the stands. The Flyers knew about him—don’t ask me how—and either they rose to the occasion or he was pulling for them on the other side, or both. You just don’t know.

Anyway, my father called to say well done, with the wry aside that he’d been tempted to call during Toronto’s 2-0 lead until he remembered that these are the Leafs so no counting of chickens until the final buzzer sounds. Wisdom manifests in all manner of ways. And as of this morning, we’re 24^th! Hats and horns!

We’re … 25th?!

First day of vacation and I wake up wondering where I write to complain about the new format at Hockey Night in Canada. The Flames are in Vancouver tonight, but I dunno – the draw isn’t the same since Kesler’s become a Duck and I don’t remember when I last watched an early game because the broadcast team is intolerably annoying.

Then I look at the schedule and see that Philly is visiting the Leafs in Toronto. That changes everything!

A few days ago, the boys had clawed their way into 22^nd place in the league standings. Surely they’ve improved since then; they have lots of time to make the playoffs now that their losing trend is over.

Ha!

As of this morning, they’ve slid down into 25^th.

^%$&*$

I’m still tuning in at 4:00. I can’t miss a chance to see them, especially playing against the 10^th place Leafs. It is, after all, my first day of vacation and the Leafs are my father’s team. A hockey dinner of mince and tatties await, and however the game turns out, I’ll have seen my Flyers.

It remains to be seen if Dad stays in my will.

"Gabriel's Message"

Witness the holiday hat trick – a favoured video by a favoured singer of a favoured Christmas carol. This was the best track on the first “Very Special Christmas” compilation back in 1987 and I’ve been looping it for a while so thought I’d share.

 

Sting reprised it for his album, If On A Winter’s Night, but this remains my favourite version. The video is typical of him as well, all Goth and broody and gorgeous.

 

Enjoy.

 

 

Food Porn VII

“Feliz Navidachos”

We spend so much time grazing on treats and running around during the holidays that we rarely have an appetite for a proper meal at the designated time. One night last December, Ter and I had no interest in whatever protein she had planned for dinner, so she scrounged up the fixin’s for this magical tray of nachos, so seasonally hued with red pepper and green onion that we christened them “feliz navidachos”.

She makes a killer guacamole, too. On the table with a bowl of salsa, it looks even more festive!

Since that night, we’ve stopped consuming dairy, so cheese is now off the menu. That makes for dead boring nachos; alas, this photo stirred up some fond memories for more than the occasion that spawned them.

Monkey Do

Watching A History of Scotland has Ter shaking her head. “We haven’t evolved,” she laments, referring to the ongoing struggle of one man, any man, for power over the masses. Be it a king, a clan or a whole country out to subjugate another, the contrast is ancient and eternal. Treachery and deceit are required qualifications to build an empire, and if strengthening oneself means cutting down everyone else, then we are indeed a failed experiment.

I did some lamenting myself, during one of my morning tea chats with a friend at work. The topic du jour was online bullying or hate crimes or something (there are so many to choose from that it’s easy to forget), and I remarked to my buddy that humans are the only animals in the kingdom who treat each other so cruelly, so wantonly, and with such perverse delight in the destruction of others.

“Oh, no,” she countered, “there’s a breed of monkey in (insert jungle here) that does the same thing. They hold kangaroo courts and beat the defendant to death.”

I guess that makes it all right, then. After all, why should we be better than the monkeys? We’re only supposedly more intelligent—oh, wait. That may be the problem. Intelligence is no indication of kindness, compassion, sympathy, empathy or any sort of emotional evolution. You can teach a monkey to communicate by pushing buttons—the simian form of texting—so maybe we aren’t any smarter and shouldn’t tout ourselves to be superior.

*sigh*

Someone to Watch Over Me

If you feel like you’re being watched around here, you probably are. I was minding my own business in the hockey-watching chair when I suddenly sensed the weight of a gaze on my left shoulder. Turning slowly, I looked up and spotted Elvin peering at me from the corner of the bookcase.

“How did you get up there?” I demanded.

“I moved him,” Ter said, coming in from the kitchen. “He can see better from the top shelf.”

None of our bears fear heights; not even Moon Pie, who concussed himself with a fall from the couch in 2011. They’re not climbers as a rule, though the pandas might try, given half a chance and a mature stalk of bamboo, and most of them prefer to be carried rather than move under their own steam … kind of like me, actually.

We’re 26th!

We won! And we’re still 26^th in the league!

I missed much of yesterday’s game. With a road record of 2-9-2 (3-9-2 now), and having already lost to the other two-thirds of the Californian axis of evil, the Flyers’ visit to LA seemed doomed, especially considering that their former captain and his wing man are now Kings and might have a bit of an ax to grind. So, with it being a 1:00 start, I chose lunch out with Ter, followed by a leisurely stroll along the main street of Gracepoint (locally known as Oak Bay Avenue) and laundry when we got home. I even debated the need for buttered rum tea, and Basher gave me a look of Do I have to? when I fetched him for the third period.

“We’re ahead 2-0 after the second,” I told him, hardly believing it myself.

He acquiesced and I shot some Captain Morgan into my tea. An ex-Flyer scored on them in the third—Justin Williams, who left Philadelphia many years ago—but the boys hung on to win in regulation. They had also nabbed a point in Anaheim, losing in a shootout. “How can you score five goals in a game and still lose?” used to be a question for Toronto fans alone, but these days anything goes. And the Sharks edged them 2-1 in San Jose. Close; so close, and still … we’re 26, we’re 26!

And over in office hockey pool, Ruthie’s Rebels are settling in to 7^th spot despite me drafting high-powered point-grabbers in Jake Voracek, Tyler Seguin and Jamie Benn. I declined the mid-season (already?) re-draft on the excuse that I’d just had the team photo taken and am hopeful that my guys can hoist me a little closer to the top five before the trade deadline in March.

I’m still having issues with the Rogers takeover of broadcast rights, too. HNIC under Strombo is just annoying, so Ter and I are hardly watching Saturday night hockey anymore. Thank the hockey gods that most Canuck games are called by the two Johns, but even then we’re not paying as close attention as we’ve done in prior years. It’s enough to get the highlights from Global TV in Vancouver.

I miss TSN. I miss Ron MacLean and PJ Stock on the panel at HNIC. I miss being a diehard viewer on Saturday night. Mostly, I miss the Flyers being a top 10 team. A miracle will be required to haul them out of the basement … but miracles are what  Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

The Warmth of Winter

It sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s really not. It’s contrast. When it’s cold and blustery outside, the warmth and light inside create a special sense of comfort unique to the darkest of the four seasons. The deeper the darkness, the brighter is the fire. The lower the mercury drops, so increase the pleasures of hearth and home. Scents are sharper, food is heartier, laughter is more resonant. Winter is a time of contrast in the extreme for, as Dickens wrote in A Christmas Carol, abundance rejoices and want is more keenly felt. The disparity between the haves and have-nots is more noticeable, perhaps because the haves are prompted to pay more attention during the coldest months. Charitable opportunities are everywhere, and many of us take advantage to share our wealth in whatever way we can. The point is that we do it and, for a few days at least, everyone benefits.

Time is limited as ever, but even then, we spend more of it with family and friends, enjoying tea and company in a cosy room while the elements rage beyond our windows; sitting ’round a table with co-workers, swapping silly gifts and stories long after the scheduled lunch hour is over; shopping like mad yet smiling more easily at strangers in the checkout lineup.

Snow is picturesque. Sleigh bells are the merriest sound in a crisp December twilight. Hot chocolate is better laced with rum or Bailey’s … or both. I dislike the cold, but I like to walk in it, probably because I’ll be warm when I get home. And Christmas music, no matter what jaded old tune is being played, remains a treasured constant through the holidays.

And after New Year, when the lights come down and the darkness closes in, when it’s a challenge to fight through ’til April, the memories of that winter warmth will sustain me.

With love,

Snow!

look reeeeeeeeeeally hard at the roof next door

The Christmas tree went up last Friday. Ter and I worked all day on it—and, to be fair, on the rest of the house, too—and look what happened overnight! Snow!

Our neighbours are night owls. It’s not unusual for their lights to be on through the wee hours, and on Saturday morning at 3:30, I woke up to a glowier-than-normal glow from beyond the curtain. I can usually disregard it, but I’ve been dealing with a hormonal imbalance of late that’s made nighttime less restful than I prefer, so getting back to sleep was a losing battle. Finally I flopped onto my back and glared at the ceiling. Realizing that I could see the ceiling, I thought, Oh, good grief, don’t tell me that they have the bedroom light on next door. Grumble grumble grumble … well, might as well get up and trek to the loo since that’ll become an issue in another hour …

I got up, trudged into the hall, and paused in the doorway to the living room. The window is bare in that room; one day we’ll get around to hanging a curtain but for now we like the light, and during nocturnal traipses you can get an idea of what’s happening weatherwise with a glance. I detoured to investigate if the neighbours really were aiming to vex with an upstairs light and to my amazement, their windows were dark. The glow was actually coming from the thin layer of snow lying on their roof.

Snow! In November! On the first night after we put up the tree!

I forgot about the loo and hoofed it down to the Ocean Room, where a silent blanket of white was forming outside, on the cars, the lawn, the trees, the houses … and in the light of the corner streetlamp, tiny flakes danced and whirled in the playful wind. I was so excited that I almost woke Ter. The luxury of snow on a weekend was surely worth sharing, until I remembered her hair appointment at 11:45. That meant the snow had better be gone before then and if it wasn’t … Okay, I spared her a heart attack and preserved my joy, and true to the nature of a west coast snowfall, it was mostly gone by daylight.

But the little dusting was delicious.

Scotland the Brave?

November 30 is St Andrew’s Day. My office calendar, rather than a Scot, told me; St. Andrew being the patron saint of Scotland, like St. George watches over England and St. Patrick is claimed by the Irish. The three crosses combined make a pretty nifty British flag … but did the Scots and Irish actually want to be part of the United Kingdom? I don’t think so …

Ter and I have been watching Neil Oliver’s History of Scotland, a ten-part series that traces the land of my ancestors from its beginnings under the Picts to the twenty-first century. From the first episode, a particular theme is prevalent: Scots are a difficult people to conquer. The Vikings tried. The Romans tried. The English tried from the day the Romans quit, employing everything from trickery to brute force and failing on all counts. The countries were united by an irony when Elizabeth Tudor died without issue and her Scottish cousin’s son inherited the English throne. The country England wanted to rule now ruled England, so the tables turned and they got cranky over how many Scots had influence in the English court. I can’t blame James VI/I, either. The Scottish nobles hadn’t been that generous with him, but neither had the English. According to Oliver, he had a greater vision for the kingdom, but the only folk who want change are the ones who have something to gain from it so he didn’t have a lot of support from his English lords. They did, however, succeed in Anglicizing the royal Stuarts to the point where Charles I was neither fish nor macfowl and my sweetheart, Charles II, was so thoroughly scunnered by the overzealous Covenanters during his exile that he visited Edinburgh but once—and reluctantly—after his Restoration.

Something else has occurred to me as the series progresses: historically, England has needed Scotland more than Scotland needed England and I suspect the same holds true today. Witness the frantic pandering committed by the British PM ahead of the recent referendum on should Scotland reclaim her independence. The fearmongering worked, but only by a small margin. The doomsday downers were prophesying economic disaster if she broke from the UK. Really? For which side? Economic disaster happens every day; it’s been a given since economics took over the world. Instability inevitably accompanies change, but eventually, all settles down and we move on. Seems to me that Scotland has always been a republic by nature—the crowning of kings served to (sort of) unite the clans under one banner against the English pig dogs, but none save the kings themselves believed they were divine. The country is rich with natural resources; it’s stunningly beautiful in the wildest ways, the people are clever and inventive; heck, the Scottish royal court was more cultured than the English in the time of Henry VIII. His sister’s marriage to James IV was sought to strengthen the Tudors, not the other way round. So somewhere along the line, Scotland began to believe that she couldn’t survive without the English.

I think she can. So do 44.7% of her resident population—and, surprisingly, my father, who has never given me much indication that he favoured one route over the other. The ex-pat was so disappointed by the outcome of the referendum that he dared to put it in writing and has permitted me to post it here. If you ever wondered where I got my gift, here’s your first hint. Enjoy.

* * *

So, now it is over and Scotland is no more.

Unwilling to take a chance on its own prowess and skills but willing to cling to England’s apronstrings and risk that the pre-vote promises will be kept by what the French once called, “Perfidious Albion.”

 It is, I think worth quoting from a well-known source of information the derivation of that phrase as follows:

“Diplomatic sleights, duplicity, treachery and infidelity with respect to promises made or alliances formed with other nations, by the government of England in their pursuit of self-interest.”

It is now, unfortunately too late to say, “Scotland beware.” You believed the crocodile tears, shameful hypocrisies and fearful prophesies of mass unemployment and rising prices made by past masters of duplicity and now must remain with bowed head and bent knee, begging for scraps which may or may not be cast disdainfully from the Westminster table.

In 1305, William Wallace died in agony … and it now appears in vain, at the hands of the English. Perhaps the first verse of a Scottish rallying cry should be re-written, thus:

“Scots wa’ hey wi’ Wallace bled,

Scots wham Bruce has often led,

Ye hiv made yer gory bed,

Noo, lie in it....an’ dee.”

I will now remove the Scottish emblem from my car.  It might leave a dirty scar, but that is only fitting, considering the circumstances.

* * *

I love you, Daddy.

Motivation

It’s hard to write about vampires while prepping for Christmas. I know, it’s only November, but some things need to be done before the twelfth month else I get so far behind I want to hang myself with the tree lights come the holidays. My creativity is far from suffering—the cards are almost done! Ter casually suggested this year’s theme (“socks”—you can free your elf but she’ll never get over it) and after a couple of days mulling over the potential, I was off to the races. It’s always fun once I get started, but having a theme this early is rare. The Ocean Room looks like … well, like the picture introducing this post: less a living room than an artist’s studio.

So, in the meantime, my vampires are in limbo. The Calista story is almost done; I think there’s one more scene before she’s told all she can tell. After that, back to Black, another one that’s almost done. I was over at terribleminds.com the other day and hit another brilliant post about how Chuck gets past the hiccups at one-third, halfway and two-thirds into a project. Those are the hotspots, what I’ve long called the “150 page speed bump” where I get hung up and question a) what I’m doing, b) why I’m doing it and c) if I should even be trying to do it. Creativity is a magical thing, but it’s also fraught with mental landmines designed to sabotage what I was so excited about when I started.

Naturally, now I can’t find his post to link it –but there was also a dandy about motivation that I found extremely helpful, and not only because I already know half of it. It’s a few suggestions to help a writer struggling with the strange paradox of wanting to write while not wanting to write.

Since I can write about doughnuts, you’d think motivation wouldn’t be an issue. So for now, I’m using Christmas as an excuse for avoiding my works in progress and I’m totally good with it.

“Indigenous”

You don’t belong here. You are like the locusts, the grey squirrels, the poison ivy—life forms smuggled out of your element by a homesick immigrant from another place, a place where your numbers were controlled by natural predators and the balance easily maintained.

Now your numbers overwhelm. The world—my world—is threatened by a rampant population and irreversible damage to the environment. Because of you, my world struggles to maintain its equilibrium. Its state of health is imperiled. A mistake was made in bringing you here. The one responsible is aware, but awareness has come too late.

There may be one hope for my kind. What do you do when your home is overrun with vermin? How do you respond when your garden is poisoned and your survival becomes paramount?

You call an exterminator.

Have a nice day.

* * *

Yup, this exercise is black, but I was a little morbid when I wrote it. I actually want to write a full length story once I get through the holidays; it dawned on me one day that we humans are behaving much like those other pesky beasts that are pulled from their natural habitat and wind up infesting their new home because nothing natural knows how to deal with them.

Discuss?

Farewell to Kes

He’s the reason why I was a borderline Canucks fan for the past few years. Now I am free to disdain them with impunity. Ryan Kesler, now with Anaheim, did not deserve the raspberries he got from the crowd on his return to Vancouver Thursday night.

The man is a horse. He logs big ice time and never slacks off. So he wanted to get out of town after the disastrous 13/14 season. Who doesn’t think of changing jobs after a decade at the same place? Maybe he didn’t like the then-coach who the then-GM hired after firing Alain Vigneault. Neither did anyone else. Maybe he got on some of his teammate’s nerves. Alpha males will do that. Or maybe he got discouraged after the Game 7 loss in 2011/12, when fans in jerseys bearing his name and number were setting fire to police cars. Vancouver is a hard city in which to play any sport, but hockey is particularly dicey. Philadelphia fans are ugly, but they’ve never rioted in the streets after losing a Stanley Cup final. Vancouver fans have done it twice. They’re brutal, especially to ex-pats who depart under unfortunate circumstances.

I don’t know why Kesler wanted to leave the team, but I certainly don’t fault him for it. He was a force in the most recent glory days, playing injured in the playoffs and threatening to eclipse Henrik Sedin for conduct becoming a team captain. He scored goals. He helped others score goals. He took lumps for the team and gave as good as he got in a scrap. He was a star for them … and the fans boo when he stands on the opposite side of the red line. There’s gratitude for you.

I wish him well in Anaheim. No regrets here, boy. Well, maybe I have one.

He’d have been a dandy Flyer.

Caroling, Caroling

part of the collection

“Holiday” is my favourite music genre, and not just because I know all the words. Ter and I have amassed so many Christmas albums that we used to start playing them on November first. We’d load up the CD player after work, break open the Christmas jigsaw puzzle, and thus would begin our festive celebration.

Every fall, I load up my Starbucks card to ensure I have funds for their annual holiday disc, the entire collection of which I have except the third year edition (the year of “Ru snooze, Ru lose”). One of my favourite gifts ever is the retro-Christmas disc Nicole sent some years back; it’s loaded with cheesy 60s Xmas Muzak and is absolutely wonderfully awful. Ter and I loved it so much that it was copied and mailed with our Christmas cards. And, of course, my online jazz station puts up a holiday channel each November—from the third week in the month until I leave on vacation, I stream it at work.

I confess, I’m a Christmas music ho ho ho.

The acquisition of holiday tuneage has slowed over the years. I still haunt Starbucks until I see their kitschy CD cover and I am still waiting for Def Leppard to record a Christmas album, but now I wait until after November 11 before I start plaguing my world with old chestnuts roasted in new ways. My wee sister alerted me to a potential addiction issue by helping us to move in 2012—she was boxing up my CDs and happened on the array of holiday titles. “How many Christmas discs do you have?” she asked in mild horror.

“I dunno,” I answered, absently. “Seventy-five or something.”

She was hilariously pinched between disgust and dismay. “I have three—and you gave me two of them!”

Hey, I thought, I can quit any time I want.

That was my first hint.

"Tigress"

She was an indomitable force, brave in ways that appeared natural to her but demanded uncommon courage in everyone else.

She taught her cubs the ways of the world, to behave in public and respect each other in private. They saw her hunt, and the day when she was hunted, they saw her limping back to the den, bloodied and wincing, but determined to fight through her injury.

She moved them often, keeping them safe while they matured. She showed her fangs when they tried her, and they knew she was tired if she made her point with a paw instead of her nose.

She loved her cubs, and they loved her.

She was asked how she had grown to be so fierce and proud.

The question puzzled her at first, then she said, “My mother was fierce,” as if it should have been obvious.

To her, it was.

Happy birthday, Mum.

Fear Less

Life is about contrast: light/dark; yes/no; happy/sad; naughty/nice. We have no choice in that, it’s a physical law. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Nothing is constant but change. This too shall pass. Bad/good things happen to good/bad people.

Yaddayaddayadda.

The empowering thing about contrast is that we can choose which way we’re facing. When it’s all good, we can enjoy the moment, or waste it by dreading its inevitable end. When it goes pear-shaped, we can wallow in piteous despair, or seek the contrast and overcome.

We choose how we respond.

I’m saying this out loud because a) it’s true and b) I need the reminder. I have a lot of fear—or I could, if I chose. Fear is like a water leak; it starts small, so small that you may not know it’s happening until the ceiling crashes into your living room. Then, as is completely natural, you’re immobilized.

Fear is housed in the biological unit’s disk operating system. It’s not the same as the little voice that warns against getting on that particular bus; the little voice is your wiser self, and often dismissed by an intellect so insecure that it will endanger itself by refusing to accept the help. Fear is part of the survival package that comes with this mortality gig. Fear is a good thing—until the filtering mechanism malfunctions. That’s when all manner of mental anguish results. We start spooking at shadows and suspecting infamy at every turn. We begin to believe when we are told we should be afraid, and of what. We then actively seek things to frighten us. The law of attraction gets very weighty in such cases—the more you fear, the more you have to fear.

Nicole sent me the pendant in the picture at Christmas last year. I wear it when I need the boost. Courage is not defined as being unafraid. The bravest souls are still afraid; they simply refuse to be ruled by it. “Courage” has pinged on my radar of late, showing me that I am working through some of my issues. It’s also confirmation that I’m on the right track, because I’d already identified the problem but wasn’t sure how to resolve it. How does one conquer fear, especially an irrational one?

With courage, that’s how. Look the monster in the eye and say, “You’re not the boss of me!”

It’s a start, and there might even be a fight, but persevere. Fear is a bully and bullies are cowards at the core. Be brave. Stand your ground. Trust that all will be well … and it will be.

With love,

N H ell

ah, for the good old days ...

It’s finally happened. I’ve become one of the duffers. One of the crusties who remembers the good old days when one referee was just as incompetent as two, overtime was restricted to the playoffs, and the shootout was a cheap way to win an international hockey game. When the stars played with goons watching their backs and the boys thought twice before hitting a guy in the numbers.

When Ron MacLean hosted Hockey Night in Canada instead of a Sunday night mercy slot.

The game has changed, the league has changed, nothing is sacred and precious little makes sense.

The Flyers lost two in a row over the weekend. In the old days, I’d have gone, Guys, smarten up. Now I’m looking at the schedule and thinking, with 82 games in a season, who gets five days off then has to play back to back, one at home and one on the road? Who set that schedule in stone? I didn’t see the Columbus game, but the boys arrived in Montreal at 1:00 a.m. on game day against the Canadiens and tried to claw their way back from a 2 goal deficit only to fold like a cheap tent in the third period. They were tired! Heck, I get dopey after a long weekend and these guys are expected to hit the ice running after twice that long? Yeah, yeah, yeah, they’re professional athletes, they’re millionaires, they have nothing else to do but stay in shape for a brutally long season, but come on.

And that’s just the players. The fans are suffering mightily too, since the wedding news broke last spring: Rogers had bought broadcast rights to all NHL games and everyone else could go fish. Which is pretty much what TSN has had to do.

Not that TSN trumped CBC for hockey broadcasts, because for most of my life, CBC was where hockey lived. But there were also Canuck games on Wednesday nights, on the CTV affiliate out of Vancouver. Then cable TV expanded and sports channels were born. The Sports Network, for one. I was miffed when the CBC let the Hockey Night in Canada theme go to TSN, but got over it because, hey, TSN ran NHL double headers on Wednesday nights. Better yet, Tuesday night Flyer games were picked up by TSN2—a joy I discovered right before the apocalypse happened.

Most Canuck games were cast on Sportsnet Pacific, called by John and John—Shorthouse on play-by-play and Garrett on colour commentary. A pair of goofballs to be sure, but I enjoyed their banter as much as (and often more than) the game, and it was good to know that, if Ter and I were at loose ends on a winter’s night, there was probably a game somewhere on Shaw’s basic cable.

And, like Old Faithful, on Saturday nights, the CBC reigned supreme.

Not anymore.

HNIC still exists, but I no longer recognize it. Ron MacLean could be cloying, but I liked him better than George Snufflufagus. At least MacLean has sports broadcasting cred. Strombo is a glamour boy trying to be hip and falling embarrassingly short. The broadcast teams are all haywire. Gone from the booth are Rick Ball and Kelly Hrudey, replaced by no-name whozits dredged from the Sportsnet vault. And the panel between periods? I avoided Sportsnet to steer clear of Nick Kypreos and now he’s sitting in PJ Stock’s place with the sad remains of the HNIC talking heads.

Gone almost entirely are TSN broadcasts. Oh, there are games on the new TSN3, TSN4, TSN5 cable stations, when there’s no blackout in effect. Most are part of a new “sports channel” package requiring extra payment for the privilege of viewing. Which might be okay if there were no commercials, but who are we kidding?

Sportsnet channels … now there are a thousand of them, only three of which remain attached to the basic cable package (demanding no extra funding from the viewer) and none of which seem to carry Canuck games on a regular basis. Or any games, for that matter. When we do catch a Vancouver game, the Johns aren’t always calling it. As for the games included in our already exorbitant cable fee, the screen is often so busy with tickertape news items, irrelevant stats and those truly irritating banner ads for cars, restaurants and upcoming broadcast events, that the game is as disrespected as the viewer.

I hate this. I loathe the change, resent the suits responsible, and am powerless to do anything about it. I would stop watching hockey, but I’ve been robbed of that form of protest because I will not pay for games that were once “free” on basic cable.

Only on the Rogers network, you say?

Pity.