centre of the universe - the dreaming

Karl Marx is the author of a very famous quote. More the the point, many people know a small portion of the quote. The part you'll remember is: "Religion is the opium of the people". Some folks use this as an argument against organised religion, when what Marx was trying to say with that teeny tiny passage from a much, much larger idea has more to do with economic and political stresses. Marx was no great lover of religion, but had Marx really wanted to come down on religion, he was more than capable of doing so with something much stronger than this gentle comparison.

'Gentle'?

Yes. Opium has a distinct purpose. When someone who is in pain has been administered opium in any of its derivatives, their pain is eased. This is the simile Marx evoked. Certainly, he also went on to say many things about religion being, like opium, a somewhat topical solution. Administering opium to a patient in pain doesn't cure the underlying condition; it merely treats discomfort in the short-term. So too does religion, he argues, soothe those living with economic and political discomfort, but it does not solve the underlying economic and political issues which brought the people to that point.

There's no denying that Marx had very strong opinions on religion and atheism, but I don't think this one portion of a quotation is "proof" that he was an atheist, nor do I think this particular quote ought to be used by atheists, ever, to bolster or support their position. 

Um. Okay, I didn't mean to make a post about Marx. Because extending the simile, someone claimed that if Marx were alive today, he would say that television is the opiate of the masses. I think that's giving rather a lot of credit to the boob tube, particularly since every culture in the world has a form of religion or religious/spiritual worship, but not every culture in the world has television. I mean, okay, taken in the context in which it was meant, it's pithy; I'll give you that.

Marx, however, thought "bigger" than that. Television is an easy target, and I don't think he would have cast his net in such shallow water. My guess is that Marx would have said that *marketing* or spin is the opium of the masses, were he alive today. Consumerism is the opium of the people now. Buy, buy, buy, and you will be happy. You will forget your problems if you get the new dust mop, the latest car, or the new paint for your kitchen. You can SPEND YOUR WAY OUT OF DEBT.

I wish Marx WERE still alive. He would have some fairly strong words for current administration, I think.

ANYWAY. None of that is the reason I'm posting today. Of course, now I can't *remember* why I'm posting today...OH YEAH.

SPEAKING OF BEING A DRUGGED-OUT JUNKIE (we were talking about opium, right? M'kay. Just making sure you're still with me here), please review the following:
You can download this fine poster from http://iampaddy.com/spell/. I encourage you to do so.

This handy guide will lead you to be a more efficient communicator. A stronger speller. A better person. Chicks dig proper spelling. DUDES dig proper spelling. Seriously, if you want to get laid, start using words properly. In particular, I want to shout rather loudly about the "your/you're" conundrum. And what a conundrum it is!

It seems a good 60% of people who claim they can read and write actually can't!

Look. I want you to refresh yourself on contraptions. I mean, contractions. You know, when a little word like "are" has the leading 'a' slashed with a spelling machete. That little machete hangs above where the 'a' USED to be, showing the place where a machete tore out an 'a'. That's so that you know that when you come back to survey the damage, you remember there's actually a poor letter missing.

So: 'You are' is walking down a lovely street on a spring evening, and all of a sudden, the nefarious contraction stabber LEAPS OUT OF A SHRUBBERY and wields his or her heavy machete, cutting the 'a' out in its prime. **WE ALL MOURN THE 'A'**. 'You are' has now become 'You're' (see that machete hanging there, as if nothing happened!), and it's trying to get on with its life, without its beloved 'a'. It's sad, really. But that's the way it happens.

BEHOLD THE CONTRACTION. Learn it, love it, remember it.

One that isn't on this list but ought to be is "Loose/Lose".

Two 'o's went walking. They were in love; they were moony-eyed over one another. They held hands on the wharf. But a gust of wind came up off the water and knocked one 'o' off its feet. Being as their hands were wet, their grip was LOOSE and one of the 'o's slid, shloop, into the deep. Had poor 'o' been wearing gloves, its hand would not have come LOOSE.

LOOSE is an adjective. It tells you about the state of something (the doorknob is LOOSE).

LOSE is a verb. It does things. It DECLINES - Lose, lost, losing, etc.. It is the verb tense of "loss".

They don't even rhyme. LOOSE...you see how many 'o's there are there? See them staring at you? Ooooooo. Loooooooooos. Loooooooooooooooos!

Here's the reason they don't rhyme: In English (keep in mind that in English, there are rules that break other rules), when you have a vowel in the middle of a word, and an 'e' on the end of the word, the 'e' at the end of the word modifies the sound of the vowel in the middle. Remember the Electric Company's "Silent E" song?





Terminal 'e' turns "fat" into "fate", you see. It turns "Loss" into "Lose".

In the case of 'loose', the terminal 'e' makes the 'oo' in the middle there say 'oo' rather than 'uh'. Check it out:
Book - /b/uh/k/
Goose - /g/ oo /s/

Look - /l/ uh /k/
Loose - /l/ oo /z/

(in advanced terms, the vowel sounds are also influenced by the presence of a specific kind of consonant after the double vowel, but let's not get into that right now).

So. If you have experienced a LOSS (poor 'o', drowning out in the briny deep), use "lose". If you have experienced WIGGLINESS, use 'loose'.

And let's just leave Karl Marx out of the equation for now.

Labels: Bad Mojo, grammar, rants, spelling

Our national anthem. "O Canada", in case you'd forgotten. It's supposed to be a MARCH. That means cut time (or, for the un-musically trained, one-half of common time, otherwise known as four-four time). NOBODY does it right. They're all, "Oh, Canada. It's a freakin' DIRGE, man. A DIRGE. It's like, a funeral song for all those dead British white guys."

Except for this one guy who just sang it. He's bald, but he got it right. It would have been a *very slow* march, but a march nonetheless. Maybe a march for a company of drunks. That sounds about right.

Second. Say this with me, will you? Feb-ROO-ary. February. Feb-ROO-ary. February. It's not "Feb-YOO-ary". I swear to God, every single person who says FebYOOary...I'm'a rip out your uvula. Jerkfaces.

For now, that is all.

1) It's a MARCH.
2) It's a Feb-ROO-ary.

Carry on.

Labels: rants

Because now that it's officially Saturday, last night is actually Friday night, and I really mean Thursday night.

Anyway, you know how I have really vivid dreams? And you know how I often remember my dreams? And you know how sometimes when I tell you about my dreams, you don't know if they're real stories or not?

Last night (and remember, I mean THURSDAY night) I dreamt, in vivid detail, about...okay, wait. I don't want to rush into this. You might not be ready for this. It's not about the way I feel about you; it's about commitment. If we rush it, we might wreck a good thing. And that's what we have now; a good thing.

Have I told you about The Sandwich yet? I haven't? Well, this is a good time to talk about The Sandwich. I, um, invented The Sandwich. It is the best Sandwich ever invented since the beginning of man. For all you evolutionists out there, that can be translated as: it is the best Sandwich ever invented since the beginning of mammals. This is how it happened (and i'm pretty sure this story itself will somehow be enshrined on a brass plaque above a holographic image of The Sandwich. You wouldn't want The Sandwich sitting on a plinth for decades on end, because it might get a little manky.

Anyhow, enough about manky plinths.

The Sandwich is made thus:
Tuna
Yoghurt or Sour Cream + a smidge of Mayonnaise
Red onion
Pickles
Curry
Two pieces of Rye or Pumpernickel bread (or one piece of Rye or Pumpernickel, folded in half)
Cream cheese (optional)

I'll leave it up to you how you put all those things together; that is the secret of The Sandwich.

I should warn you, though. The Sandwich has Powers. Your life could easily become consumed by thoughts of The Sandwich. When you are without The Sandwich, you may think of nothing but The Sandwich. It will take over your every waking moment.

...so on Thursday night, I dreamt *all night*, and in vivid detail about PAINTING MY NAILS. All. Gorram. Night.

Labels: dreams, The Sandwich

My father's had a number of offers on his land. Some of them, he says, have been made by folks with pretty deep pockets.

My father is in his early sixties. He's talked about retirement on and off for a couple of years.

Once, when I asked my mother why Da didn't just quit farming and come home to teach, she sighed and said, "because there's something about the land that won't let him go. And he *can't* let it go."

So it's a strange thing to be thinking about; this farm, this land that I resented and hated for years, this land that I later realise I love, that I can't get out of my own thoughts, this land might not be his anymore.

I harboured dreams of farming it for a while, but the reality is that I'm not going to manage two sections on my own. My boys would like to try it, or so they say now, but in 15 years, who knows?

My mind goes back, time and time again, to the romantic memories - the boys, driving on the same tractors I drove on with my Gramps, with my Da. Last year, I took The Captain down to the spot I used to spend the sweltering evenings, with the smell of clover and the rustling of barley heads all around. I knew he'd probably never have the same attachment to it that I do, and I certainly don't have the same attachment to it my father does, but I think I understand.

He has given everything to his farm; his youth, his family, his career, his pain, his lonliness and his fear.

I don't know what's going to happen. But I know it's breaking my heart.

This crappy picture is from Grande Moote III, a werewolf game played on my father's farm:

Labels: breaks my heart, Da, farm

You know what's screwed up? What's screwed up is when you decide that enough is enough, it's time to DO something with yourself, and you start working out every morning, and your body starts doing effed up things. That's screwy.

And by 'effed up things', I mean gaining a pound a day.

One may have discussed this very thing with Neo and with SWC, but none of what they have said is a) news, or b) reassuring. I KNOW muscle weighs more than fat. I KNOW your metabolism changes when you start doing regular activity. I KNOW you can retain water. But a fricken' pound a fricken' day? FOR TWO WEEKS?

SWC said something about something-something 'lose a whole bunch of weight all at once', something-something something (he kind of lost me in the beginning and end bits there, with his fancy talkin' and his multiple choice questions). So that better happen. Seriously. Because if I keep working out every morning and just getting bigger and bigger, I'm going to end up looking like this:

And nobody wants that.

Really.

After the tongue graft and the vein implants, you're just never the same person. And then I'd have to go and find a bunch of tapeworms to make a costume, and some kind of large bladder stone to make a necklace out of.

When I get to this point, you know, there's just no reason to keep going. Not even yoga can save you from the popping veins and the dried-out husk of skin. In the 'you are what you eat' spectrum, this is really the 'walnut shells' stage. Nobody wants to curl up with someone who could snap your thigh in the crook of her elbow.

Okay, *some* people might want that. I am not one of those people. Sure, there's the party trick of bouncing each of your pectoral muscles individually in time to the Village People, but that's only going to get you through two, maybe three art openings or book launches.

Labels: Bad Mojo, exercise

However, I'm going to say them.

This summer, I let a lady do an "Angel Card" reading for me.

First, let's just assume that you know, and that I know, I have a tendency at times to be a bit of a fruitcake.

Second, whatever your thoughts on the accuracy of tarot, I Ching, scrying, automatic writing, dream travel, and/or organised religion, let me just say that I do try (at times) to be tolerant of, if not interested in, many different kinds of (what you may consider to be) fruitcakery. I find many kinds of fruitcakery interesting.

Now. Back to the point. This summer, a lady did an "Angel Card" reading for Yours Truly. The Lady said some things that were Interesting, and she said some things that were Ridiculous ("I know the names of your guardian angels! [insert several cthonic-sounding garbles here]"), and some things that I'm sure she says to everyone. But this post isn't about fortune-telling. It's a post of admonition.

HORSES, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...HORSES are not guardian angels. Neither are cats. IF (and I say IF in capital letters here) guardian angels exist, and IF they are particularly interested in the, let's be honest, dorky and mundane lives we lead, I ask you: how the hell could angels with no thumbs be of any assistance at all? Listen, I'm all for having mysterious ethereal heebie-jeebies looking out for our best interests. Personally, I'd like to have Dorothy Parker as my guardian angel, but I'm not sure she'd meet the requirements. In fact, I'd like to have Stephen Hawking as my guardian angel, but then there's that thumbs thing again.

What I mean is, it's all well and good for nebulous masses of nearly-nothing to just about in the eeeeeether and watch out for your best interests, but how exactly does this happen? Do your guardian angels wage a gynormous battle with each other in the eeeeeether, with their magic super-powers and their thumbless melee? If you're about to make a Stunningly Bad Decision, does your guardian angel kick you in the proverbial chakra? Does it whisper "back off, numbnuts" in your ear? Do you get the sensation that someone is rubbing your face with a cheese grater dipped in whiskey?

Look, I don't know how these things work. And I don't particularly care. But the idea that a wolf, or a horse, or a bloody UNICORN (who are all *extinct*, so how could they be your GUARDIAN ANGEL? They don't even KNOW YOU) be your guardian angel? Huh? How? Wolves are WILD ANIMALS. They'd just as soon tear the arse off the next guardian angel in the eeeeeether than they would protect you from your own worst efforts of self-sabotage. Cats don't even care when they're ALIVE whether you make good decisions or bad decisions, as long as you feed them. And horses?

Sure, they might prance about and be noble, dedicated creatures. Sure, they're good work animals and are useful as war animals. They're dedicated, fierce, kind, noble, intelligent, and all that jazz. But have you seen the amount that they PEE!? Do you *really* want all that guardian urine all over your personal chakra's eeeeeether? And do you know how BIG horses are? Have you ever even SEEN a horse? In person? What's a horse going to say to your chakra? "NEIGH! NEIGH! NEIGH NEIGH WHINNY!"

Then you'll be all, "that's just great, eeeeether-horse-guardian angel. Thanks for the information."

And your horse guardian angel would be all, "WHINNY! WHINNY!"

And you'll be all, "That doesn't even make SENSE."

And your horse guardian angel would stamp its hooves and snort at you. THEN you'd be covered in angel snot, and where would you be?

Well. You see where I'm going with this.

Let's leave the guardian angel business to REAL ANGELS, okay? It's kind of their job. Theoretically.

Labels: rants

So everyone's up in arms about our Prime Minister proroguing government three times in two years. Folks're saying it's anti-democratic (it isn't; it's a function of parliamentary democracy). They're saying it's fascist (it's not. There's nothing radical about Stephen Harper, and although he does try *very* hard to be authoritarian (it's kind of cute, sometimes) and to try to capitulate to corporate whims, I don't think Harper's reign is *quite* 'fascist'. It certainly is dictatorial, though). They're saying the Canadian people are tired of Harper's shenanigans (very true, i suspect, if only for the opportunity to say 'shenanigans').

But there's something you're forgetting in all this.

Michaëlle Jean, our Governor General, she has a larger role to play in this than does Harper. He could go to her asking her to prorogue government twice a day if he wanted, and (this is the important bit, so listen up) she could say 'no'. In fact, that's what I think Canadians ought to have done more of. They ought to have spent more of their energy asking her to turn Steve down.

"No, Steve, I don't think so," she might have said.

"But...but..." he would have whined.

"Stephen, you prorogued government LAST year, and while it's not uncommon for Canadian Prime Ministers to prorogue or suspend government once a year or so, don't you think you're being a bit silly?"

"What?"

"Stephen, really," she might say, sitting on the edge of her desk while he fidgets in the chair in front. "What's this about?"

"What do you mean?! Nothing!"

"You don't have to lie to me, Stephen," she might say in a low voice.

"No! Really!..." Stephen Harper might start biting his nails and getting squirrelly.

"Is it Michael? Is Michael bullying you?"

Harper might pointedly stare at the floor and mumble, "No."

"Is Jack teasing you again, Stephen?" She might ask quietly.

Stephen may sniff a little and kick the heel of one shiny shoe with the toe of the other. In a petulant, little voice, he might mutter something about the economy.

"Look," Michaëlle Jean would say, crossing her arms, "I know government isn't easy. Especially when all the other MPs are trying to tell you what to do. Peer pressure, Stephen, causes broken hearts. Being popular is very important at this stage of your life, and I understand the pressures you're facing. I have teenage girls myself..."

At this point, Harper might raise his eyebrows and say, "Pardon me?"

Michaëlle Jean would wave her hand at him, and rise from the corner of the desk. "You know what I mean. The bottom line is that I'm not going to prorogue this parliament every time you have an attack of self-loathing or doubt. My office isn't here simply for you to come in and ask for a suspension every time you feel like you want a holiday. That's not the way this system is supposed to work."

"But...but..."

"But me no buts, Stephen. Get back to class. Er. Parliament. And maybe join the yearbook committee or the environmental club or something. ANYTHING."

So you see, it seems to me that people are really giving Stephen Harper WAAAAAY too much credit (rather like saying the Joker is single-handedly responsible for all of Batman's cool), and they're not criticising Michaëlle Jean enough.

I think Canadians ought to ask our Governor-General whether she might *ever* be prepared to stand up to the PM. Michael Ignatieff's court is proposing a bill that would limit the ability of the PM to prorogue government, which is stupid. I'm sorry, Michael, but it really is.

If your kids are misbehaving every night at bedtime, you don't just automatically put a rule in place that says "no acting up at bedtime". You have to figure out *why* (probably all those cookies at dinner).

Labels: Canadian politics, prorogue