Hmmm. It wasn't what I'd call a good day, though I wasn't entirely useless, either. Feeling useless would have made it worse, I'm thinking.
So here's today:
The sun is bright and shiny again when I wake, which should be a good incentive for me to feel moderately well at least... but it isn't. I’m moody, quiet and most of all tired. I hate feeling tired, especially when there is no good reason for it. I have had my share of sleep this night, and it should have sufficed to guarantee at least a semblance of a good mood. No such luck, though.
There were dreams, if I recall correctly, a jumble of "could-be-real" events and images that confuse the heck out of me when I wake up and exclaim a pained grunt when Trin Trin practically drags me off the bed in her eagerness to start the day.
After I lock the monster boxer into the small back yard behind my cabin and release the rest of the dog into the garden, I manage to get in a full fifteen minutes of reading into Elfhunter, a rather charming book that is at present keeping me entertained.
Getting dressed admittedly isn't an easy task today; Knight II is in a particularly cheerful mood for some reason, almost knocking me over several times. The big lug simply doesn't seem to understand that his 110 pounds are not designed for jumping at his toy... me in this case. He's learning though, however slowly.
Dax watches him from the safety of the bed, his expression a little weary since the pocket Beagle has been on the receiving end of being caught in the midst of Knight's bouncing often enough, and seems to silently laugh at me for struggling into my clothes.
Exercise day has arrived once more, and though I don't feel like it at all, I struggle through, just barely. What with the weather having warmed ever so slightly perspiration is dripping liberally off my nose at the end, making me feel somewhat pleased that the effort isn't for nothing.
Laundry's next. Yesterday's batch nice and dry, allowing for plenty of space for the new, as I try to divert my attention between the clothes and Knight, who seems to find it humorous to grab any given item I try to hang, and tugs it away. It isn’t until I tug at his leash several times that he finally calms down enough to just sit down and watch me with those big brown eyes of his.
Breakfast is a quick cut and smear by the sink and me stuffing my face while heading for the coffee machine and the vagrant coffee, big brother has just prepared.
I make my usual course across the messages and forums, my eyes half-stock once again -I don't know what the heck is wrong with me, but for the past few days, half-stock seems to be inevitable- and finally resume my foray into the alien world of the Ashtah-Mahk.
Only a couple of pages get written, my level of focus down to sixty percent at most. I'm dawdling with the story, I know, it is a most annoying time when I'm trying to create a bridge of momentary peace in a manuscript, before the action takes over once again.
My head is flighty today, for some reason. Not a single thought -except for those I don’t want to have- sticking long enough for closer examination. I hate it when that happens. It removes my drive and makes me think that everything I write down is bloody awful.
I yawn myself sore today, that's a fact. And by the time the dogs are fed and yesterday's stir-fry is reheated for consumption, I'm so tired, I nod off in my chair again.
Feeling remarkably better after maybe an hour of dreamless sleep, I surmise that my state of mind might very well be a result of doing too much, these past few months. Pressure of responsibilities, chores and projects, just getting to be too demanding for a bit.
”The Day After Tomorrow” is on TV tonight. Though I don't particularly "like" the movie, I do find the idea of it intriguing. It always makes me wonder about the numerous reports I've read and heard over the years, concerning our environment, and how the scientific predictions made in the past, turn out to be much sooner than claimed.
By this time I'm of the opinion that when such scientist claim that some drastic change is going to occur at the end of the century or within fifty years, that number can easily be cut down to at least a third of that time span.
Though I know it isn't a laughing matter, what with natural disasters all over the globe, it IS rather funny, in an unfunny sort of way.
In commercials and adds, consumers are being educated about how they can save energy and natural recourses, while cities grow constantly, lighting up streets that haven't been build yet and practically deserted areas, wasting that precious energy for no other reason than esthetics, while the average consumer should turn off the lights in rooms that aren't being used.
Take the valley below our mountain, for instance. What with the economy having bloomed for many years, streets were made with lanterns placed for miles into intricate patterns, dotting the hills with lights at night, and for what? Prettiness?
And then they say a 40-watt light bulb is going to make a difference?
Seriously, if it weren't so damn sad, it would crack me up.
But enough about this subject, it depresses me to think about stupidity such as this.
When nothing of interest is to be seen on any of the numerous channels that enrich our TV, the sibs and I decide to put on Michael Bay's "The Island" for our viewing pleasure. Not much liking the idea of just sitting there, wasting time, I take out the paint roller and prime the two drawers that still await treatment.
Whenever my mind is as fuzzy as it appears to be these days, I find keeping myself busy is the best way to fight it... even when gathering up the energy to actually do something seems a barely surmountable effort... and feel quite pleased when I declare the two done and clean up to start preparing to go to my cabin for the night.
First I need to give Trin Trin her injection, though.
Leishmania (aka sandfly) reared its ugly head again several months ago, so now she is going through her second course of the treatment that consists of an injection every other day, along with a daily pill.
While I take the monster boxer into a headlock one of the sibs quickly injects the stuff into her skin, leaving Trin Trin jubilant by the time we get to my place and disperse dry dog food for my fickle pack. For some reason they don’t eat well enough while the rest of the dogs are being fed, so this little extra is part of the daily routine for me as much as my dogs.
Already, after only one course and half of Trin Trin’s treatment, her skin is starting to look better. The shine on her fur is returning, and the small, infected areas all over her body are disappearing.
Leishmania is a big problem for animals over here. A nasty virus spread by mosquitoes, and the cause of numerous diseases for pets since it damages the immune system rather badly. I personally have four dogs with the virus, but on the total of our pack of almost a hundred, at least fifteen dogs suffer from it, needing frequent medication that keeps the problems in check rather than cure it completely.
They cope, though, staying in our presence happy as you please. As long as the medicines work and the disease does not take over, we manage to deal with it well enough.
As usual the day has come to an end, the wind rolling down the mountain like powerful waves that blow against my cabin, and I'm still relatively early, allowing for perhaps a few hours more sleep, and hopefully a better day tomorrow.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
Writing VS Gardening and... stuff.
The day arrives bright and shiny once again. On days such as these I remember why we went to live in Spain, since it are days such as this one that bring out all the advantages and make me remember how horribly dark and wet the winters of my childhood were, and how beautifully bright they are here.
Though always eager to go outside, the dog obviously love good weather and it is visible as I see them bounce off the porch, heading towards freedom while yapping noisily.
Today my eyes don't cooperate again, the lids heavy with sleepiness as I stretch and yawn in hopes of putting some life in my tired limbs and head that is simply too fuzzy for coherent thought.
A glance around my cabin shows me that I really should be doing some cleaning, but I decide to go to the house instead and leave cleaning up 'till later on.
Once in the coutryard, it becomes clear that more laundry needs to be put up -younger sister's doing, really, and I'm not entirely certain whether I appreciate the washed laundry waiting for me at least five times a week, hah- and dry needs to be taken down for folding.
Since today is a rest day, for as far as exercise is concerned, I get to the chores immediately, rather than postpone... and inevitably forget it. It isn't as bad as I always fear it is, though, and less than an hour later I once more settle behind my computer with a coffee beside me and a cigarette in hand.
Focusing still is no easy task, but after some chats on my regular forums, I feel bolstered enough to open the Sci-Fi file and get to work. Though the spirits of inspiration aren't as generous today as they were yesterday, I manage a solid two pages while still interacting with big brother about the proof-reading he's doing for part one of the series. Some inconsistencies are going to need my attention for sure, but still, he complains less than I'd anticipated when knowing that I had never edited this particular story yet.
The working title breaks it up for him... just like it does me, every time I work on it.
When I started writing this particular tale, I couldn't decide on a name for the alien species that are the protagonists of the story, but after some intense discussion a perfect name is decided upon at long last
Ashtah-Mahk. The beings of the source of Ashtah, warriors by nature and refugees by fate. It suits! The title is going to be wonderful with this name. Catchier, I'm thinking, more intense.
Though always eager to go outside, the dog obviously love good weather and it is visible as I see them bounce off the porch, heading towards freedom while yapping noisily.
Today my eyes don't cooperate again, the lids heavy with sleepiness as I stretch and yawn in hopes of putting some life in my tired limbs and head that is simply too fuzzy for coherent thought.
A glance around my cabin shows me that I really should be doing some cleaning, but I decide to go to the house instead and leave cleaning up 'till later on.
Once in the coutryard, it becomes clear that more laundry needs to be put up -younger sister's doing, really, and I'm not entirely certain whether I appreciate the washed laundry waiting for me at least five times a week, hah- and dry needs to be taken down for folding.
Since today is a rest day, for as far as exercise is concerned, I get to the chores immediately, rather than postpone... and inevitably forget it. It isn't as bad as I always fear it is, though, and less than an hour later I once more settle behind my computer with a coffee beside me and a cigarette in hand.
Focusing still is no easy task, but after some chats on my regular forums, I feel bolstered enough to open the Sci-Fi file and get to work. Though the spirits of inspiration aren't as generous today as they were yesterday, I manage a solid two pages while still interacting with big brother about the proof-reading he's doing for part one of the series. Some inconsistencies are going to need my attention for sure, but still, he complains less than I'd anticipated when knowing that I had never edited this particular story yet.
The working title breaks it up for him... just like it does me, every time I work on it.
When I started writing this particular tale, I couldn't decide on a name for the alien species that are the protagonists of the story, but after some intense discussion a perfect name is decided upon at long last
Ashtah-Mahk. The beings of the source of Ashtah, warriors by nature and refugees by fate. It suits! The title is going to be wonderful with this name. Catchier, I'm thinking, more intense.
The Chronicles of the Ashtah-Mahk:
Escape
by
Samaya Young
Escape
by
Samaya Young
Yes, that'll work well with the story and its multitude of characters. Already I see the story become less abstract, if for no other reason than that there is power in these words. "The Berillians" really didn't fit and it has been a working title for years, just because I couldn't come up with a proper name for these wonderful people that needed something to give them "body".
The sequel is coming along nicely now, and for a moment I actually regret having to put aside writing in favor of going out to finally plant the trees and vines we bought last month. With the pack howling and barking all around, the family and I head into the garden, gathering tools and plants alike as we look at the rock face in front of which the yearling Eucalypts are supposed to be placed.
To our delight the ground is moist from the deluges that we've been forced to endure for the past few week, allowing for easy digging, as rich soil has gathered into a thick dark layer against the gray rock. Perfect for the young trees that look somewhat pathetic right now, but will grow fast and strong within just a few years- the way all the other trees we planted over the years have done.
While big brother starts to dig, little brother and I haul rocks towards the intended places, circling the newly dug holes so that when summer arrives and the trees need water, they'll have some storage place that'll see them through the dryest days.
What with hauling rocks and digging a large hole for the remainder of the four trees personally, I decide that I have had my exercise of the day anyway, giving a certain feeling of accomplishment when we finish and look at what we've done. The four trees sway gently in the wind that has started to drop down from the north, the sun a bright orb just behind the mountain which will hide it's final descend in just minutes.
A jasmine vine now sires the side of my cabin, too, while Honeysuckle will be allowed to twine into the fence surrounding the carport. Except for five Yucas still awaiting planting, we are done for the day and head into the house with the dogs streaming around us like a river of fur.
Time for dinner has arrived, and after examining the ever decreasing supplies, I decide to make stirr fried veggies mixed with noodles that'll make up for a nice Asian dish.
The thing I love about Asian cooking is the fact that it is easy and fast, while still nourishing the body and filling the stomach. With the vegetables still crisp, the spices just perfect it makes for an excellent meal... or it would have if my stomach didn't object halfway through my serving, hah.
As the evening draws on, the dogs are fed and quietly snoozing in front of the gas heaters exhausted from their noisy jaunt into the yard, my own eyes start to droop once again. What with big brother working on the Asthah-Mahk manuscript and a rerun of House on the TV, I decide to close my eyes for a bit... only to wake up in the chair I picked, with Mosha, the sweetpea cocker, in my lap and my left arm sleeping painfully by the time I rouse myself enough to watch Medical Examiners (aka, Crossing Jordan). The show has become better as time past, but also lost something of its intensity, I think. Sometimes it is downright comical... and not in a good way.
The rest of the evening is spent splitting my attention between the dogs, the lousy shows that continue play on the TV and discussing the book with big brother. He's almost halfway through in just two days, so soon we'll be able to start sending it out to a publisher.
I am actually relieved when midnight passes and it is time for me to go to my cabin. I am weary, and even now my eyes continue to droop, while I'm writing this down.
A quick sweep of the floors with the broom is all I manage to muster the energy for, before I settle on the bed for a quick write and some messages.
The day has come to an end, and I'm glad for it. Tomorrow will arrive soon enough.
The sequel is coming along nicely now, and for a moment I actually regret having to put aside writing in favor of going out to finally plant the trees and vines we bought last month. With the pack howling and barking all around, the family and I head into the garden, gathering tools and plants alike as we look at the rock face in front of which the yearling Eucalypts are supposed to be placed.
To our delight the ground is moist from the deluges that we've been forced to endure for the past few week, allowing for easy digging, as rich soil has gathered into a thick dark layer against the gray rock. Perfect for the young trees that look somewhat pathetic right now, but will grow fast and strong within just a few years- the way all the other trees we planted over the years have done.
While big brother starts to dig, little brother and I haul rocks towards the intended places, circling the newly dug holes so that when summer arrives and the trees need water, they'll have some storage place that'll see them through the dryest days.
What with hauling rocks and digging a large hole for the remainder of the four trees personally, I decide that I have had my exercise of the day anyway, giving a certain feeling of accomplishment when we finish and look at what we've done. The four trees sway gently in the wind that has started to drop down from the north, the sun a bright orb just behind the mountain which will hide it's final descend in just minutes.
A jasmine vine now sires the side of my cabin, too, while Honeysuckle will be allowed to twine into the fence surrounding the carport. Except for five Yucas still awaiting planting, we are done for the day and head into the house with the dogs streaming around us like a river of fur.
Time for dinner has arrived, and after examining the ever decreasing supplies, I decide to make stirr fried veggies mixed with noodles that'll make up for a nice Asian dish.
The thing I love about Asian cooking is the fact that it is easy and fast, while still nourishing the body and filling the stomach. With the vegetables still crisp, the spices just perfect it makes for an excellent meal... or it would have if my stomach didn't object halfway through my serving, hah.
As the evening draws on, the dogs are fed and quietly snoozing in front of the gas heaters exhausted from their noisy jaunt into the yard, my own eyes start to droop once again. What with big brother working on the Asthah-Mahk manuscript and a rerun of House on the TV, I decide to close my eyes for a bit... only to wake up in the chair I picked, with Mosha, the sweetpea cocker, in my lap and my left arm sleeping painfully by the time I rouse myself enough to watch Medical Examiners (aka, Crossing Jordan). The show has become better as time past, but also lost something of its intensity, I think. Sometimes it is downright comical... and not in a good way.
The rest of the evening is spent splitting my attention between the dogs, the lousy shows that continue play on the TV and discussing the book with big brother. He's almost halfway through in just two days, so soon we'll be able to start sending it out to a publisher.
I am actually relieved when midnight passes and it is time for me to go to my cabin. I am weary, and even now my eyes continue to droop, while I'm writing this down.
A quick sweep of the floors with the broom is all I manage to muster the energy for, before I settle on the bed for a quick write and some messages.
The day has come to an end, and I'm glad for it. Tomorrow will arrive soon enough.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Thoughts. What else?
The day started bright and shiny, the sun having chased away the seemingly perpetual clouds that have hung over our mountain for the past week, and giving a vibrant glitter to everything around me when I wake up and let the dogs out.
They are exulting from the sudden change in weather, and for a while Chaos, the Basset, actually settles in a warm patch on my porch, enjoying the downpour of light.
The other dogs rough house about a bit, with Bommel my senior Bobtail watching lazily from the open door until I am finally ready to go down to the main house.
Though I am still somewhat tired, the complete exhaustion of yesterday has disappeared, leaving me actually cheered with the thought of my upcoming exercise for today. My muscles feel sore from the day before yesterday, but warming up I can feel the blood starting to pump through my veins, easing most of the tension that has settled in after the last time.
My usual selection of music gets turned up. The latest Enrique tunes do marvelous for a proper rhythm to bounce around on and pounce the boxing bag.
Forty minutes later, two-hundred, forty kicks, endless slides followed by crunches and push-ups ready done, I'm sweating like mad and hurry towards the shower to warm my skin and wash off the day's perspiration.
What follows is taking down and hanging an enormous amount of laundry, which has piled up during the past few days of incessant rain. It's a pleasant day for laundry, though. The sun shining through the openings of the courtyard roof and a gentle breeze playing with the few remaining leaves that still crown the battered trees all around. The fresh scent of clean nature is invigorating
I feel inspired when big brother comes down and decides to start working on my Sci-Fi Fantasy "Escape" with more enthusiasm than I'd anticipated. He's actually so pleased with the story that I decide to continue working on the sequel of this alien species fighting for survival in the wide galaxy, rather than pour myself into more editing, as was planned.
I manage a wonderful total of four pages in just a few hours, giving me a certain sense of accomplishment, the way successful writing always does. But enough about my day, more important things have occurred on this early October date, and for a moment I want to ponder it and see where my thoughts will lead me.
Apparently it was a historical day today. The first black (well, half black anyways) president in the United States was elected and from what I understand the world cheers.
I don't really understand the fuss, in all honesty. He is human, nonetheless, and to be so exultant about the matter just because of the color of his skin seems to be somewhat... hypocritical, is the word I'm looking for, I think, when it really comes across as yet another form of discrimination, neatly wrapped in the beautiful blanket of "look how civilized Western society has become. We even have a black (half) president now."
The man could have had a purple skin for all I'm concerned if I could somehow make myself believe that he could actually go beyond human nature. Since this is unlikely, if not impossible, things will pretty much continue the way they are, if for no other reason than that human nature will always win.
But anyways, if I were to believe the news reports, the headlines and the rather exultant exclamations all over the Net, TV and whatnot, I would think that the new Messiah had arrived. And that now, that this young man, this politician, is Finally going to SAVE the world from Armageddon... or something like that.
For a moment there, while watching the cheer going on, I had to go check outside if the animals of myths and legends had sprung forth and were now roaming around creating a utopia of a world for us all.
I came back sorely disappointed. Everything looked exactly the same as it had in the days weeks and months that preceded this "glorious" day.
Whatever happened to the general belief that politicians lie, cheat and pretty much sell their souls to get elected? From what I have seen over the years in movies, media reports and the likes, politicians always rate somewhere deep down the "admirable" ladder, right alongside lawyers and car salesmen.
I've followed the entire hoopla somewhat over the months that have passed, and to actually live up to the promises made is pretty much impossible... if not unrealistic. Even if everyone gave up all of their hard earned money to taxes, in time things would be just as miserable, if not more so, in short time.
A recent study in Germany has shown that if all citizens of the world, or even the majority of it, live in relative comfort, with a quality that the average hard working citizen is used to, an entire different planet would be necessary just to be able to supply all that is needed for such a feat. Since this is highly unlikely to occur in our lifetime, and even that of our children and children's children, it is a goal that is pretty much unattainable.
It worries me somewhat that in all the excitement going on -of a new government coming to the rescue by giving the people all they need whether they be rich or poor- everyone seems to forget that socialism and even liberalism (which advocate this noble cause) aren't as successful as the optimistic folks would like to believe.
Take China, the Soviet Union, Cuba and even Korea, their communism stems from the same ideal, and yet the majority of the people suffer constantly under the guidance of a wealthy elite, with no chance of ever achieving more than what they are allowed to do.
It is a beautiful thought, but in reality only the new elite actually benefit from such a government. It starts out marvelously, money pouring into places where admittedly it is very much needed, but at some point that particular resource of taking more from the rich and giving it to the poor, depletes that spring of a very convenient well.
Thus it has always been, and this time won't be any different, I fear.
I know, liberalism and socialism (even communism) are considered two different things entirely by most, but they're really not that far apart.
I come from a country that is often heralded for it's liberal and tolerant society, but with some dread I have been observing the ongoings over there, seeing a country that did so well at the start, struggle miserably as more and more of their own traditions, culture and way of life is being sacrificed in favor of tolerance towards those who want to change it to fit their own needs.
Though I am not at all conservative by nature, I do see the use of it at times.
Conservatives set borders and are willing to defend that border against all cost to preserve their identity against those who would see it destroyed.
Liberals, or socialists if you will, don't set ANY borders. Anyone and anything is free to do as they will because no one is willing to stand up for what they believe in any more.
Admittedly there are downsides to both extremes. Conservatives tend to be overzealous in their religions and traditions, while the socialists/liberals are vastly lacking in both, believing in very little except for tolerance and equality for all.
Now don't get me wrong, I am not saying that we are not equal, and should not be basically treated as such, but in "flatlining" everything and everyone under the "rule" of equality is killing that what would make people extraordinary.
It's something like the phrase "You're special, just like the rest of us". It takes something away from the specialness we all admired so much in the past, and that is a sad thing. In this day and age being an individual, extraordinary and "special" is just another way of equalizing everything into just ordinary, until in the end anything that does not fit into a particular box is eradicated.
But I drift off the issue. As I was saying; it scares me to see how much hope is being placed in just a single man who, even if he were Superman, could never live up to all the expectations that are put on him and those that are chosen to lead such a powerful country for next four years.
He brings hope, or so I've heard on numerous occasions. Which confuses me, since this is considered to be something marvelous.
I am well aware that hope is considered to be important and basically there to sustain us through difficult times, but hope -I often think- is a sneaky thing. Hope is an inanimate, a non-active, element that really doesn't do much of anything, except give the illusion that something might change in the future.
Hope does not make a person DO anything, since hope leaves it all up to fate and does not make anyone put in an effort, when effort and dedication is that which makes any of us achieve something.
Added to that, hope can be just as easily taken away as it is given, making it rather unreliable in my estimation.
For some reason change seems to have been a big part of the political agenda too, and I wonder about it. Change was what happened when 9/11 occurred, didn't it'. The war in Iraq was change, too. The melting poles, global warming, the latest fashion trend, all those events, occurrences and trends are a constant overflow of change that no one can stop of curb. They are a very basic cause and effect, making the world around us a badly balanced scale on any given day.
Change happens every single day, but it is either ignored, cheered or despised. In the end no one really appears to like change at all and what with this latest election, I fear that those who wanted it, are actually going to get it in spades.
The only question remains; will that change be welcomed, or hated by the time the elation has settled and reality starts to make its expensive demands once more.
Only time will tell, I guess. Perhaps this new president will be grand, and perhaps he'll be as ineffective as those who went before him. The demand for a new hope will most certainly be tested through the passing of time, as change is rolling across the globe even now.
Will hope really change the course that has been set?
Let's hope so.
They are exulting from the sudden change in weather, and for a while Chaos, the Basset, actually settles in a warm patch on my porch, enjoying the downpour of light.
The other dogs rough house about a bit, with Bommel my senior Bobtail watching lazily from the open door until I am finally ready to go down to the main house.
Though I am still somewhat tired, the complete exhaustion of yesterday has disappeared, leaving me actually cheered with the thought of my upcoming exercise for today. My muscles feel sore from the day before yesterday, but warming up I can feel the blood starting to pump through my veins, easing most of the tension that has settled in after the last time.
My usual selection of music gets turned up. The latest Enrique tunes do marvelous for a proper rhythm to bounce around on and pounce the boxing bag.
Forty minutes later, two-hundred, forty kicks, endless slides followed by crunches and push-ups ready done, I'm sweating like mad and hurry towards the shower to warm my skin and wash off the day's perspiration.
What follows is taking down and hanging an enormous amount of laundry, which has piled up during the past few days of incessant rain. It's a pleasant day for laundry, though. The sun shining through the openings of the courtyard roof and a gentle breeze playing with the few remaining leaves that still crown the battered trees all around. The fresh scent of clean nature is invigorating
I feel inspired when big brother comes down and decides to start working on my Sci-Fi Fantasy "Escape" with more enthusiasm than I'd anticipated. He's actually so pleased with the story that I decide to continue working on the sequel of this alien species fighting for survival in the wide galaxy, rather than pour myself into more editing, as was planned.
I manage a wonderful total of four pages in just a few hours, giving me a certain sense of accomplishment, the way successful writing always does. But enough about my day, more important things have occurred on this early October date, and for a moment I want to ponder it and see where my thoughts will lead me.
Apparently it was a historical day today. The first black (well, half black anyways) president in the United States was elected and from what I understand the world cheers.
I don't really understand the fuss, in all honesty. He is human, nonetheless, and to be so exultant about the matter just because of the color of his skin seems to be somewhat... hypocritical, is the word I'm looking for, I think, when it really comes across as yet another form of discrimination, neatly wrapped in the beautiful blanket of "look how civilized Western society has become. We even have a black (half) president now."
The man could have had a purple skin for all I'm concerned if I could somehow make myself believe that he could actually go beyond human nature. Since this is unlikely, if not impossible, things will pretty much continue the way they are, if for no other reason than that human nature will always win.
But anyways, if I were to believe the news reports, the headlines and the rather exultant exclamations all over the Net, TV and whatnot, I would think that the new Messiah had arrived. And that now, that this young man, this politician, is Finally going to SAVE the world from Armageddon... or something like that.
For a moment there, while watching the cheer going on, I had to go check outside if the animals of myths and legends had sprung forth and were now roaming around creating a utopia of a world for us all.
I came back sorely disappointed. Everything looked exactly the same as it had in the days weeks and months that preceded this "glorious" day.
Whatever happened to the general belief that politicians lie, cheat and pretty much sell their souls to get elected? From what I have seen over the years in movies, media reports and the likes, politicians always rate somewhere deep down the "admirable" ladder, right alongside lawyers and car salesmen.
I've followed the entire hoopla somewhat over the months that have passed, and to actually live up to the promises made is pretty much impossible... if not unrealistic. Even if everyone gave up all of their hard earned money to taxes, in time things would be just as miserable, if not more so, in short time.
A recent study in Germany has shown that if all citizens of the world, or even the majority of it, live in relative comfort, with a quality that the average hard working citizen is used to, an entire different planet would be necessary just to be able to supply all that is needed for such a feat. Since this is highly unlikely to occur in our lifetime, and even that of our children and children's children, it is a goal that is pretty much unattainable.
It worries me somewhat that in all the excitement going on -of a new government coming to the rescue by giving the people all they need whether they be rich or poor- everyone seems to forget that socialism and even liberalism (which advocate this noble cause) aren't as successful as the optimistic folks would like to believe.
Take China, the Soviet Union, Cuba and even Korea, their communism stems from the same ideal, and yet the majority of the people suffer constantly under the guidance of a wealthy elite, with no chance of ever achieving more than what they are allowed to do.
It is a beautiful thought, but in reality only the new elite actually benefit from such a government. It starts out marvelously, money pouring into places where admittedly it is very much needed, but at some point that particular resource of taking more from the rich and giving it to the poor, depletes that spring of a very convenient well.
Thus it has always been, and this time won't be any different, I fear.
I know, liberalism and socialism (even communism) are considered two different things entirely by most, but they're really not that far apart.
I come from a country that is often heralded for it's liberal and tolerant society, but with some dread I have been observing the ongoings over there, seeing a country that did so well at the start, struggle miserably as more and more of their own traditions, culture and way of life is being sacrificed in favor of tolerance towards those who want to change it to fit their own needs.
Though I am not at all conservative by nature, I do see the use of it at times.
Conservatives set borders and are willing to defend that border against all cost to preserve their identity against those who would see it destroyed.
Liberals, or socialists if you will, don't set ANY borders. Anyone and anything is free to do as they will because no one is willing to stand up for what they believe in any more.
Admittedly there are downsides to both extremes. Conservatives tend to be overzealous in their religions and traditions, while the socialists/liberals are vastly lacking in both, believing in very little except for tolerance and equality for all.
Now don't get me wrong, I am not saying that we are not equal, and should not be basically treated as such, but in "flatlining" everything and everyone under the "rule" of equality is killing that what would make people extraordinary.
It's something like the phrase "You're special, just like the rest of us". It takes something away from the specialness we all admired so much in the past, and that is a sad thing. In this day and age being an individual, extraordinary and "special" is just another way of equalizing everything into just ordinary, until in the end anything that does not fit into a particular box is eradicated.
But I drift off the issue. As I was saying; it scares me to see how much hope is being placed in just a single man who, even if he were Superman, could never live up to all the expectations that are put on him and those that are chosen to lead such a powerful country for next four years.
He brings hope, or so I've heard on numerous occasions. Which confuses me, since this is considered to be something marvelous.
I am well aware that hope is considered to be important and basically there to sustain us through difficult times, but hope -I often think- is a sneaky thing. Hope is an inanimate, a non-active, element that really doesn't do much of anything, except give the illusion that something might change in the future.
Hope does not make a person DO anything, since hope leaves it all up to fate and does not make anyone put in an effort, when effort and dedication is that which makes any of us achieve something.
Added to that, hope can be just as easily taken away as it is given, making it rather unreliable in my estimation.
For some reason change seems to have been a big part of the political agenda too, and I wonder about it. Change was what happened when 9/11 occurred, didn't it'. The war in Iraq was change, too. The melting poles, global warming, the latest fashion trend, all those events, occurrences and trends are a constant overflow of change that no one can stop of curb. They are a very basic cause and effect, making the world around us a badly balanced scale on any given day.
Change happens every single day, but it is either ignored, cheered or despised. In the end no one really appears to like change at all and what with this latest election, I fear that those who wanted it, are actually going to get it in spades.
The only question remains; will that change be welcomed, or hated by the time the elation has settled and reality starts to make its expensive demands once more.
Only time will tell, I guess. Perhaps this new president will be grand, and perhaps he'll be as ineffective as those who went before him. The demand for a new hope will most certainly be tested through the passing of time, as change is rolling across the globe even now.
Will hope really change the course that has been set?
Let's hope so.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Just one of those days.
Yesterday's lack of sleep, followed by the numerous activities, took its toll today for sure.
I am sore all over, mostly due to the cold, and by the time my alarm goes off I barely manage to peel my eyes open when every single fiber inside me screams for more sleep. I hurt, I ache and most of all I feel too blue to even think about getting up and go about the day's schedule. This, of course, is no valid reason to stay in bed and be lazy for a few hours more, no matter how much my bones protest against rising, for the dogs have no pity for the weak limbed.
Crazily they bounce up and down around the bed, Trin Trin and the giant Dane tugging relentlessly on my blankets until I finally mutter a curse, roll from the mattress -catching myself on the nightstand, just barely- and straighten while whimpering like an old woman.
The alarm still screeches, my mind too much of a blur as I try to make my way around the exuberant pack, now certain of their eminent release. Struggling with the monster Boxer is par for the course on any given day, but now, as I stumble to the door for their noisy release into the yard, I am a hair's breath away from wrapping my hands around her thick throat so I can return to bed. Hah!
I suppress that particular urge, since no matter how much trouble she is, I love her dearly, and force my eyes open just wide enough to go through the morning rituals and head down to the house. Food doesn't appeal this particular morning. As a matter of fact, thinking of it, it hasn't been appealing for days since my stomach is upset for some peculiar reason. But, remembering that I haven't eaten properly in 48 hours, I stuff a sandwich down my involuntary throat and after a little while sit down behind the computer, the way I always do.
I swear that I consider placing matchsticks between my lids, noticing that every few minutes or so they've lowered until I am gazing somewhat dazedly at the words swimming on the screen in front of me. Today doesn't carry the promise of much productivity for me.
The arrival of big brother sends Knight II into a wild frenzy of excitement, forcing me to grab his collar and drag him to my side where he can't hassle the dogs that come pounding down the stairs around big brother's feet.
Forced by my own promise and small measure of guilt at having done nothing in the time I've sat there, I switch to the dreaded synopsis from yesterday and start rereading and polishing the dratted thing. Finally after several hours, we decide that it's as good as it is going to get.
A personal query letter needs to be written by then, since for some reason publishers all request a personalized note from the "pleading" author, while they in turn stick to a standard message of receiving your hard work, and often a standardized rejection several weeks later time and again.
Why is it that these publishers are allowed to make this demand of the struggling author with the accepted explanation that they are simply too busy to respond personally to every submission they receive? Oh wait, I know. Because they offer a service and without them a writer cannot reach an audience.
It is not like I have time to spare to write these dratted queries and synopsis. I assure you that I have other, often time far more important things to do that need to be put aside while I try to oblige all the set rules that I am supposed to follow if I want to have a remote chance of being accepted.
Admittedly, I don't understand that one demand, most, if not all, publisher place on their sites. "Edit and reedit your story until it is perfect before submitting it."
What on earth... Like I would send something that I hadn't edited time and again to make it as perfect as I possibly can, before I finally delude myself into thinking that it's good enough? What self respecting author wouldn't? It is such a redundant demand that it makes me shiver every time I come across it.
Don't they understand writers at all?
And then I'm not even talking about all the alterations that have to be made to any given manuscript for practically every different publisher.
There appear to be no set rules (as in one set for all) as to how a manuscript has to be sent. Everyone has their own personal preference and if a writer wants a chance, then said writer better follow it, or else... which is basically what all the submission facts state.
This company wants the margins to be thus, the other wants the exact opposite... I can never just prepare one manuscript, but need to clutter up my computer with all sorts of different versions so the requirements are met.
One requires genuine dashes and em dashes, while yet another won't even consider a script that has these in them.
Seriously, after going over the variety of guidelines of what feel like thousands of different publishers, my mind is bordering on complete and utter insanity.
It'll dishearten any passionate writer first starting out. Heck, I've been trying it off and on for years, and the sending alone is a hurdle I rarely manage to conquer.
But besides this particular, rather annoying part of sending out submissions to publishers that actually admit to often not reading more than the first page of the several hundreds I have slaved over, there is also the one that really gets my hackles up.
It goes something like this: "We don't accept unsolicited manuscripts from authors without an agent."
It sounds reasonable enough since there are a multitude of writers out there all knocking at their door trying to sell their "product" but you have to be in this particular world for a bit to understand that getting an agent is just as hard as finding a publisher.
They (agents) have the same set of rules to follow, each one slightly different once again. Added to this is another fact that comes into play: On the most part it is rare that an agent wants to take chances on an unpublished author. It is a nasty little truth that after spending months, if not years on finding an agent that dares to take a risk, the author has no guarantee whatsoever that said agent will actually succeed in finding a publisher.
It is a vicious circle. The one won't take the eager applicant without the other, bringing the fledgling author absolutely nothing in the end.
No wonder more and more writers (myself included) are leaning towards independent publishing, if for no other reason than finding an open door in what appears to be a closed off industry is getting practically impossible.
But I'm drifting off course again, the way I always do. Where was I. Ah yes. Preparing my manuscripts.
After several hours of more tedious fine-tuning, big brother is finally able to gather all materials together and send the package off to what we both hope will be an interested party in the near future.
I do admit that the entire process is a lot less taxing now that big brother has decided to come to my aid, at long last. In the past I faced this frustrating part of being an author on my own, and it was never an easy task. It still isn't easy, but better at least.
That done, along with some more searching for a different publisher for yet another book that we intend to start sending out sometime in the following weeks, I finally decide to cease my battle against drooping eyelids and shut the computer down for dinner- once again prepared by the younger sibs.
Though my stomach is still upset, I manage to choke it down and actually enjoy it while slouching in front of the TV and trying to follow the humorous episode of Hotel Babylon and its loony patrons.
Feeling suddenly restless -by the time the show comes to an end- I get up and decide to make pie. For some reason I have a sudden hankering for something sweet and fruity, and since the cupboards are emptying now that the last trip to the grocery store is more than a week ago, I rummage through our meager supplies until I find what I need.
Some boring cookies, smashed into a fine powder are heated in a pan with some butter, sugar and spices, make for a wonderful base, and some vanilla pudding powder, the last two bags stuffed in the back of a drawer, will make a nice creamy layer once some yogurt is added to it.
For the toppings I decide on the only fruits we have at this time. Canned cherries, peaches and pineapple are chopped and mixed as the liquid is heated along with some orange juice. The last few bags of gelatin join the wonderfully fragrant potion, along with several spoonfuls of apricot and raspberry jam.
Putting it all in a dish, the thin base followed by vanilla pudding and then the fruits, I'm most pleased with the end result and shove two large pies into the freezer so the hardening won't take as long as it would if the cooling is hurried along.
I love making treats that don't require an oven. These two pies take less than half an hour and allow me to once again drop into my seat by the TV and wait impatiently for the pie to be ready for consumption. It is delicious and I manage half a serving before I decide to leave the rest for tomorrow, in hopes that my stomach won't revolt at the mere thought of food landing in it.
Not the best of days, but in the end some things got done, and I can try to get some shut eye... on time hopefully.
I am sore all over, mostly due to the cold, and by the time my alarm goes off I barely manage to peel my eyes open when every single fiber inside me screams for more sleep. I hurt, I ache and most of all I feel too blue to even think about getting up and go about the day's schedule. This, of course, is no valid reason to stay in bed and be lazy for a few hours more, no matter how much my bones protest against rising, for the dogs have no pity for the weak limbed.
Crazily they bounce up and down around the bed, Trin Trin and the giant Dane tugging relentlessly on my blankets until I finally mutter a curse, roll from the mattress -catching myself on the nightstand, just barely- and straighten while whimpering like an old woman.
The alarm still screeches, my mind too much of a blur as I try to make my way around the exuberant pack, now certain of their eminent release. Struggling with the monster Boxer is par for the course on any given day, but now, as I stumble to the door for their noisy release into the yard, I am a hair's breath away from wrapping my hands around her thick throat so I can return to bed. Hah!
I suppress that particular urge, since no matter how much trouble she is, I love her dearly, and force my eyes open just wide enough to go through the morning rituals and head down to the house. Food doesn't appeal this particular morning. As a matter of fact, thinking of it, it hasn't been appealing for days since my stomach is upset for some peculiar reason. But, remembering that I haven't eaten properly in 48 hours, I stuff a sandwich down my involuntary throat and after a little while sit down behind the computer, the way I always do.
I swear that I consider placing matchsticks between my lids, noticing that every few minutes or so they've lowered until I am gazing somewhat dazedly at the words swimming on the screen in front of me. Today doesn't carry the promise of much productivity for me.
The arrival of big brother sends Knight II into a wild frenzy of excitement, forcing me to grab his collar and drag him to my side where he can't hassle the dogs that come pounding down the stairs around big brother's feet.
Forced by my own promise and small measure of guilt at having done nothing in the time I've sat there, I switch to the dreaded synopsis from yesterday and start rereading and polishing the dratted thing. Finally after several hours, we decide that it's as good as it is going to get.
A personal query letter needs to be written by then, since for some reason publishers all request a personalized note from the "pleading" author, while they in turn stick to a standard message of receiving your hard work, and often a standardized rejection several weeks later time and again.
Why is it that these publishers are allowed to make this demand of the struggling author with the accepted explanation that they are simply too busy to respond personally to every submission they receive? Oh wait, I know. Because they offer a service and without them a writer cannot reach an audience.
It is not like I have time to spare to write these dratted queries and synopsis. I assure you that I have other, often time far more important things to do that need to be put aside while I try to oblige all the set rules that I am supposed to follow if I want to have a remote chance of being accepted.
Admittedly, I don't understand that one demand, most, if not all, publisher place on their sites. "Edit and reedit your story until it is perfect before submitting it."
What on earth... Like I would send something that I hadn't edited time and again to make it as perfect as I possibly can, before I finally delude myself into thinking that it's good enough? What self respecting author wouldn't? It is such a redundant demand that it makes me shiver every time I come across it.
Don't they understand writers at all?
And then I'm not even talking about all the alterations that have to be made to any given manuscript for practically every different publisher.
There appear to be no set rules (as in one set for all) as to how a manuscript has to be sent. Everyone has their own personal preference and if a writer wants a chance, then said writer better follow it, or else... which is basically what all the submission facts state.
This company wants the margins to be thus, the other wants the exact opposite... I can never just prepare one manuscript, but need to clutter up my computer with all sorts of different versions so the requirements are met.
One requires genuine dashes and em dashes, while yet another won't even consider a script that has these in them.
Seriously, after going over the variety of guidelines of what feel like thousands of different publishers, my mind is bordering on complete and utter insanity.
It'll dishearten any passionate writer first starting out. Heck, I've been trying it off and on for years, and the sending alone is a hurdle I rarely manage to conquer.
But besides this particular, rather annoying part of sending out submissions to publishers that actually admit to often not reading more than the first page of the several hundreds I have slaved over, there is also the one that really gets my hackles up.
It goes something like this: "We don't accept unsolicited manuscripts from authors without an agent."
It sounds reasonable enough since there are a multitude of writers out there all knocking at their door trying to sell their "product" but you have to be in this particular world for a bit to understand that getting an agent is just as hard as finding a publisher.
They (agents) have the same set of rules to follow, each one slightly different once again. Added to this is another fact that comes into play: On the most part it is rare that an agent wants to take chances on an unpublished author. It is a nasty little truth that after spending months, if not years on finding an agent that dares to take a risk, the author has no guarantee whatsoever that said agent will actually succeed in finding a publisher.
It is a vicious circle. The one won't take the eager applicant without the other, bringing the fledgling author absolutely nothing in the end.
No wonder more and more writers (myself included) are leaning towards independent publishing, if for no other reason than finding an open door in what appears to be a closed off industry is getting practically impossible.
But I'm drifting off course again, the way I always do. Where was I. Ah yes. Preparing my manuscripts.
After several hours of more tedious fine-tuning, big brother is finally able to gather all materials together and send the package off to what we both hope will be an interested party in the near future.
I do admit that the entire process is a lot less taxing now that big brother has decided to come to my aid, at long last. In the past I faced this frustrating part of being an author on my own, and it was never an easy task. It still isn't easy, but better at least.
That done, along with some more searching for a different publisher for yet another book that we intend to start sending out sometime in the following weeks, I finally decide to cease my battle against drooping eyelids and shut the computer down for dinner- once again prepared by the younger sibs.
Though my stomach is still upset, I manage to choke it down and actually enjoy it while slouching in front of the TV and trying to follow the humorous episode of Hotel Babylon and its loony patrons.
Feeling suddenly restless -by the time the show comes to an end- I get up and decide to make pie. For some reason I have a sudden hankering for something sweet and fruity, and since the cupboards are emptying now that the last trip to the grocery store is more than a week ago, I rummage through our meager supplies until I find what I need.
Some boring cookies, smashed into a fine powder are heated in a pan with some butter, sugar and spices, make for a wonderful base, and some vanilla pudding powder, the last two bags stuffed in the back of a drawer, will make a nice creamy layer once some yogurt is added to it.
For the toppings I decide on the only fruits we have at this time. Canned cherries, peaches and pineapple are chopped and mixed as the liquid is heated along with some orange juice. The last few bags of gelatin join the wonderfully fragrant potion, along with several spoonfuls of apricot and raspberry jam.
Putting it all in a dish, the thin base followed by vanilla pudding and then the fruits, I'm most pleased with the end result and shove two large pies into the freezer so the hardening won't take as long as it would if the cooling is hurried along.
I love making treats that don't require an oven. These two pies take less than half an hour and allow me to once again drop into my seat by the TV and wait impatiently for the pie to be ready for consumption. It is delicious and I manage half a serving before I decide to leave the rest for tomorrow, in hopes that my stomach won't revolt at the mere thought of food landing in it.
Not the best of days, but in the end some things got done, and I can try to get some shut eye... on time hopefully.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
That's life... or something resembling it.
It was a long day, one that followed a particularly short night of just five hours since I didn’t manage to hit the sack until after six AM and woke, without chance of falling back to sleep when it was still two hours before my usual waking time.
My dreams were troubled, remnant memories of events from past and present mixed up with enough realism to make me wonder if they were dreams at all, or actual occurrences, instead.
I was restless for some reason, edgy too, and rather than wallow in it, I decided to use the energy instead of doing nothing. Fifty minutes of intense exercise followed; involving jumping about, gyrating to music, lifting weights, punching the boxing bag full force and then continuing to kick it until every single muscle in my body ached and whined in protest. Wonderful, though admittedly I almost tore a muscle somewhere when Knight II, the Great Dane, decided to slip past my rising leg and proceeded to make me change course mid-movement, lest I hit him in the ribs, full force.
Drenching in sweat, and more than ready for a hot shower what with the chill cooling my skin until it feels frozen, I head towards the patio, where a choir of screaming dogs welcomes me on my way to the bathroom. I soak up the warm water for a good ten minutes, before returning to the living area and booting up my computer for the day’s first session.
Hot coffee does an excellent job of making me warm, inside and out as I go over the messages of the day. That done and with big brother’s arrival we start to work on the latest book project, concerning the preparation of the next manuscript submission of my “No Escape from Rising Sun” series.
A detailed synopsis is required for this particular publisher we’ve decided upon, so while he gives me the necessary stats of each chapter, I try to write down something legible and basic, without losing the magic that makes up the actual story.
I dislike writing these things; as a matter of fact I detest it. Writing synopses and blurbs are one of the few things I despise about being an author. Just the basics really don’t do any story justice, but it is what the TPs want so that’s what they’ll get.
Hemming and hawing about which little detail is more important to include, we’re working on the dratted synopsis for a good two hours before the time arrives for our studies, that are to prepare us for the evening’s agreed upon lesson in town. Time is passing way too fast, allowing for only forty-five of pounding information into our brains before it is time to get ready and depart.
We just barely make it out the door for said lessons around five in the afternoon. We are most relieved to find the class rooms practically empty and spent two hours behind the school’s computers to fill in test after test until my brain feels like mush from multiple choice questions. I hate those things, especially when it involves trick questions where all the answers are basically right, but only one is the answer that is required. In all honesty, my fingers itch for a rewrite of the lesson material every time I read them.
I sometimes wonder if these lessons are specifically designed to drive me crazy.
The sentencing, the prose… it makes me shiver just thinking about it. I’m not a spelling freak, but this really drives me bonkers.
But that’s okay, this lesson comes to an end the way it always does, allowing me to put it aside by the time we get home and eat a simple dinner prepared by little sister.
The rest of the night is spend fine-tuning the synopsis… or as I like to call it, “the fine-tuning madness”… leaving me feeling completely empty and barely able to form a single coherent sentence for today’s recount. So I’ll leave it at this for now and hope that tomorrow will bring some inspiration for a proper blog... I should be able to come up with something a little more original than just prattling on about "just another day".
Personal messages need to be answered and some basic fun is waiting before the night comes to an end… hopefully sooner than it has for the past week or so.
My dreams were troubled, remnant memories of events from past and present mixed up with enough realism to make me wonder if they were dreams at all, or actual occurrences, instead.
I was restless for some reason, edgy too, and rather than wallow in it, I decided to use the energy instead of doing nothing. Fifty minutes of intense exercise followed; involving jumping about, gyrating to music, lifting weights, punching the boxing bag full force and then continuing to kick it until every single muscle in my body ached and whined in protest. Wonderful, though admittedly I almost tore a muscle somewhere when Knight II, the Great Dane, decided to slip past my rising leg and proceeded to make me change course mid-movement, lest I hit him in the ribs, full force.
Drenching in sweat, and more than ready for a hot shower what with the chill cooling my skin until it feels frozen, I head towards the patio, where a choir of screaming dogs welcomes me on my way to the bathroom. I soak up the warm water for a good ten minutes, before returning to the living area and booting up my computer for the day’s first session.
Hot coffee does an excellent job of making me warm, inside and out as I go over the messages of the day. That done and with big brother’s arrival we start to work on the latest book project, concerning the preparation of the next manuscript submission of my “No Escape from Rising Sun” series.
A detailed synopsis is required for this particular publisher we’ve decided upon, so while he gives me the necessary stats of each chapter, I try to write down something legible and basic, without losing the magic that makes up the actual story.
I dislike writing these things; as a matter of fact I detest it. Writing synopses and blurbs are one of the few things I despise about being an author. Just the basics really don’t do any story justice, but it is what the TPs want so that’s what they’ll get.
Hemming and hawing about which little detail is more important to include, we’re working on the dratted synopsis for a good two hours before the time arrives for our studies, that are to prepare us for the evening’s agreed upon lesson in town. Time is passing way too fast, allowing for only forty-five of pounding information into our brains before it is time to get ready and depart.
We just barely make it out the door for said lessons around five in the afternoon. We are most relieved to find the class rooms practically empty and spent two hours behind the school’s computers to fill in test after test until my brain feels like mush from multiple choice questions. I hate those things, especially when it involves trick questions where all the answers are basically right, but only one is the answer that is required. In all honesty, my fingers itch for a rewrite of the lesson material every time I read them.
I sometimes wonder if these lessons are specifically designed to drive me crazy.
The sentencing, the prose… it makes me shiver just thinking about it. I’m not a spelling freak, but this really drives me bonkers.
But that’s okay, this lesson comes to an end the way it always does, allowing me to put it aside by the time we get home and eat a simple dinner prepared by little sister.
The rest of the night is spend fine-tuning the synopsis… or as I like to call it, “the fine-tuning madness”… leaving me feeling completely empty and barely able to form a single coherent sentence for today’s recount. So I’ll leave it at this for now and hope that tomorrow will bring some inspiration for a proper blog... I should be able to come up with something a little more original than just prattling on about "just another day".
Personal messages need to be answered and some basic fun is waiting before the night comes to an end… hopefully sooner than it has for the past week or so.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sunday busyness.
Apparently I am still A. Klutz, my nose is slightly swollen from yesterday's mishap, my vision a little sluggish and my fingers are covered with band aids, but no matter, today was a busy day on which quite a bit was achieved. This makes it all worth it.
I awake to a combination of the alarm going off, and the two monsters bouncing up and down beside the bed while a distinct dry chill fills the cabin. Bright sunshine beats down through the trees surrounding my place, making me squint as I let the dogs out of the house and mutter a disgruntled; "yikes, sunlight" under my breath, as it pierces straight into my vision. Vampire tendencies die slowly, if ever. Even after four months of day time living, my eyes still haven't adjusted fully, and I doubt they ever will.
I am running late, what with the alarm having been set half an hour later, but I needed that extra time for sleeping when last night's business kept me up 'till the wee hours of morning. My head is pounding dully, but for now I decide to circumvent doing something about it in hopes that it'll ease with time.
A glance out over the valley, still semi-clear this day, shows a vague tip of white on the mountain across. I'm surprised at the sight. This time of year snow is not at all normal around here, and none of us have seen it in all the years that we have lived in this most southern part of Spain. When, but mostly if, snow falls in these parts it happens in the end of January or February, but never this close to October... a month that in the past really still belonged to summer- temperature wise.
I shrug the unfamiliar sight off to global warming and urge the dogs towards the courtyard and in effect the house where none of the family have yet arrived. I love these few minutes of relative calm, and use it wisely as I snap the leash on Trin Trin and give Chaos and Mosha a quick pat on the head before putting on the coffee machine.
What with the rain stopped at long last, laundry of the past few days is dry. This is the first task of the day for me and since I prefer to get it done before the rest of the household is up, set myself to taking down and folding what is dry, and hanging two new batches.
With a light breakfast consumed and my hot coffee beside me, I do a quick check of the messages, to my chagrin finding out that the latest project that I have sent to a publisher, had the wrong file attached. It was the unedited version, blast it, and after a series of words not suited for rehearsal, I resend it, hoping that they will overlook the error and still show some interest. It's unlikely, but I figure I won't know until I try.
When at last everyone is up, and the consumption of a painkiller against the pounding in my head is a fact, big brother and I head up to my cabin -without my dogs- to make permanent repairs on my roof, when the patch we did a few weeks ago proved to be insufficient during the night's deluge.
The sun is still shining when we go up, but clouds are steadily drawing near, starting with a slow drizzle by the time we are halfway through removing the aluminum plates. It is not at all easy to keep our footing as the drizzle rapidly turns into a downpour, causing big brother to temporarily lose his footing before he manages just barely to grab hold of the ledge.
We finish the chore asap, and then take our gear with us with a sense of job-well-done.
Feeling somewhat bolstered with the success of the roof repairs, we decide to take the Katana moped to the house, to see if we can do something about the persisting problem of an exploding lid of the cooling tank. The dratted vehicle has been to the repair shop time and again, but the problem persists each and every time.
While a quick dinner of fries and salad is being prepared, little brother and I set ourselves to the kitchen plumbing. The drain has been clogged for several days now and we're all annoyed by it enough for us to dive into the cupboard and take apart the tubes. After some examination we remove a foul smelling clod that has somehow lodged itself within, and after some trial and error manage to get all the tubes in working order without leakage. Plumbing is mostly dealt with by big brother, but since he is the one hauling the moped into the house -where it is nice and warm- we figure this is the least we can do.
By the time dinner is ready, the sink is functioning the way it should, allowing little sister do some proper cleaning after the meal has been consumed on the fly. Both big brother and I are determined to start with the moped before the day comes to an end, so time for a leisure meal is dismissed.
For a while we mess around with the plastic casing of the moped, slowly but steadily dismantling it until at long last most of the vehicle's frame is exposed... and with it, the disaster area below.
Rats have managed to find their way into the casing, or so we find, muttering our displeasure at the sight of exposed and cut wires that go every which way once the debris have been cleared away.
This is the campo, and though one would think that rats would think twice about coming anywhere near our vigilant dogs, they are a constant problem that simply won't go away no matter how hard we try. I have made my peace with rats, though. As long as they keep a low profile, and we catch a generous amount of them with traps, we can coexist.
Looking at the damage it seems like an unsurmountable task, but resigned to necessity we set ourselves to it nonetheless. The last repairs at the shop -which turned out to be unsuccessful- had cost up to 300 € in man hours alone. The budget at the moment simply won't allow for professional help.
Preliminary examination of the dismantled "body", shows that two tiny wires, that appear to be cut rather than gnawed upon, are neatly hidden within the steel carcass, and upon following them we decide that these wires might very well be the reason for the exploding cooling tank.
Two ends are attached to the cooling device of the engine, and since they lead nowhere this is the most likely assumption as I squat down to strip the wires and reattach them to their floating better halves.
What follows is the spark plug -it takes some searching before we are able to locate it- but in the end it is found hidden in a spot where I can just barely wedge my hand inside to screw it out and hand it to big brother for closer examination. It appears to be fine, and a quick check of the plug's functionality, confirms that assessment.
A second band aid joins the first on my hand -applied during the plumbing incident- by the time I finish screwing it back in place, and turn my attention to the next problem. My klutziness obviously hasn't passed yet, when throughout the entire adventure, a total of five appear on my poor left hand, which seems to bear the brunt of my present klutz status. Still, it does not negate the fact that headway is being made with what is slowly becoming a genuine project.
Determined, we move on to check for further damage- since the rats have most definitely messed everything up while trying to create a nest of sorts for the duration of the mopeds immobility.
Meticulously we take note of a multitude of different colored wires and plugs, removing what is damaged and replacing each and every single one until close to eleven PM the main wiring in the steering wheel is complete again.
After several failed attempts the engine starts up, with the pedal, rather than the battery, sputtering sluggishly before turning into a steady purr that allows us to check if all functions perform as they should.
I hold my breath as one by one each switch is turned and flicked. Buttons are pressed until, after at least three readjustments, everything appears to be in working order.
Headlights go on, warning lights flash -at the third try, admittedly- and brake lights shine a bright red. We actually cheer at our success of the day.
Winding some extra tape around each replaced wire, we slowly set ourselves to reapplying the plastic casing of the clunky steering wheel, leaving only the chest of the moped open, since the cooling tank will need a new lid before we can place it back in there.
Both big brother and I are tired by the time midnight has passed and the majority of the damage has been dealt with. Still we take in half an hour of studying while we allow our bodies to let go of some of the strain in the comfortable office chairs that flank the kitchen table.
Jokes are being tossed around between my four sibs and I, creating a wonderfully lighthearted atmosphere that really makes such a busy day worthwhile when at long last the evening has come to its end and the trip to my cabin is made, just like all the nights before.
The early morning's chill is fierce, making my fingers numb and skin itchy as I brew a quick cup of tea, read for about half an hour and then switch on the computer for a final couple of hours of relaxation on the net.
Sunday. It rarely passes with a feeling of content. Today it did, and I'm glad for it.
I awake to a combination of the alarm going off, and the two monsters bouncing up and down beside the bed while a distinct dry chill fills the cabin. Bright sunshine beats down through the trees surrounding my place, making me squint as I let the dogs out of the house and mutter a disgruntled; "yikes, sunlight" under my breath, as it pierces straight into my vision. Vampire tendencies die slowly, if ever. Even after four months of day time living, my eyes still haven't adjusted fully, and I doubt they ever will.
I am running late, what with the alarm having been set half an hour later, but I needed that extra time for sleeping when last night's business kept me up 'till the wee hours of morning. My head is pounding dully, but for now I decide to circumvent doing something about it in hopes that it'll ease with time.
A glance out over the valley, still semi-clear this day, shows a vague tip of white on the mountain across. I'm surprised at the sight. This time of year snow is not at all normal around here, and none of us have seen it in all the years that we have lived in this most southern part of Spain. When, but mostly if, snow falls in these parts it happens in the end of January or February, but never this close to October... a month that in the past really still belonged to summer- temperature wise.
I shrug the unfamiliar sight off to global warming and urge the dogs towards the courtyard and in effect the house where none of the family have yet arrived. I love these few minutes of relative calm, and use it wisely as I snap the leash on Trin Trin and give Chaos and Mosha a quick pat on the head before putting on the coffee machine.
What with the rain stopped at long last, laundry of the past few days is dry. This is the first task of the day for me and since I prefer to get it done before the rest of the household is up, set myself to taking down and folding what is dry, and hanging two new batches.
With a light breakfast consumed and my hot coffee beside me, I do a quick check of the messages, to my chagrin finding out that the latest project that I have sent to a publisher, had the wrong file attached. It was the unedited version, blast it, and after a series of words not suited for rehearsal, I resend it, hoping that they will overlook the error and still show some interest. It's unlikely, but I figure I won't know until I try.
When at last everyone is up, and the consumption of a painkiller against the pounding in my head is a fact, big brother and I head up to my cabin -without my dogs- to make permanent repairs on my roof, when the patch we did a few weeks ago proved to be insufficient during the night's deluge.
The sun is still shining when we go up, but clouds are steadily drawing near, starting with a slow drizzle by the time we are halfway through removing the aluminum plates. It is not at all easy to keep our footing as the drizzle rapidly turns into a downpour, causing big brother to temporarily lose his footing before he manages just barely to grab hold of the ledge.
We finish the chore asap, and then take our gear with us with a sense of job-well-done.
Feeling somewhat bolstered with the success of the roof repairs, we decide to take the Katana moped to the house, to see if we can do something about the persisting problem of an exploding lid of the cooling tank. The dratted vehicle has been to the repair shop time and again, but the problem persists each and every time.
While a quick dinner of fries and salad is being prepared, little brother and I set ourselves to the kitchen plumbing. The drain has been clogged for several days now and we're all annoyed by it enough for us to dive into the cupboard and take apart the tubes. After some examination we remove a foul smelling clod that has somehow lodged itself within, and after some trial and error manage to get all the tubes in working order without leakage. Plumbing is mostly dealt with by big brother, but since he is the one hauling the moped into the house -where it is nice and warm- we figure this is the least we can do.
By the time dinner is ready, the sink is functioning the way it should, allowing little sister do some proper cleaning after the meal has been consumed on the fly. Both big brother and I are determined to start with the moped before the day comes to an end, so time for a leisure meal is dismissed.
For a while we mess around with the plastic casing of the moped, slowly but steadily dismantling it until at long last most of the vehicle's frame is exposed... and with it, the disaster area below.
Rats have managed to find their way into the casing, or so we find, muttering our displeasure at the sight of exposed and cut wires that go every which way once the debris have been cleared away.
This is the campo, and though one would think that rats would think twice about coming anywhere near our vigilant dogs, they are a constant problem that simply won't go away no matter how hard we try. I have made my peace with rats, though. As long as they keep a low profile, and we catch a generous amount of them with traps, we can coexist.
Looking at the damage it seems like an unsurmountable task, but resigned to necessity we set ourselves to it nonetheless. The last repairs at the shop -which turned out to be unsuccessful- had cost up to 300 € in man hours alone. The budget at the moment simply won't allow for professional help.
Preliminary examination of the dismantled "body", shows that two tiny wires, that appear to be cut rather than gnawed upon, are neatly hidden within the steel carcass, and upon following them we decide that these wires might very well be the reason for the exploding cooling tank.
Two ends are attached to the cooling device of the engine, and since they lead nowhere this is the most likely assumption as I squat down to strip the wires and reattach them to their floating better halves.
What follows is the spark plug -it takes some searching before we are able to locate it- but in the end it is found hidden in a spot where I can just barely wedge my hand inside to screw it out and hand it to big brother for closer examination. It appears to be fine, and a quick check of the plug's functionality, confirms that assessment.
A second band aid joins the first on my hand -applied during the plumbing incident- by the time I finish screwing it back in place, and turn my attention to the next problem. My klutziness obviously hasn't passed yet, when throughout the entire adventure, a total of five appear on my poor left hand, which seems to bear the brunt of my present klutz status. Still, it does not negate the fact that headway is being made with what is slowly becoming a genuine project.
Determined, we move on to check for further damage- since the rats have most definitely messed everything up while trying to create a nest of sorts for the duration of the mopeds immobility.
Meticulously we take note of a multitude of different colored wires and plugs, removing what is damaged and replacing each and every single one until close to eleven PM the main wiring in the steering wheel is complete again.
After several failed attempts the engine starts up, with the pedal, rather than the battery, sputtering sluggishly before turning into a steady purr that allows us to check if all functions perform as they should.
I hold my breath as one by one each switch is turned and flicked. Buttons are pressed until, after at least three readjustments, everything appears to be in working order.
Headlights go on, warning lights flash -at the third try, admittedly- and brake lights shine a bright red. We actually cheer at our success of the day.
Winding some extra tape around each replaced wire, we slowly set ourselves to reapplying the plastic casing of the clunky steering wheel, leaving only the chest of the moped open, since the cooling tank will need a new lid before we can place it back in there.
Both big brother and I are tired by the time midnight has passed and the majority of the damage has been dealt with. Still we take in half an hour of studying while we allow our bodies to let go of some of the strain in the comfortable office chairs that flank the kitchen table.
Jokes are being tossed around between my four sibs and I, creating a wonderfully lighthearted atmosphere that really makes such a busy day worthwhile when at long last the evening has come to its end and the trip to my cabin is made, just like all the nights before.
The early morning's chill is fierce, making my fingers numb and skin itchy as I brew a quick cup of tea, read for about half an hour and then switch on the computer for a final couple of hours of relaxation on the net.
Sunday. It rarely passes with a feeling of content. Today it did, and I'm glad for it.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Accident prone for a day.
Call me Klutz. A. Klutz, hah.
Well, the day arrives with gloomy rain pounding down on the roof, while once again the mountain is cloaked in clouds.
There are some dreams lingering in my mind when I get up, but, as dreams tend to do, they fade as "reality" catches up with me, forcing me to face the day head on.
It is strange, the way of reality, really. The familiar phrase "reality catches up on you" does indicate that some wariness towards it is warranted, as it is known to sneak up on you when you least expect it.
Reality in life, I think is most certainly a living entity of sorts that leers around every corner, waiting to make your life miserable, especially when something good has happened. It seems to revel in "catching" you unawares, and setting you in in your so-called rightful place, and I sometimes theorize that reality is actually a cruel creature, forever haunting us.
But I get distracted, as usual. Back to the recount of the day:
The path from my cabin is terribly muddy, my shoes sinking in a good inch while I make my way to the main house, and skid occasionally when keeping a weary eye on Trin Trin, the Monster Boxer who is more than eager to pounce on the Labs, keeps me from watching my footing. A large stick in my hand keeps her entertained. While wiggling it enticingly for the Boxer, I end up with a large splinter that embeds itself in the side of my palm just to annoy me, I'm sure.
Today promises to be more than a little challenging.
The house is damp with the night's chill still lingering, so after lighting some lamps I proceed towards the gas heaters and fire them up to dry and warm the place before the rest of the dogs and family members join me.
Though quite futile on days such as these, I hang a batch of laundry and then have a quick breakfast ere checking my messages of the day and settling down to do some serious writing...I am fully prepared to dive in, too, right up until it becomes apparent that more pressing matters demand attention.
Our tenant -who was hospitalized several weeks ago- will be returning in just a few weeks and before that time arrives we are going to have to make some adjustments to her bungalow. She'll be bound to a wheelchair for at least a while until her rehabilitation starts to take root, and for that reason alone, accommodations have to be met.
Together, big brother an I head up the mountain, with the rain coming down full force and drenching any uncovered part of us in just seconds. Once there, we take stock of what needs to be done. Measurements for the new flooring that will need to be put down are taken, along with a quick list of other things that have to be repaired. And while we're there anyway, we decide to move our tenant's closet in favor of creating easy access to her bathroom.
The closet isn't all that heavy, and a quick look assures us that shifting it with its back against the wall won't be much of a problem on such short notice.
Together we grab it on both sides, pushing and shoving it back when suddenly a whispery sound overhead makes me glance up, just when we've pitch the large piece of furniture slightly forward.
I am barely in time to catch the flurry of movement overhead, when I tilt my head back to locate the origin of the sound, wondering for only a moment whether to dodge the white plastic bag sliding straight at me, or trying to catch it instead. A full frontal collision with the bag... and the gleaming black plastic box it contains, decides it for me.
Whap! A noisy crack echoes through the space as for a full three seconds I try to decide whether it hurts or not. A blinding flash of something very much like belated pain pounds through my skull, originating from the bridge of my nose, stabs deeply into my brain.
I mutter a few choice words as the object that caused it, thuds to the concrete floor with a crack and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as darkness swirls around me.
Flaying around in a rather inelegant fashion, with the startled outcries of big brother and my honorary grandpa who have witnessed the entire thing, coming from both sides, I grab for -and miss- big brother's sleeve. Momentum makes my back slam against the wall before I sag through legs that suddenly feel like jelly.
My vision is alternating between complete black and flashing lights at that time and my butt is rapidly soaking up wetness from the floor while I try to decide whether to hold on to the wall behind me or nurse my pounding face, instead.
Involuntary tears that have little to do with the pain, and everything with the automatic response of my protesting eyes, roll down my cheeks when I finally raise my hands to my face and carefully probe nose and forehead. No damage so far, and a few deep breaths follow when slowly the pounding begins to subside.
"What the heck was that?" I manage to ground out, uttering a few more choice words, just for good measure, as big brother, little more than a bodiless voice to me at this particular time, explains that it was and old clunky cassette recorder from the early eighties which had made the unfortunate introduction to my face.
Though my eyes are a bit blurry, and turn around in their sockets a bit before I am able to focus, no skin is broken and no blood flows, assuring me that however startling the event was, no lasting damage is done.
After a few minutes of recovery, some noisy sniffs and a helping hand from big brother and grandpa, I scramble to me feet and play supervisor to the remainder of the measurements being taken.
Once done, we return to the house, discussing what all needs to be done and share a wonderful meal prepared by the younger sibs while going over supplies that we'll have to get for the modifications to the bungalow.
During most of the evening that follows, little discomfort or even thoughts are spared to the event, as dishes are washed, pans scrubbed and cupboards are cleaned in pursuit of the meal we have shared.
A slight pounding finally resurfaces by the time the day comes to an end, rewarding me with a generous headache now that the time for rest has arrived.
Klutziness... it is much like reality: It'll hit you when you least expect it.
Well, the day arrives with gloomy rain pounding down on the roof, while once again the mountain is cloaked in clouds.
There are some dreams lingering in my mind when I get up, but, as dreams tend to do, they fade as "reality" catches up with me, forcing me to face the day head on.
It is strange, the way of reality, really. The familiar phrase "reality catches up on you" does indicate that some wariness towards it is warranted, as it is known to sneak up on you when you least expect it.
Reality in life, I think is most certainly a living entity of sorts that leers around every corner, waiting to make your life miserable, especially when something good has happened. It seems to revel in "catching" you unawares, and setting you in in your so-called rightful place, and I sometimes theorize that reality is actually a cruel creature, forever haunting us.
But I get distracted, as usual. Back to the recount of the day:
The path from my cabin is terribly muddy, my shoes sinking in a good inch while I make my way to the main house, and skid occasionally when keeping a weary eye on Trin Trin, the Monster Boxer who is more than eager to pounce on the Labs, keeps me from watching my footing. A large stick in my hand keeps her entertained. While wiggling it enticingly for the Boxer, I end up with a large splinter that embeds itself in the side of my palm just to annoy me, I'm sure.
Today promises to be more than a little challenging.
The house is damp with the night's chill still lingering, so after lighting some lamps I proceed towards the gas heaters and fire them up to dry and warm the place before the rest of the dogs and family members join me.
Though quite futile on days such as these, I hang a batch of laundry and then have a quick breakfast ere checking my messages of the day and settling down to do some serious writing...I am fully prepared to dive in, too, right up until it becomes apparent that more pressing matters demand attention.
Our tenant -who was hospitalized several weeks ago- will be returning in just a few weeks and before that time arrives we are going to have to make some adjustments to her bungalow. She'll be bound to a wheelchair for at least a while until her rehabilitation starts to take root, and for that reason alone, accommodations have to be met.
Together, big brother an I head up the mountain, with the rain coming down full force and drenching any uncovered part of us in just seconds. Once there, we take stock of what needs to be done. Measurements for the new flooring that will need to be put down are taken, along with a quick list of other things that have to be repaired. And while we're there anyway, we decide to move our tenant's closet in favor of creating easy access to her bathroom.
The closet isn't all that heavy, and a quick look assures us that shifting it with its back against the wall won't be much of a problem on such short notice.
Together we grab it on both sides, pushing and shoving it back when suddenly a whispery sound overhead makes me glance up, just when we've pitch the large piece of furniture slightly forward.
I am barely in time to catch the flurry of movement overhead, when I tilt my head back to locate the origin of the sound, wondering for only a moment whether to dodge the white plastic bag sliding straight at me, or trying to catch it instead. A full frontal collision with the bag... and the gleaming black plastic box it contains, decides it for me.
Whap! A noisy crack echoes through the space as for a full three seconds I try to decide whether it hurts or not. A blinding flash of something very much like belated pain pounds through my skull, originating from the bridge of my nose, stabs deeply into my brain.
I mutter a few choice words as the object that caused it, thuds to the concrete floor with a crack and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as darkness swirls around me.
Flaying around in a rather inelegant fashion, with the startled outcries of big brother and my honorary grandpa who have witnessed the entire thing, coming from both sides, I grab for -and miss- big brother's sleeve. Momentum makes my back slam against the wall before I sag through legs that suddenly feel like jelly.
My vision is alternating between complete black and flashing lights at that time and my butt is rapidly soaking up wetness from the floor while I try to decide whether to hold on to the wall behind me or nurse my pounding face, instead.
Involuntary tears that have little to do with the pain, and everything with the automatic response of my protesting eyes, roll down my cheeks when I finally raise my hands to my face and carefully probe nose and forehead. No damage so far, and a few deep breaths follow when slowly the pounding begins to subside.
"What the heck was that?" I manage to ground out, uttering a few more choice words, just for good measure, as big brother, little more than a bodiless voice to me at this particular time, explains that it was and old clunky cassette recorder from the early eighties which had made the unfortunate introduction to my face.
Though my eyes are a bit blurry, and turn around in their sockets a bit before I am able to focus, no skin is broken and no blood flows, assuring me that however startling the event was, no lasting damage is done.
After a few minutes of recovery, some noisy sniffs and a helping hand from big brother and grandpa, I scramble to me feet and play supervisor to the remainder of the measurements being taken.
Once done, we return to the house, discussing what all needs to be done and share a wonderful meal prepared by the younger sibs while going over supplies that we'll have to get for the modifications to the bungalow.
During most of the evening that follows, little discomfort or even thoughts are spared to the event, as dishes are washed, pans scrubbed and cupboards are cleaned in pursuit of the meal we have shared.
A slight pounding finally resurfaces by the time the day comes to an end, rewarding me with a generous headache now that the time for rest has arrived.
Klutziness... it is much like reality: It'll hit you when you least expect it.
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