Bonus points if’n you get the quote in the title.

Just a short line to remind you to take your own moment of silence today, Remembrance Day, and reflect on the lives that were cut short at some point. When I was a little girl, there was a project I had to do for school which had me interviewing both my Grandfathers on cassette tape about their individual experiences during WWII. One had the full-on harrowing experience, having to endure two weeks in a foxhole and coming out of the whole thing with shrapnel in his knee. The emotional consequences of which I only learned of later on, when I was old enough to know it. The other, too young to fight at the time, still did his part at home — never questioning whether he would do it or not.

It is a different day and age, of course, and — while I would be mad at anyone I knew who decided to join — I have always been a staunch supporter of troops. We have heard some very nasty and negative stories about them in the past few years, but it’s unlikely they were like that when they first enlisted. None of us can know what it must be like to be there, unless we are there ourselves. I have a young family member by marriage in Afghanistan right now. I think about him at least once a day and send out positive energy, thanking him for being brave enough to put his life behind my own in priority.

So, bow your head, say a prayer if that’s your deal or just go have coffee on your own and send your own positive energy out into the ether for Remembrance of Things Past.

I don’t have a lot of time these days. The child that nature and mitochondria have seen fit to give me is vocal, active and has a very passionate personality. She tires of things easily, and needs to be shown ‘new’ (she has the memory of ten goldfish, so I can show her stuff she’s seen before a couple hours later) things every ten minutes or so. Though she sleeps through the night for 12 hours, give or take — with only two five minute wakeups, she isn’t into napping longer than 15 to 20 minutes. Gone are the minutes I used to dedicate to free form, stream of consciousness creation. So long, crossword puzzles! auf Wiedersehen, pastels and pencil crayons! Bonjour, sour-smelling puke patrol! Allo there, high-pitched baby voiced questionnaires.

Anyway, I would like to roll ahead with writing about the spawn because that’s what we do these days, is it not? Blog away about life for others to read and, hopefully, turn it into a book or something. The best I can do is a daily video snippet, but I need a better camera. I’m looking into domain space and figuring out content that people might give a s*** about, in efforts to keep my brain working. I cannot deny that my spelling scores have dipped from 110% to a dismal 95%, these days.

In the meantime, apple-cranberry crisp for breakfast? Thanks, breastfeeding, you’re the best. No, really.

So. This blog entry will be all over the place, since its been awhile

It’s a hot topic, a hot lot, a hot load of -insert expletive statement of your choice here-. The pandemic flu. There’s some kind of ailment like this every year and, as the media tightens its grip on a populace dependent on technology to get through the minutia of their day, our own grip on reality loosens. Gone are the days of relying solely on the opinion you formulate for yourself. Relying on your gut is no longer an option — that sushi you ate from the supermarket is likely carrying MRSA and H1N1. Remember H5N1? No? Look it up. How about anthrax? Wait, how about H1N1 part 1 — in the 1970’s?

The incantation ‘Roll up your sleeve’ rolls around every once in awhile and usually, we obey. This is because as recently as 50 years ago, children were still suffering from polio, surviving meningitis but left in a vegetative state and dying from the measles. Vaccination is humankind’s greatest medical achievement. We have, for the moment, found a way to cheat death. Avoiding the flu today may land you at the bottom of a tsunami tomorrow, though, so tread carefully. In Western culture, the notion of death is equated quite simply with terror. We have built up our wall of e-toys and money so very high, and surrounded it all with medical science — all in an effort to reassure ourselves that we have all the power.

But disease is responsible for evolutionary advancement and for population control. It has brought us to the place we are today, not thinking twice about culling the herd. I have to consider that carefully, as Medicine was just recently responsible for saving the life of my child. I think. I feel that as a society, we are wholly uninformed on much of our lives and how we live them. Why is it necessary that only those in the medical profession should have all the knowledge? And when did the adage ‘knowledge is power’ change over to ‘money is power’? How many children can tell you who Marie Curie is; what she did or how she died compared to who Paris Hilton is — and why she went to jail?

The Fear is pervasive and all encompassing. It keeps us attached to the media, relying on their final word; keeps the self esteem of a woman in the gutter, so she will purchase products to better herself; keeps parents in the dark, so they will dutifully vaccinate their children against something that has yet to be proven successful — in fact, whose predecessor was so faulty, it killed and paralyzed its receptacles instead of saving them. Now that I have my own spawn, I can’t afford to be afraid anymore. Some new parents talk about how there are new fears they never had before but, for me, the experience has made me more aware. It has also completely changed my perspective on death. I am far more interested in protecting my own life for the sake of my daughter’s — which means I no longer want anyone else to make decisions for me. Including Medicine and the Media.

I don’t want to babble about this all day. There are tonnes of resources out there pertaining specifically to H1N1, and I encourage you to seek the facts for yourself. Don’t restrict yourself to the internet. Force your doctor to tell you what they know; read papers of both Liberal and Conservative persuasions and talk to nurses. Put together an actual opinion with your own wits, cough into your sleeve and rejoin the human race. I look forward to seeing you there.

p.s. more on Medicine saving my kid soon.

i was a leaf,
afloat, on the
river –

brushing up
against
the other
debris around

me.

but you were
a dam, wrought
tight –

limbs with
anvil weight
locking before

me.

and i was
a leaf, pressed
close –

the river
churning, surging
disintegrating

me.

so now i
am the river,
the river –
and the leaf.

bathing and
seeping and
becoming woven
within

you.

Sadly for my writing, I find myself less enraged, irked, annoyed or otherwise perturbed these days. It’s because I have taken on the overwhelmingly immense task of taking procreation ‘to term’ and positive energy is a good idea for things directly dependent on you for life. A regular woman would probably make an “I guess my husband helped too” joke here, but that would be a mistake, as my particular partner is out west killing himself for our benefit. Either way, we’re both suffering for a good reason. I believe that because my hormones tell me to, thus preventing me from eating my young.

Pregnancy is a rite of passage meant to wear you into the ground. It reconstructs the body, the relationship, the mind by carefully torturing each in new and fascinating ways. You and your other half surely never thought you would find yourselves here, just taking it. At the end, you have a new job for the rest of your life and I imagine it’s then you realize why the growing process is so agonizing: because it’s a growth spurt. One of your very last.

Anyway, nevermind my pregnancy right now. I’m here to talk about the horror show that is the Gosselin family. I’ve never watched their show, nor was I even aware of them as recognizable people, other than the female popped out a litter of six. They went for fertility ‘therapy’ and the resulting masses that piled out of her womb were put to work in a reality show called, ‘Jon and Kate, Plus Eight’ which airs on TLC. You know what else airs on TLC? Surgery. It is also a bloody mess that some people just can’t turn away from.

Since I’m knocked up now, I get to have an opinion on this fertility therapy craze. I like to read a lot of period identifiable fiction where things like not being able to get pregnant was called ‘barren’, and you likely lived out the rest of your marriage in misery — but without eight children! These people already had two daughters and yet, still sought out fertility options? In China, where you only get one baby (the emotional consequence of which leads to terrifying actions, and makes overpopulation sound worse than peak water), this show must bewilder them. It sure confuses the f*** out of me. Why would anyone who has a child already be allowed to seek this option? YOU ALREADY GOT ONE.

Sexagenarians are deciding to have babies now, the latest being a 66 year old in England. There should be a sign on the clinic door: “If you are over 45, you have missed this boat!” This level of biological tampering is unnecessary, and revolting. It indicates that our self-involved, over-indulged, over-stimulated society has finally puffed up our ‘me first, me too’ attitudes to the point where we’re certain we deserve to overturn nature. What does it know, anyway?

Most fertility problems stem from being flooded with chemicals (see: The Disappearing Male, CBC Doc Zone site), being malnourished because our current ideal of beauty is 15 lbs. underweight or binging on fried foods, nicotine and alcohol. All are the responsibility of the patient! Anyway, this Gosselin woman, who is a neat freak perfectionist ” feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.” Oh no she didn’t. The statement itself should be exhibit A in the case to abolish fertility treatments until we get our act together.

That sentiment is so enraging to me, I don’t even see the need to explain why. They did this when Jon was unemployed. With each treatment priced at around $25k, the decision was clearly an investment. She whores out these kids, tacks her husband’s testicles to their marital door and she wants the public to believe she didn’t plan it that way? Poor Octomom. She is not nearly as crazy as Kate Gosselin — the mother who engineered her pregnancy to lead the way to fame and fortune.

First, the news that brought this babble on: Climate change responsible for increasing ‘dead zones’ in oceans.

learn something.

So I was a trekkie. I know that the new, politically-correct term is ‘trekkor’, but that sounds like a stupid invention of the MMO playing populace. You know, like ‘pr0n’ ‘r0xor’ or ‘zerg’. Seriously, guys, when you brought zerg out, you lost every real female actually playing along with you.

Being a trekkie meant watching a lot of Star Trek. I watched it when it was on, when it was repeated, when it was syndicated. I pouted when TNG was cancelled and swore up and down I’d never give DS9 a chance, no way, no how. But, since I was 13 when it came out and could recognize formulaic plot by then, I caved. I watched ‘em all in the end, and then bought the DVDs in college.

Anyway. There’s this one episode where Jean-Luc and his intrepid Enterprisers are trying to save this planet’s atmosphere from completely dissolving. They have polluted their planet to the point of extinction; its people have to use respirator thingers and the world president dude (because even if they’re stupid, they’re still civilized and civilized people have world governing bodies) is all confused about what happened.

I guess the real predecessor to that storyline is from SpaceBalls, Scroob n’ canned air. But they both were publicly consumed within a couple years of each other in the EIGHTIES. In the eighties, TV really knew everything and couldn’t be bothered to lie. It couldn’t even be bothered to spend more money on animation technique beyond 2d cels because KIDS DON’T CARE. So, in the 80’s I learned from Star Trek that if you don’t take care of your fucking planet, your atmosphere dissolves and you have to be embarrassed in front of Patrick Stewart because you’re not an evolved baldie with a penchant for extraterrestrial archaeology and earl grey tea hot, you’re just a savage who can’t wake up and smell the sulfites.

There’s a big sub-blog in here about the direction your parents took in the 80’s; yuppie versus hippie, and how, perhaps, the hippies are proving to be the tortoises in the race for ‘who knows best’. But I know your attention span is limited because you probably learned stuff from TV in the 80’s too. It’s cool.

How far reaching is your memory? Do you remember the womb and the comfortable, claustrophobic cocoon that would slowly tilt and sway, vibrate and sing you to sleep? I mean, discount all the blood and spongy tissue, weird veiny things and complete darkness, and it sounds like a place I would try to return to.* Luckily, I don’t remember that place and you probably don’t either.

I find my memory to be a cautious place, housing millions, each one delicately crafted; never changing, always remembering the rhythm, the time and step to complete each vignette. Yes, sometimes there is singing. (but never really Fosse) In new situations, I remain quiet and instead have to observe everything around me. It’s a matter of comfort over scrutiny. I think it’s necessary to have a solid recollection of past events. What happens to you in life shapes you into the person you are today.

Now, I take into account that certain memories — negative, frightening or uncomfortable ones — will forever be coloured by my perception of them at the time. But luckily, I find hindsight to be more than just 20/20. Adding sporadic meditation to observation has made me feel pretty humble lately. If anyone were to ask for an apology for anything; spilled milk, broken heart, standing on the wrong side of me — well, I’d give it to them.

Anyway, there is no mist in my memory for now. The whole point to this prattle is that I had anchovies yesterday, for which I traveled to the Far East of the city to purchase. I wanted a fish I could consume on a twice a week basis that wasn’t laden with mercury or some other nasty, human thing.

I chose the anchovy because I remembered eating them on toast at a brunch at Sutton Place somewhere around the nine year old parasite mark. They were salty and spikey, smooth and almost creamy (but not in a mousse way, bleh) and I ate five of them before someone told me what they were; at which point, the memory fades away. It seems to me I enjoyed them, though, ‘cos I ate mussels.

I’ve got my own parasite in mid development, actually, it seems like everyone does. Nothing to do during the recession but make babies? Apparently she can taste things, so-says-science. So I’m eating all sorts of nonsense: anchovies, mangoes, wheatgrass shots, macaroni and cheese, IHOP pancakes, rice milk smoothies, kale and apple and ginger juice, burgers, olives. Nevermind that everything makes me gag immediately — I get around it eventually.

I’m loathe to say it’s an experiment, but it probably is. That’s how I approach ideas — forever wishing I had a lab coat (which I do not). Since I’m keeping a journal about the pregnancy for her, I imagine that will stretch into years of journal keeping. I worry that when I want to give them to her, she will look at them and say, ‘Sooo, what? I’m like your gorilla and you’re Dian Fossey?’ Or maybe she will get my intent: to show her how vulnerable her parents were, once, before they had to figure out how to keep her safe and fed and educated and happy and fulfilled and challenged ALL THE TIME for the rest of their lives. A sacrifice I seemed to have no trouble making; an unknown I find I’m willingly being pulled toward.

Life is meant to be a series of challenges faced and conquered or bested by, rather than an efficient stream of distractions. I mean, I’ve finally reached the age where I can admit I like anchovies.

*Why do they show the womb environment as a peachy globe all mapped out in veiny-ness? As if they’ve shoved little lighting guys in there..?

see the trees,
their barren
arms stretching
upward,
lonely fingers spread
apart,

revealing the
pale grey sky –
which smells
suspiciously,
pervasively,
of dewy rain
musk.

muted blues
and heathers dapple
the asphalt

and

also the
clothes of
of post-adolescent
painted ponies;

my own brown
leather
boots fraying
and cracking
like
newly visible
ice-heaves left

behind.

after the thaw.

the rain smell
is deep
and i can
feel its strength
lean into me –

its hefty
intentions
rest upon my
sloping shoulders,

pinning me
fast to the season –

a premature bloom.

talking to myself
has always come
easy, as none
of you will

ever

come close
to knowing
the heart of
the matter.

as the seconds,
minutes,
days and hours,
months, years
and decades

pretend to
meander by
(their tired
motion backdrops
painfully
obvious)

the mutterings
grow louder,
calling out
from my lips
with
careless
crescendoes

which flee fast
to bounce
and to echo
off the walls

i have built.

surrounded
am i,
within the
citadel of
sound

and sarcasm;
insulated to
death;
growing colder
by

the faux
second, minute,
hour, day, year
decade of
decay and
decadence.

and, finally,

assured of
my ascent
into an
auspicious
heaven of

self-talkers.

Stay Tuned:

I have to go bake cookies and brownies and pies and things imminently, but my fingers have an itch they’ll be scratching after work. Up for the scratch n’ sniff:

The strange celebrity ribbon this latest election was nearly hung by.

While today is clearly an historic day in the long, arduous journey from slavery to the whitehouse, we should be more grateful that the most qualified for the job was voted in this time. The. Most. Qualified.

McCain lost Ohio. Republicans don’t lose Ohio. As Jon Stewart said, ‘No Republican has ever won the whitehouse without Ohio… or oxygen.’

The ‘black’ talk has already settled in, beginning this morning between some random dude in Tenessee and the always amusingly vapid Seamus O’Reagan.

Record voter numbers had people lining up for hours out doors, around corners and down blocks. I am still up in the air on whether that was due to true world interest, or a free scoop from Ben & Jerry’s, a free doughnut from Krispy Kreme or a free cup of coffee from Starbucks. Brand your vote with an old fashioned glazed?

And a myriad of other essayable tidbits plaguing me throughout this entire process. If McCain had won, you might have been reading this from a signal hobbled together with tin cans and radio waves out of China.

I hope everyone else will take a break from their blogging slumber and toss in their two cents about ‘change’.