Archive for June, 2006
I have to wonder…How can people avoid writing in their blog for days, even weeks on end? I write, I check my stats to see if other people have read, I check to see if people leave comments. Throughout the day, when the spirit moves me, I write in here.
There are people whose blogs I drop by daily in hopes that they have updated because I really enoy reading their entries. Right now I’m into the archives of a lovely woman who lives somewhere on the east coast of the United States in a small town that’s attached to a city. I have no idea where she is, but I love what she writes. I enjoy her flighty entries, her what-the-celebrities-are-up-to entries, and her mommy entries. Being a busy mom she doesn’t blog everyday. She blogs about the books she reads, so there’s another person who is encouraging me, through her own passion for reading, to read more. In this case I’m actually considering going beyond my chosen genre of murder and mayhem and reading other genres.
That’s me, taking a walk on the wild side. Anyway, she’s very much like me and very much unlike me. It’s an interesting combination. I also find that I don’t disagree with her a whole lot, but then in many ways, we share some of political ideas, though I think I’m a tad more left wing than she is.
Anyway, give her blog a try (or not).
That’s my entry for tonight. I have to get into my books and get them read so that I can put them in my bibliography and speak intelligently to them in my paper that I haven’t written yet, but is due on Tuesay.
I wish that people would stop calling children with special needs “broken.” Those children are not broken. They got the shit end of the stick, whether because of an inherited disease, or because of a developmental problem, or problems at birth. They aren’t broken. They aren’t a vase, or a lamp that’s been dropped on the floor. They are human beings who face, or will face, more difficulties than other people. Those difficulties might be with their physical or mental health, or they might be in cognitive development, or in social development. Some will be challenged more than others.
I think that people who consider those children and adults as “broken” are fooling themslves. Those children and their experiences are incredible teachers. Yes, they are gifts, just as any human is a “gift” to another human. They aren’t inanimate objects that a little glue can leave them “as good as new.” For many, there is no glue to make them the ideal, perfect child. The important thing to remember is that they are human. When they are raised with as much love as their parents can give, with care and with hope, then they aren’t broken for their spirits are intact.
Children who are broken are broken by abuse, by war, by poverty and bigotry. They are children who cannot grow into the child they would have because of the actions, whether direct or indirect, by the adults of their world. Broken children have their spirits ripped from them. They see the world as a hopeless place that is filled only with pain and anger. A broken child grows into a broken adult.
As an adult he or she may come to realize the problems and attempt to heal their souls. However, the experiences leave scars, like the calcium scars over bones and on skin, like the seams where a ceramic bowl has been glued back together. The spirit is different and never can never be what “could have been.”
So please, when you talk about children with special needs, don’t call them broken, please. Call them children and love them without condition.
I sit and struggle with this paper. I have the introduction roughed out, but that’s as far as it can go for now. I need sources, more specifically the book the prof wants. However, the university library isn’t open today, so I’ll be making a trip there tomorrow. I’ve read through most of my journal articles, and will reread to glean what I can.
The sale is going well. There’s lots of money for the household fund which will buy my Nizoral shampoo and renew my driver’s licence. I could go and do that today, I suppose, but I don’t feel like it.
I did a hunt through my old wallets today, to sell them, and I found old pictures of Dad and my neices…and my old Bar Card. It was the official picture identification that would allow me to go and drink booze in nay bar in Canada (19 is the upper age limit for most provinces, a few are 18). I looked so very young. Ladyfriend thought it was a highschool ID. I was carded until I started going to bars with Bran when I was 25. After that the only time I was carded was when I was alone. Then there was the time I was carded when I was buying smokes. She cashier carded anyone who, in her words, “Looked younger than her parents.” I think I was quite complimented.
Boy is playing World of Warcraft on his computer. He’s happy with it. From my office his battles sound like a cat hacking up a fur ball…over and over and over again (ad Mom’s nausea).
I guess I should go back to reading. I’m sleepy and want to nap though. Remember if you’re in the market for a drill press for $10.00 or an 8 seat china dinner set (sorry, no bowls) it’s going for $120. There are also a couple of antique chairs and books…lots of books.
I’ve been reading other people’s blogs in Brad of Southern Expressions talks about his bird and his spouse doing housework naked. No, the bird isn’t naked, and Brad notes that his bird makes no more noise whether he’s naked or not. Then there is Shigeki’s most recent blog about sitting cross legged.
All this reminded me of when I had a dog. My dog was a standard, long-hair, black and tan, dachshund. I loved her dearly. She had spirit and a certain dachshund irreverence and disregard for rules and authority that was both annoying and endearing. She was ruled by her stomach and adored my Dad (who fed her cheese when he puppy sat her for me). She had, what in dog stores is called a “Kung,” what i called a “tuglie.” pictured below:
The story that goes with this toy (the one I got for my dog, Watson, was the same colour…or was it blue, I can’t remember). We used to throw it, and being it’s shape, it would bounce around with less predictable a pattern than a football. Add that to an old fashioned 3 foot tall steam radiator and you have a toy that drove Watson nuts, and she loved it.
Anyway, before I lived with Bran, I had a roommate named Kevin. Kevin was a charming man with a delicious sense of humour. He thought Watson was the most interesting dog he’d ever seen and would always say, “Neat!” and then giggle in a way that was extremely infectious. I haven’t heard anyone giggle like him before, nor since. I kind of miss him. As a side story, we were sitting in a bar and a waitress gave him some “Happy Jack” acid. Then in another bar at another time, a waitress gave him some pot. I don’t know what it was about him but waitresses were always giving him drugs. Weird. Oh, if there are any police officers reading, this was in 1984, and Kevin has since moved on, as have I. To continue…
Kevin used to walk around naked. Then I moved in and he started wearing a towel when he came out of the bathroom. It also saved his girlfriend problems because she was very modest for him. Anyway, Kevin came into the livingroom to roll a cigarette before getting dressed to go out for the evening. He was sitting at the edge of the couch, towel wrapped around his waste and knees spread apart. Watson was sitting in front of him and he was chatting to me and giggling (as he frequently did). Then all of a sudden Watson leaped up under the towel and, apparently, took an experimental ummm…mouth of a certain penis.
She didn’t bite down. She didn’t get the chance to. Kevin leapt high up in the air. The look of astonishment, horror and terror was truly hilarious! He leapt up onto the couch grasping his manly bits shrieking, “She bit my dick!” over and over again. His eyes were huge. His girlfriend came running and when I related the story to her, she collapsed in laughter. Kevin was most offended. He pointed at Watson, who was then looking up at Kevin in great wonderment (no doubt amazed at how fast a human can move), and shrieked at his girlfriend, “She bit my dick!” That didn’t improve the laughter problem that she and I were having. We laughed as hard as people who were not born with, and shall never have, penises, can laugh at someone’s near penis misfortune.
He stomped off the couch to go and check things and make sure that everything was intact. It was. He moved so quickly that she wasn’t even able to leave behind any saliva. He quickly dressed and came into the livingroom, glared at our helpless, teary forms on the floor, and started to giggle.
So you see…that’s why men should never buy “kongs” or “tugglies” for their dogs, or never be naked, or never sit with their legs uncrossed. Take your pick.
- I woke up at 8 and 9 am as a couple of people were power stapling some signs to the light pole on the corner (about 30 feet away from my wide open window). It’s really quite a disconcerting noise that isn’t easily recognizable. In fact, if I hadn’t seen the guy walk back to his vehicle with the stapler in his hand, I wouldn’t have known what had disrupted my sleep.
- I had a dream about my former workplace. I used to be a data entry clerk and night program runner (which meant I got the programs ready to go and then left after I filed the invoices – usually about 11 or midnight). However, I was filling in for someone. I took the computer (you know, wireless technology and all) and went to a restaurant where I met up with an old highschool friend who was trying to avoid meeting a former boyfriend that was stalking her. However, he was there. I kept trying to get the data entry done, but people kept interrupting me. I’d have to go and talk to people, I mean I HAD to talk to them. When I’d come back to the keyboard everything would be messed up and I’d have to straighten things up, then I’d have to go again. It went on like that until I was out of time, it was nearly time to start the day’s work and I hadn’t finished the night work yet. I woke up and had to talk myself to sleep again, “I don’t work there anymore.” “She’s married to someone else and doesn’t live here anymore.” Stuff like that.
- I deleted AIM from my computer and downloaded the 95 version instead of the newest one. Something in the newest one refused to work, but the older one worked just fine. I got to spend the afternoon chatting with Vuboq aka Enviroboi while he was bored at work. Thanks, Steven.
- I nagged Enviroboi to get his laptop repaired and get wireless so that he can blog at home (not to mention chat with me when he’s not out playing with his little friends.)
- While I watched, Bran virtually emptied our basement, and carried it out to the driveway to sell. Boy’s made out like a bandit. We have enough that I can renew my licence before Dad comes up (weekend after this one, I changed it because of school). There was fairly brisk trade after people started coming home from work, however, rain interrupted things. Of course, it stopped after everything had been loaded into the shed. The sale continues on tomorrow if you’re in town and know us, come on over and buy stuff. There’s some antiques, a complete 8 seat set of Royal Linten china and much more.
- I helped to fill shed with stuff because there was things like books, electrical things, etc., that needed to be out of the rain lest they be ruined. The last thing I took care of was bringing Ladyfriend’s tv back inside.
- I managed to get some reading done in preparation for my essay, but I do have to go to the library and get a book to read for it.
- I moved my laptop from my desk to my bed and I’m listening to music through my ear buds (or ear bugs, as Boy used to call them long ago).
- I got 78% on my critique. Frankly I’m stunned I got that much. I’m no good at critiques.
That’s about it for excitement here. The sale shall continue tomorrow, I shall scam some bus fare from it and go to the library to hunt up an appropriate book for the essay, and get cracking on my reading and writing of the stupid thing. I hope to get it out of my hair by sometime Sunday night, but will probably be Monday evening before I put the final touches on it.
Just when I thought my day couldn’t get worse, I end up with a hit on my blog from Blog Search. To get to my blog this person had to go through many pages. I’m not going to mention what the search topic was, you can go to the link and find out for yourself. The last think i want is for that string of words on my blog.
Billy of View From the Mantelpiece, asks if a biographer is really a creative writer? I can answer that in one word, “Yes.”
You see, I’ve read many kinds of books. In fact, someday I hope to get back to reading for pleasure. It might take a while after I finish university, but it will happen again. I’ve read fiction and non-fiction. Within the non-fiction category I’ve read case studies (mostly murder and mayhem), how-to books, books about various spiritualities, history and more. Within that category of non-fiction I’ve read biographies.
The best biographies I’ve read were written by men and women who were able to catch a moment and paint it with words. Anyone can write about an event. “I walked from the Health Sciences Building to the Arts Annex.” That gives the facts, but it leaves out the colour. It leaves out the feeling of being a middle aged woman who walks amongst the young. It leaves out the feeling of the sun on my skin, how the air felt, or the freshness of that air after the long rains of late. It leaves out my thoughts as I was walking, what I saw…the bare events are there but the texture and colour of that walk are missing.
The good biographers don’t just chronical the events of a life. It is a sculpture of that life and with life gently breathed into it so that you can, even if for just a moment, feel what it was like to be in the shoes of the person’s life in that time.
There you have it. My opinion in a nutshell.
Yes, in my never ending quest to procrastinate, I have updated my listing of blogs that I read on a daily basis.
Added into a category of mommy type blogs are Wicked Jaw by Nora Charles, The Wright Family Pics and Breeding Imperfection.
The others are not mommy blogs: Southern Expressions, Under Red Light, Downhill All the Way and Center of Gravitas. You don’t know how hard it was to spell centre that way!
This needs to be seen by many. Read down to the quote.