Sync or Swim

 

Technology bytes. I mean, bites. It wants to be my friend and I’m happy holding it at arm’s length. Like many relationships with promising starts, my relationship with technology has evolved into one of frustrating co-dependence. Sometimes it’s great. Sometimes I feel like I’m being held hostage by Bill Gates.

 

Okay, Bill is not the whole problem. Actually, maybe he is. Three computers dominate my life: my government-issued computer at work, the “big” computer at home, which is hooked into the Internet, and my writing computer, which is hooked into my imagination and kept in isolation from errant viruses and other cyber-borne pathogens. A USB flash drive transports the entire body of my literary work, projects both completed and in progress, between PCs so when some predictably inevitable misfortune occurs, my writing will not be lost forever.

 

My office desktop was new in 2007 and runs Windows Vista (don’t ask). My home computer was new in 2008 and runs Windows 7. My writing computer was bought used a hundred years ago and runs Windows XP. I am by necessity proficient with three different versions of MS Word, though I still lament the demise of Word Perfect as the world’s best word processing software. WP aside, everything was running fairly smoothly until I started an online blog via the Google server. I say “fairly” because the keyboard on the “big” computer has an annoying tendency to ignore certain keystrokes – the question mark, for instance, shows up as É onscreen, quotation marks slant the wrong way, and the @ symbol sometimes refuses to show up at all, which makes it darned difficult to sign into my Google account even though the “big” computer is the only one from which I can post anything. My work computer speaks to the Internet, but it’s rather like speaking Québecois in Paris – the language sounds the same to the uninformed ear, but the Parisian has no idea what the French-Canadian is trying to say. In short, when I log into my email account from the office, I get an error message that my browser is too old to handle the current version of whatever Google is using to power Blogger, so I can forget about setting up a post during a break in my workday ... at least until my employer upgrades to Windows 7.

 

And with the wonky keyboard on the “big” computer, blog content must be written on my XP rig and transferred by flash drive to whichever vehicle will get me to the site with a minimum of cyber-shenanigans. Three computers. Three, when I once swore never to own one.

 

One night I caught a blurb supporting the restoration of classic films to blu-ray so we can all enjoy the oldies as they were meant to be enjoyed. Uh-huh. I said to Ter, “Can we wait for what comes after blu-ray so we only have to upgrade once more?” We finally had to shift our video library from VHS to DVD, yet have so far held out against the blu-ray phenomenon – though I watch with morbid fascination the industry’s push to plant an 80-inch 3-D Smart-TV in the teeny-tiny living room of every crackerbox condo occupied by a victim of technological Attention Deficit Disorder.

 

Despite the rant, I recognize the benefits of technology. Truly, I do. I am grateful for (most of) it every day. Managing the monster is the tricky part, and the monster lies within the operator rather than the machinery. I could succumb to the hype that accompanies every shiny new toy that hits the market. I could spend twenty-five hours a day glued to the monitor and completely ignore the carbon-based unit who shares my living space. I could be more interested in the view halfway around the world instead of the view outside my window … my “real” window, not my digitally-enhanced one. I don’t know that it would enrich my life the way real books and real people and face-to-face conversations do, however. It’s good for keeping in touch with loved ones abroad. It’s been good for my arthritis, given that I used to write my stories in longhand with a Bic ballpoint. It’s even been good for business, though when the network crashes, the whole office shuts down until further notice because no one remembers how we did business without computers. But is it good for us as people? My answer is to get this piece ready for posting, then I’m going to hug my best friend.

 

Oh, heck. I’m going to hug her first.

The Libertine

I watched The Libertine yesterday. Gad, I’d forgotten what a depressing film it is. Brilliant, but depressing. It’s based on the play by Steven Jeffreys about the last few years of John Wilmot’s life (Wilmot being the second Earl of Rochester). I wanted to see it again because it takes place in 1675 and I’m trying to regain a sense of the period with a view to reviving my story of Margaret and King Charles. John Malkovich played a plausible Charles, but the show rightly belonged to Johnny Depp as Rochester.

I don’t remember what I thought the first time I saw it. I do know that I liked it, though I don’t remember why. The period appeals for obvious reasons, and I adore Johnny Depp. When I learned that he was playing the Earl, adding the film to my collection was a no-brainer. He did a fabulous job with the character. I really disliked the rogue … but in the end I felt truly sorry for him. He was a victim of his own intellect, so desensitized by reason that he lost his ability to feel anything except contempt for himself, for his contemporaries, and for life in general. Charles was fond of him, no doubt about it, but the boy was on self-destruct and when that happens, all one can do is step back and start grieving.

It made me reflect once more on the perils of a hyperactive mind. I’m the first to admit I dislike thinking too much. I’m much happier to be doing or dreaming. Thinking, er, well, I’m pretty good at it when I have to be, but when I feel myself sliding into the abyss of harsh judgment and self-doubt, I know I’ve thought too far.

I’ve started reading Antonia Fraser’s bio of Charles II in earnest – I’m at 1648 and counting down to his father’s beheading. History has done him a bit of a disservice by focusing so intently on his love life when his youth was spent being shuffled from place to place while trying to fight a war. How he emerged with grace and humour intact was a testament to something deeper and stronger in his character than a notable affection for women. Maybe if John Wilmot had endured a similarly harsh adolescence, he might have appreciated life a little more – or at least been less miserable in it.

Leggo My Ego

Last week I drafted a post about my ongoing battle with ego.

What began as a dissertation ended up as a diatribe. Surprising? At first, yes. On reflection, I should have seen it coming. Any time my ego is involved, it gets messy. It gets loud. It gets argumentative and angry and defiantly positional. By the end of the piece, ego was firmly at the wheel, driving at breakneck speed for the cliff’s edge and utterly heedless of the damage awaiting it once it hurtled into open space.

Ego works like that. It believes in hurting itself first to save it from being hurt anon. Conversely, it believes in hurting others before they can hurt it. What kind of nonsensical beast is this thing? And why do we give it so much power?

I wish I had the answer. All I have is a theory and a lab experiment with myself as the white rat.

The general consensus among philosophers is that the human condition can be divided into three separate components: body, mind, and spirit. “Body” is fairly obvious, being subject to hard-copy things like biology, environment, pathology, chemicals, and the physical manifestations of mental and emotional stress. “Mind” is the disk operating system which houses both the instinct for survival and the intellect. From what I understand, ego resides in “mind”. “Spirit” is the infinite essence that cannot be seen, but is probably the most important part of our makeup because it’s the one thing we take with us when the compostable container reaches its expiry date. “Spirit” is the life force, the truly eternal part of us that has been and remains the mystery of ages. Many people have devoted lifetimes to its study, trying to pin it down and give it substance and better yet, to figure out where it goes when we die.

Where it goes is less important to me than what it learns while it’s here.

 

One of the bookcases in our house is loaded with the works of Deepak Chopra, Wayne Dyer, Eckhart Tolle and Bruce Weiss (among others), but I let Ter do the heavy lifting. She reads the books, then gives me the highlights. We discuss, and if what I hear makes sense to me, I apply the principle du jour and see what happens. One of the goodies of late has been the subject of ego.

 

I’ve always known that ego is ridiculously fragile. What I never understood was why. How can something so brash and confident and smartypants witty be shattered or enraged by an offhand comment?

I think now that it’s fear.

Ego is always afraid – of loss, of disdain, of criticism, of failure, of disappointment, of poverty, of conflict, of death. Ego is road rage and cyber-bullying. Ego is impatience and intolerance. Ego is excess and extreme, and the misguided notion that the more you have, the more important (therefore the more viable) you are. Ego looks back in anger and forward with anxiety; ego is addiction and frustration, feelings of inadequacy and of superiority. Ego is absolutely the most paradoxical, self-destructive element in the mortal makeup. At its best, it monitors and mobilizes to keep us safe and society running smoothly. At its worst, it will literally kill itself and others merely to make a point.

How do I know all this? I’ve lately been observing my own behaviour. Fortunately, my ego restricts itself pretty much to internal putdowns and shots aimed at my self-esteem. These are designed to keep me static and thus spare my ego the risk of ridicule or a face plant – or success, for that matter. Better to be safe than sorry, right? At least it has never committed wilful acts of violence just to prove a point. I have been known, however, to raise my voice when my point (therefore my ego) is being challenged. I do, occasionally, lash out in reflexive anger at someone who does something I judge to be stupid, dangerous, or just plain inconsiderate. I also, on occasion, take it out on friends and family members, but I usually realize the error of my ways and apologize … though that may have more to do with being Canadian than being enlightened. Oh, and about being enlightened? Ego will proudly announce to the world that “I Am Enlightened” and expect some sort of awestruck adulation from those it deems to be less so. I don’t consider myself to be more enlightened than anyone else. I’m still learning. We are all still learning. I reckon when we’ve learned it all, we’ll be done with this gig and I’m not there yet.

Nowhere near, in fact.

My intention is for Comfortable Rebellion to be a welcoming place of creativity, positive energy, and Ru-mination. It may be argued that ego prompted me to start the blog and that’s fine. It’s not the truth, but I won’t belabour it. We are each free to think and believe as we will, with no undue pressure to accept the opposing view of another. I am more aware of this now than ever – so much so that when considering which photo to match with this post, I remembered the chalked message I had seen and snapped on a morning flânerie some weeks ago:

“FIND FREEDOM”

Freedom from ego, and from the fear that drives it, is a darned good place to start.

With love,

Auto Biography IV

“Blue Thunder”

 



I bought my first car two days before moving out of my parents’ house. It was a 1974 Dodge Dart Swinger, 2 door, slant 6, blue with a white vinyl top, and a hole in the muffler. When I started it up, it sounded like a Sea King helicopter, and since I had just seen the movie “Blue Thunder” (about a stealth police chopper by the same name), the car was aptly christened. It cost $1500 and took me two years to pay off.

I loved that old junker. I must have done: twenty-five years and three vehicles later, I discovered the license plate in a box of mementoes I’d forgotten I had.

For three years (though it seemed longer), Thunder got me to and from work. It taxied my friends and me to/from church, town, and all over the darned place when gas was 42 cents a litre and my bi-weekly take home was $428. It was a big blue boat of a vehicle that was hit twice in the rear (took it well both times) and almost—almost—displayed a Duran Duran sticker on its back bumper.

I still have the bumper sticker.

The radiator blew up and the muffler finally fell off, the paint was oxidized and bubbling with rust, but Thunder was mine. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the car of my dreams. It was my first important purchase. It was my independence, a step toward starting my life as myself; not as my parents’ daughter or my siblings’ sister, but as me, as Ruth, as – gods help us all – an adult. It wasn’t the shiniest symbol of my emergence from the family cocoon, but with that hoarse rumbling cough, it was certainly the loudest.

I wonder why that seemed appropriate?

the rear view, sans DD bumper sticker!

Slipping Into Fiction

The problem with a long weekend is its inevitable end. I got so much writing done over the past three days that this morning I’m finding reality an uncomfortably tight fit. What do I do for a living again? And do I care? I should, but let’s just say I’m exceptionally grateful that I only have three days at the office before I get another three days off. I think I can fake it to Friday.

I’ve been all over the space/time continuum, that’s for sure. Present day angels, 17^th century paragons, my imaginary lovers in Castasia ... I even got some historical blog stuff written, though I forgot my flash drive at home so the post intended for today will go up tomorrow instead.

My reality is surreality.

I worked with Cristal all day Sunday. The story is slow, but at least it’s progressing. I actually over-wrote in that I pushed past my fatigue at the end of the day and wound up finishing at a less than satisfactory point. Having thought about it, I’ll be rolling back and rerouting the scene, most of which is salvageable though I see where I stumbled. I’ve also noticed a few Lincoln Navigators in the ’hood since I started writing this story – have they always been there, or have I dreamed them into being by putting one in Cristal’s parking space?

I’m also resisting the impulse to plunge headlong into my old affair with King Charles – without much success. Though I’m engrossed in the “Weather Warden” series by Rachel Caine, yesterday I pulled Antonia Fraser’s biography of Charles II off the shelf and apparently intend on reading it again. I have to, in fact. “A Royal Encounter” is just too good to let lie, but wouldn’t you know, the next scene ended abruptly and I mean abruptly. Fifteen years ago, I quit writing a scene in the middle of a sentence! Who quits in the middle of a sentence?? Having no idea where the character was going with his observation (and it wasn’t the King, by the way), I must now delve back into the time and see what the heck he could have been about to say. There might be a slight roll back in that scene, as well, though it reads smoothly right up to the thought falling off the page. Mostly I think I want to be in love and I’m pretty deep into it with Old Rowley.

As if that wasn’t enough creativity, I also resumed work on the novel! A cup of Persian Apple tea got me into Jannika’s head and pushed me back to the scene where I left her, and darned if I didn’t get us both out of the mire by the end of the day! Joe Elliott’s birthday probably kicked that one into gear. Lucius is going to be her father-in-law (is that a spoiler?) and she’s finding him easier to comprehend than his eldest son. I thought this romance would be easy. Roll your eyes here.

So, with Right Brain fully in charge, I’m looking at a pile of invoices and wondering what I’m supposed to do with them ... is it Friday yet?

To Be Discontinued

The definition of “limited edition” or “seasonal selection” does not escape me. If I take a liking to, say, the Body Shop’s brandied apple bath gel (available only at Christmas ... once ... a long time ago), then I must also accept that it won’t be a staple in their regular lineup. It may not even return the following year (which it didn’t). I’m a big girl; I can deal with that ... but please don’t mess with my tea.

In the spring of 2012, David’s Tea introduced a flavoured green tea called Persian Apple (PA). I loved it on first sip, so much, in fact, that it’s become my writing tea for a new character. I drink a lot of it because she figures prominently in a novel rather than a short story, and the flavour hints at both her exotic past and the regulation dark secret that could destroy her budding romance with the hero.

Anyway, to sustain my inspiration, I recently decided to boost my supply to a refillable 100 gram tin. I waited a bit because of funding, but when I had the cash a few months ago, I took my empty to the downtown store and proudly presented it for refilling. The clerk’s bright smile dimmed and my eyes immediately narrowed.

“Don’t you dare,” I growled. “Don’t you dare tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”

Wincing, she confessed that it was being discontinued. Then she hastily added, “I think it’s still available online.” Without waiting for me to ask (or explode), she zipped to the computer and looked it up. “Yes,” she said, obviously relieved, “you can still get it online.”

I know. I should have been more gracious, but besides the fact that I wanted it now, I was faced with yet another favourite going by the wayside. So I sort of behaved badly by erupting with my “for crying out loud” speech. The next thing I knew, she was trying desperately to appease me by offering a dozen other options, none of which remotely resembled the one I wanted. I mean, how does Merry Cranberry compare to Persian Apple? Worse, when I asked her if it was a seasonal flavour and she said it was, I gave her the look and said, “Don’t show me seasonal flavours; this is why we’re having this conversation!”

Poor girl. The same thing had happened at the Uptown shop the year before with their strawberry-ginger herbal – I’d gone in happily anticipating a tin of my new fave only to discover it was gone forever. You can’t even get it online anymore. I did order more PA online, and another 250 grams of it arrived this week, so I’m hoping it will be enough to last me to the end of my novel. I had an emergency backup flavour for Jannika as well, but it’s (you guessed it) been discontinued and is unavailable online.

The moral of the story? Don’t get too attached. Stock up while you can. Appreciate what you have while you have it because it could be gone tomorrow ... and when presented that way, it applies to more than tea, so this post is less about whining than it is about being grateful! Nice recovery, Ru!

Long Live the King!



His Royal Leppardness

He walks in the snow before me. Ivory-coloured tents mark his path on either side as he strides their long corridor, deep in thought. It is past dusk. He looks toward the trees, the sky a deepening pink and orange, as night falls on the encampment. Yes, an encampment. I walk behind him as a spectre who haunts another’s step, seen yet unseen.

His cloak sways languorously about his shoulders and the length of his body as he takes each masterful step. The collar of the cloak is trimmed with fur and long blond hair flows in lazy waves to the middle of his shoulder blades. His step is quiet, a mere breath upon the frozen landscape.

Suddenly, he stops. He turns his head as if he senses a presence. He turns his head a little more to the left and sets his jaw deeper into his cloak. His eyes are the only things that move as he surveys the emptiness, trying to sense something – or someone. I am quiet, a mere spectator. I wonder if it is me he senses. I lose myself in his face: the length of golden hair, the strong nose, and those eyes; those beautiful green eyes that shine like jewels and bring lesser mortals to their knees with one brief encounter. In this moment, they become mere slits as they quietly survey his surroundings, trying to detect the source of his distraction. He is still, then he moves again. He is satisfied that the source of his distraction will cause him no harm.

I am peaceful here, watching him, yet I must go. I have been fortunate to have this chance again. It has been a long time. It has been too long. I must come again. 

 

* * *

I did not write this piece. I did a little editing, but the bulk of it, the true content, belongs to Ter. She consented to me posting it here, in celebration of today’s dual birthday. The man in this scene is Lucius Aurelius, also known as Irfe’s Luko, a character so complex that it’s easier to get under his skin than inside his head and believe me, you do not want to get under his skin.

 

Lucius was inspired – as so many of my heroes are inspired – by a rock star. Yep, this imagined child belongs to Joe Elliott, the green-eyed god front man of Def Leppard. Lucius was “born” in the spring of 2002, when Ter had a revelation while watching Joe work the arena in the Leps’ In the Round, In Your Face concert DVD. A diehard Joe fan for years, she envisioned a character possessed of his passion and presence, and asked me to write a story about him.

 

Eleven years and 6.5 novels later, Lucius is still going strong. So, I believe, is his birth father, though in truth it’s been some years since we attended a Lep gig. For one thing, the band rarely comes north of the US border these days, and when they do, they play pretty much the same set list every time. When last we saw Papa Joe, Songs from the Sparkle Lounge had just been released and the band was still playing songs off the greatest hits package from two years earlier. Or twenty years earlier, since most of the tunes were hits in the late 1980s.

 

But enough whining about what I cannot change. This is a day of celebration, of recognizing the icon who sired a hero and the hero who spawned a whole new fictional world. The man born on August 1, 1959, set the tone for the biggest, most powerful, most fearsome, most complicated and ultimately the most respected character (by me, anyway) in my cast of thousands. I don’t know how alike father and son may be in nature, but one thing is indisputable – they are both lions.

 

Hear them roar!