So, it's been a busy weekend for me, despite having it off. Probably the most noticeable casualty of my time off is my hair. Or, what's left of it.
I got it trimmed pretty short, seemings as spring is coming up, and it would not do to go into the season looking like an unkempt Himalayan yeti.
In any event, another bit of news. My paladin is back under my control, but moving him from my brother's account caused him to lose his guild status, so if someone could fix that up, that'd be great.
We have to go roll some more horde. We must.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Waking Up one Morning at a Time
At first, everything was quiet for a time. People chatted, children counted down.
Then, there was a pop, and everyone went silent. Eyes on the skies.
The air crackled and suddenly we felt our lungs explode.
Bright lights and crackling fire.
Firepower not seen since the second world war.
Still awestruck audience.
Broad explosions to clear the mind.
And there it was, as we watched.
The End.
Fireworks, folks. They're my specialty when it comes to hobby photos.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sane?
Today has been one of those days where I swear tomorrow, I'm going to wake up disoriented and in a mental institution. It's been one of those days where I know reality is in the process of forsaking me, and I just can't understand how I've fucked up so badly.
It's like I've been the headless horseman all day, wandering around, mumbling "Where's my head at?"
All the while, I can't seem to bring anything into focus, or develop any kind of priority. My brain's gone into rebellion, warning me that I should take some time to rest before it completely loses its grip.
Of course, naturally, rest later. There's work to do now, and for the next five days. Lord help me, I'm going to break.
It's like I've been the headless horseman all day, wandering around, mumbling "Where's my head at?"
All the while, I can't seem to bring anything into focus, or develop any kind of priority. My brain's gone into rebellion, warning me that I should take some time to rest before it completely loses its grip.
Of course, naturally, rest later. There's work to do now, and for the next five days. Lord help me, I'm going to break.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Bitter Resentment
I've stepped on a ball, and it's starting rolling. I guess the town here has had a bit of a bullying problem, but everyone either has their hands tied, or they're too lazy to do anything about it, so they just sweep it under the rug.
I've been on both sides of the fence. I've been bullied, and I've been the bully, and all I can say is... seriously? You're solution to the problem is to just laugh it off? Maybe that's the problem, is the problem solvers have last all their balls, and the only thing they can come up with to keep from bloody murder happening is to grin and take it on the other cheek.
I didn't. I'm sure it caused my mother no end in grief that I was always getting in scraps at school. Pardon me, but I don't roll over and play dead. The principals I've known were always lecturing me not to "provoke," my attacker. Pardon me twice, but when my mere existence is provocation enough for an altercation, what choice do I have? The mentality that he who punches back is just as guilty as the aggressor is deserving unto itself a swift blow to the teeth.
Children are miserable. That's why I hate them. There are times when I'm ten again, and all I see are these miserable little pieces of shit, playing out their Lord of the Flies drama on the set of the schoolyard, lording over each other like little Hitlers invading their own pint sized Polands.
The girls were the worst. They'd come up and call you bad names, pull your hair, and spit in your face. But since they were girls, you don't dare hit back. They'd do all kinds of miserable and demeaning things to each other and to me. In the hierarchy of the schoolyard, the shy, smart kids were always bottom of the totem pole.
God, how I wished I knew what nuclear bombs and guided missiles were at that point in my life. That's the revenge of the intellectuals. The aggressive stupid children make for excellent brawlers, but nobody knows war... knows intimate suffering, better than a kid who's gone through life ridiculed and bullied for his pursuit of knowledge. Geeks. Nerds. You idiots. You're talking down to the people who, at the pinnacle of their pursuits, could build a device that would well acquaint you with your subatomic particles.
And then, of course, everyone grows up, and everyone forgets. Well, not quite everyone. Going through a virtual young lifetime of bullying, you never forget. You never forget exactly what people tell you. You don't forget faces, or the expressions of hate and disgust they showed. You never forget the names of your suppressors. They bump in to you years down the road and say "Hey man! I haven't seen you in ages! How's it going?" and of course, you can reply with their first, middle and last name, what classes you were in, and in the midst of wanting to rip their lower mandible off, you manage to strike up a quasi-interesting conversation.
Of course, the girls are the worst. They come back years later, and instead of pulling my hair or spitting on me, or writing obscenities on my forehead, they sidle up, comment on how good I look, and wonder what I'm doing on the weekend. Not you, bitch. Not you. How they can so quickly forget; they went from utter revulsion to utter lust compulsion... I just hate them. I'm still that ten-year old kid who's permanently wary of advances, because they're all fake. Illusions and games meant to throw me off guard, so they can pull some practical joke. And then they can all laugh, while inside a little bit of me gets a little bit more twisted up.
See, the years go by, but that shit sticks with you. Instead of a childhood, I had a 24-hour vigil of looking over my shoulder. Instead of laughing and telling jokes, I learned the nuances of sarcasm and became a recluse at an early age, just so I could get away from those rotten kids. I don't forgive that kind of stuff. Kids can be kids, but monsters can be monsters too. And it's not like I had any safe haven to run back to either. Home was just another battlefield, and now that I'm out here, there are times when it almost feels like I've got my guard down enough to relax.
Almost.
So go ahead. Laugh it off, lazy fucks. There's already been death threats and physical altercations. What are you going to say when one of the kids dies or commits suicide? You didn't see it coming? What are you going to tell Johnnie's new wife when she asks why he won't talk about his childhood? That he's quiet and shy? Or are you going to tell her that Johnnie's punishment for doing well in class used to be getting beaten to unconsciousness by all the boys and their belts? What are you going to tell Jill's friends when she has to move to another province to escape the threats on her life?
What are you going to do when Al snaps and comes to school with a chainsaw to settle the score?
Nothing. Because that's all you're good for.
I've been on both sides of the fence. I've been bullied, and I've been the bully, and all I can say is... seriously? You're solution to the problem is to just laugh it off? Maybe that's the problem, is the problem solvers have last all their balls, and the only thing they can come up with to keep from bloody murder happening is to grin and take it on the other cheek.
I didn't. I'm sure it caused my mother no end in grief that I was always getting in scraps at school. Pardon me, but I don't roll over and play dead. The principals I've known were always lecturing me not to "provoke," my attacker. Pardon me twice, but when my mere existence is provocation enough for an altercation, what choice do I have? The mentality that he who punches back is just as guilty as the aggressor is deserving unto itself a swift blow to the teeth.
Children are miserable. That's why I hate them. There are times when I'm ten again, and all I see are these miserable little pieces of shit, playing out their Lord of the Flies drama on the set of the schoolyard, lording over each other like little Hitlers invading their own pint sized Polands.
The girls were the worst. They'd come up and call you bad names, pull your hair, and spit in your face. But since they were girls, you don't dare hit back. They'd do all kinds of miserable and demeaning things to each other and to me. In the hierarchy of the schoolyard, the shy, smart kids were always bottom of the totem pole.
God, how I wished I knew what nuclear bombs and guided missiles were at that point in my life. That's the revenge of the intellectuals. The aggressive stupid children make for excellent brawlers, but nobody knows war... knows intimate suffering, better than a kid who's gone through life ridiculed and bullied for his pursuit of knowledge. Geeks. Nerds. You idiots. You're talking down to the people who, at the pinnacle of their pursuits, could build a device that would well acquaint you with your subatomic particles.
And then, of course, everyone grows up, and everyone forgets. Well, not quite everyone. Going through a virtual young lifetime of bullying, you never forget. You never forget exactly what people tell you. You don't forget faces, or the expressions of hate and disgust they showed. You never forget the names of your suppressors. They bump in to you years down the road and say "Hey man! I haven't seen you in ages! How's it going?" and of course, you can reply with their first, middle and last name, what classes you were in, and in the midst of wanting to rip their lower mandible off, you manage to strike up a quasi-interesting conversation.
Of course, the girls are the worst. They come back years later, and instead of pulling my hair or spitting on me, or writing obscenities on my forehead, they sidle up, comment on how good I look, and wonder what I'm doing on the weekend. Not you, bitch. Not you. How they can so quickly forget; they went from utter revulsion to utter lust compulsion... I just hate them. I'm still that ten-year old kid who's permanently wary of advances, because they're all fake. Illusions and games meant to throw me off guard, so they can pull some practical joke. And then they can all laugh, while inside a little bit of me gets a little bit more twisted up.
See, the years go by, but that shit sticks with you. Instead of a childhood, I had a 24-hour vigil of looking over my shoulder. Instead of laughing and telling jokes, I learned the nuances of sarcasm and became a recluse at an early age, just so I could get away from those rotten kids. I don't forgive that kind of stuff. Kids can be kids, but monsters can be monsters too. And it's not like I had any safe haven to run back to either. Home was just another battlefield, and now that I'm out here, there are times when it almost feels like I've got my guard down enough to relax.
Almost.
So go ahead. Laugh it off, lazy fucks. There's already been death threats and physical altercations. What are you going to say when one of the kids dies or commits suicide? You didn't see it coming? What are you going to tell Johnnie's new wife when she asks why he won't talk about his childhood? That he's quiet and shy? Or are you going to tell her that Johnnie's punishment for doing well in class used to be getting beaten to unconsciousness by all the boys and their belts? What are you going to tell Jill's friends when she has to move to another province to escape the threats on her life?
What are you going to do when Al snaps and comes to school with a chainsaw to settle the score?
Nothing. Because that's all you're good for.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Bed Monk
It's been a long weekend, and I don't mean that in the sense that it was time off. I've been stuck up in this house for what seems like ages, and in between dreams of blind porn stars, I've been trying to do things to pass the time.
The end result: A house that's probably never looked so clean, in terms of dishes and floors. Four pages of writing. Two old games installed on this new computer. Several possible tracks for guitar, but since we didn't get together tonight, I should probably write them down before I forget them over the course of the week.
Yes, I bailed tonight. The roads were shit. The weather was shit. I felt like shit. Getting groceries felt like a trip to the moon without an oxygen tank. My morning exercises felt like I had lead weights for ribs. It feels like somebody's taken a mineshaft drill and put it through where my heart used to be, although rumour is, that's what it feels like after an adrenalin surge. Of course, I'm wondering what could possibly get me riled up enough in this remote corner of the universe to require so much as a drop of adrenalin?
Your guess is as good as mine.
And now, at long last.
The return of the photos. Or rather, photo illustrations for now.
KAAAAAAAAAAAHN!
The end result: A house that's probably never looked so clean, in terms of dishes and floors. Four pages of writing. Two old games installed on this new computer. Several possible tracks for guitar, but since we didn't get together tonight, I should probably write them down before I forget them over the course of the week.
Yes, I bailed tonight. The roads were shit. The weather was shit. I felt like shit. Getting groceries felt like a trip to the moon without an oxygen tank. My morning exercises felt like I had lead weights for ribs. It feels like somebody's taken a mineshaft drill and put it through where my heart used to be, although rumour is, that's what it feels like after an adrenalin surge. Of course, I'm wondering what could possibly get me riled up enough in this remote corner of the universe to require so much as a drop of adrenalin?
Your guess is as good as mine.
And now, at long last.
The return of the photos. Or rather, photo illustrations for now.
KAAAAAAAAAAAHN!
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Real
I'm taking off the mask for a moment.
I feel old. Trying to cope with the amount of information I deal with in a day is taxing. But, I wouldn't do it if I didn't think I could handle it.
I came close to breaking down this week. I'm on the nerve-lines of the world, and this is what it's feeling right now.
Pain.
Torture and death are what are defining us right now. Even here in Canada, bloody murder is being committed, and those committing it aren't feeling what they're doing. Even though I am, from the safety of this room, reading about it on my computer screen, I have a chilling feeling. Tortured and dying, or lying dead.
Why?
To you pundits, you can debate all you like. You can politic this away as a failing of whatever legal system or political party you want to blame. Somebody's lying dead, and even you aren't able to feel the sense of loss that's coming with it.
That was a person. That was somebody's daughter that was raped and murdered on a Stony Plain golf course. That was, in the grand scheme, a contributor to the future. A sliver of hope, snuffed out by the broken and twisted ambitions of some sick counter-culturalist who had a grudge against the living.
Life's fucked up. But that doesn't mean you pick a kid out of a crowd at a shopping mall and decide it's her time to die.
You aren't fucking God.
You aren't fucking anything.
Don't even get me started on the torture that those two parents in England subjected their daughter to.
Christ.
I'm going to go for now.
I feel old. Trying to cope with the amount of information I deal with in a day is taxing. But, I wouldn't do it if I didn't think I could handle it.
I came close to breaking down this week. I'm on the nerve-lines of the world, and this is what it's feeling right now.
Pain.
Torture and death are what are defining us right now. Even here in Canada, bloody murder is being committed, and those committing it aren't feeling what they're doing. Even though I am, from the safety of this room, reading about it on my computer screen, I have a chilling feeling. Tortured and dying, or lying dead.
Why?
To you pundits, you can debate all you like. You can politic this away as a failing of whatever legal system or political party you want to blame. Somebody's lying dead, and even you aren't able to feel the sense of loss that's coming with it.
That was a person. That was somebody's daughter that was raped and murdered on a Stony Plain golf course. That was, in the grand scheme, a contributor to the future. A sliver of hope, snuffed out by the broken and twisted ambitions of some sick counter-culturalist who had a grudge against the living.
Life's fucked up. But that doesn't mean you pick a kid out of a crowd at a shopping mall and decide it's her time to die.
You aren't fucking God.
You aren't fucking anything.
Don't even get me started on the torture that those two parents in England subjected their daughter to.
Christ.
I'm going to go for now.
Coureur des Bois
Looks like I'm stuck up here for my weekend off.
Other than watch curling, I don't know what else I can do for the weekend, besides sit at home and laze around. It's going to be a zoo up here all weekend, so travelling will probably be a hassle.
Maybe I'll take some pictures like I promised I would. Yeah, there's a plan.
Maybe I'll also go and get a Wii while I'm here.
Maybe I should look at places to rent, like I'm supposed to.
Maybe I'll just sit around and write and draw sketches all day.
Other than watch curling, I don't know what else I can do for the weekend, besides sit at home and laze around. It's going to be a zoo up here all weekend, so travelling will probably be a hassle.
Maybe I'll take some pictures like I promised I would. Yeah, there's a plan.
Maybe I'll also go and get a Wii while I'm here.
Maybe I should look at places to rent, like I'm supposed to.
Maybe I'll just sit around and write and draw sketches all day.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Pioneer
Two thousand years ago, humanity went extinct.
I've been on a journey ever since, in a machine unlike anything simple humans minds could even fathom. Between the folds of space and time, like a speck of dust blown along the cosmic winds, I journey now, to discover the last truth left unknown to humankind before the met their inevitable demise.
Are we truly alone in the Universe?
It wasn't a mission so much as it was a desperate legacy. They knew the end was coming, and they saw no way to avert it. The time for last hopes had long since passed, so in a time of crisis, Earth's best and brightest minds were sent into the dark to grope for solutions. I was one. Human once. Computer once. Bionic, Cyborg, whatever you want to call it. I remember being just another scientist, sitting in the lab, when the light finally came on, and the secrets of the human brain revealed themselves to me.
Within a week, I was virtually vivisected, lobotomized, bits and pieces strapped into a supercomputer network. My colleagues flipped a switch, and both the segments of my brain and the computer system booted up. Fusion. Spontaneous. Unexpected. Fusion. Humans have no word in any of their languages for the kind of logic that comes from a computer. The ability to do math and crunch numbers, and through those numbers, see the future... it's lost on us, the impassioned, emotional human. To us it's all hard work and faith and not knowing what to expect. For the computer... it's a lot more clear. For starters, I knew right down to the second, when the end was coming. I could, if I really wanted to, calculate the trajectory of every single atom of flesh and tissue on a person's body as they are vaporized by cosmic forces. I could, if I really wanted to, see where those atomic leavings would end up, and possibly try and follow.
However, doing the math was not something to trivialize. Looking at a chart of constellations, the computer parts of me had already come to a conclusion of which regions of space were most likely to host life.
And so, two thousand years later, I'm a spaceship. You wouldn't believe it if you saw me, hurtling through space, three minute solar panels to keep me powered. If humanity knew their last intelligent legacy held such a tenuous grasp on existence, they probably would have chosen to just go extinct outright. Two thousand years... and it still feels like I've just left. I can still remember Earth, what it looked like. I can remember the Reaches of Sol, and the feeling I got when I broke free of the Sun's gravity, when, for the first time in my life, I felt cosmic dust roll across my metallic skin. To a human, it would feel like a shower in silk.
Drifting through this endless dark advance, there's only two things I really do. I listen, and I watch. It's not lonely out here. The last millennium of radio transmissions is still strong, even this far from Sol. I can hear everything right down to cellular telephone calls. The dramas that Humans had... they weren't aware until the very end what was to befall them. Their destiny wasn't to reach for the stars, but rather to become part of one.
And that will perhaps be a message that I carry onwards, should I ever find life in the Universe. The Universe is a big place, but I have an infinite amount of time to explore it. In a sense, I've become everything that humans ever wanted to be. Timeless. Pioneering. It's just a shame there's none left to see. To hear me when I finally find someone else, and beam my triumphant message back home. Who knows. Maybe by the time I get to wherever it is I'm going, the remains of Earth will have reformed into a planet, and there will be an analogue of humanity there.
Or maybe there will be just dust to answer me when I call.
Perhaps we... I... truly am alone in the Universe.
I've been on a journey ever since, in a machine unlike anything simple humans minds could even fathom. Between the folds of space and time, like a speck of dust blown along the cosmic winds, I journey now, to discover the last truth left unknown to humankind before the met their inevitable demise.
Are we truly alone in the Universe?
It wasn't a mission so much as it was a desperate legacy. They knew the end was coming, and they saw no way to avert it. The time for last hopes had long since passed, so in a time of crisis, Earth's best and brightest minds were sent into the dark to grope for solutions. I was one. Human once. Computer once. Bionic, Cyborg, whatever you want to call it. I remember being just another scientist, sitting in the lab, when the light finally came on, and the secrets of the human brain revealed themselves to me.
Within a week, I was virtually vivisected, lobotomized, bits and pieces strapped into a supercomputer network. My colleagues flipped a switch, and both the segments of my brain and the computer system booted up. Fusion. Spontaneous. Unexpected. Fusion. Humans have no word in any of their languages for the kind of logic that comes from a computer. The ability to do math and crunch numbers, and through those numbers, see the future... it's lost on us, the impassioned, emotional human. To us it's all hard work and faith and not knowing what to expect. For the computer... it's a lot more clear. For starters, I knew right down to the second, when the end was coming. I could, if I really wanted to, calculate the trajectory of every single atom of flesh and tissue on a person's body as they are vaporized by cosmic forces. I could, if I really wanted to, see where those atomic leavings would end up, and possibly try and follow.
However, doing the math was not something to trivialize. Looking at a chart of constellations, the computer parts of me had already come to a conclusion of which regions of space were most likely to host life.
And so, two thousand years later, I'm a spaceship. You wouldn't believe it if you saw me, hurtling through space, three minute solar panels to keep me powered. If humanity knew their last intelligent legacy held such a tenuous grasp on existence, they probably would have chosen to just go extinct outright. Two thousand years... and it still feels like I've just left. I can still remember Earth, what it looked like. I can remember the Reaches of Sol, and the feeling I got when I broke free of the Sun's gravity, when, for the first time in my life, I felt cosmic dust roll across my metallic skin. To a human, it would feel like a shower in silk.
Drifting through this endless dark advance, there's only two things I really do. I listen, and I watch. It's not lonely out here. The last millennium of radio transmissions is still strong, even this far from Sol. I can hear everything right down to cellular telephone calls. The dramas that Humans had... they weren't aware until the very end what was to befall them. Their destiny wasn't to reach for the stars, but rather to become part of one.
And that will perhaps be a message that I carry onwards, should I ever find life in the Universe. The Universe is a big place, but I have an infinite amount of time to explore it. In a sense, I've become everything that humans ever wanted to be. Timeless. Pioneering. It's just a shame there's none left to see. To hear me when I finally find someone else, and beam my triumphant message back home. Who knows. Maybe by the time I get to wherever it is I'm going, the remains of Earth will have reformed into a planet, and there will be an analogue of humanity there.
Or maybe there will be just dust to answer me when I call.
Perhaps we... I... truly am alone in the Universe.
Let's see
Everything's going to be okay.
Things will get better as we go along.
Every cloud has a silver lining.
There's someone for everyone.
Being good is its own reward.
Love conquers all.
I'm fast running out of clichés to strike off my list. Meanwhile, I've been thinking of what to photograph that would be worthwhile to put up here. It's been a pretty dark winter, and there's not a lot in this town that would make a picture that would feel at home on this blog. Actually, there's not a lot here period. My news work takes me to most of the places where anything interesting is happening, and even though I'm technically allowed, I'd rather avoid any wrangling and just keep work and blog materials separate.
For now, anyways.
In any event, this hasn't been a bad week. The weekend's kind of sucked. I've got a bad feeling about the next few months. A bad omen you could say. I'm not saying any more on the subject, because we're all part of it. Time to watch and see, I guess.
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