isis

I bottle fed you and your brother when you were four weeks old and your mother had abandoned you. Your brother suffered from seizures; I remember sitting up with him at night, curled in a blanket in my chest, hoping he would snap out of it, praying I didn’t have to do the thing the vet wanted us to do and put him to sleep.

You, you sat on my knee, head cocked, watching Woody Harrelson and Emma Stone battle the dead in Zombieland. You were hyper-focused on it.

Your brother made it, and so did you, and just like your other sibling, Magnus, whom several different vets told me to put down due to his heart murmur, your brother has persevered. Magnus made it to twenty. Your twin is fifteen and counting.

It kills me that you went first. Both of you were so malnutritioned. You looked like kittens in face, if not in weight, right to the end. Your eyes peered into me as we came to your final hours, in a way that Magnus, or Cassie, or Loki, didn’t, who seemed to disappear before their bodies did.

I can barely forgive myself, even though I know it was the right thing to do. I refused to let you suffer the way Cassie did, when we thought she was getting better, recovering, even as it became clearer and clearer that she was not.

Still, we waited as long as we could, gave you every last minute. Like with Cass, we pray we didn’t do that solely for us.

I’m going to miss you, beautiful baby girl. Your brother already does. He just about broke me, standing up on his back paws, his front paws reached out on the glass of the back door as he watched us lower you into the ground.

I’m not a spiritual man, preferring the Degrasse Tyson’s merging atoms to an ever-present afterlife, but your mother has always believed that souls return as animals to visit the people they loved. She talked about you meeting up with your beloved Cassie, with Magnus, now much nicer to you than he ever was in life, with Loki, your fellow white kitty and protector, and Nyka, mother of the brood, and gentle giant.

And as we dug outside, talking about what you might come back as, five freaking blue jays, FIVE OF THEM, came flying in, squawking and carrying on, flitting about our deck and tree, the roof and the fence.

When’s the last time you’ve seen five blue jays together? I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than two. They’re a bit of a lonesome bird.

In that moment, I believed. There is more to this world than dirt and stone. There is love, and pain, and hearts connecting in ways unexplainable by rational thought.

I’m going to miss you, girl, and I pray we’re a long way away from another.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1508 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Rocket Ship Galileo, Robert Heinlein
Comics: The Scumbag 1-2, Seven To Eternity 14-15
Music: Warpaint, The Black Crowes

there was nothing good about today

Nothing. I’ll write up a whole thing tomorrow about our baby girl and how much she meant to us, but I’m dehydrated from tears and the sweat of digging a grave in thirty-degree-celsius heat (not to mention lack of sleep), and I’ve got a pounding headache.

Suffice it to say, we’ve lost something beautiful today, and my heart hangs in tattered shreds.

People say they’re just animals, but fuck them. Anyone who doesn’t understand the love between a person and their pet is emotionally stunted.

You might as well take your heart and throw it in a river, for all the good it’s doing, you soulless jerk.

Sorry, I’ve never gotten over the comment about our first loss: “It’s just a cat.”

Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1048 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Rocket Ship Galileo, Robert Heinlein
Comics: Death Or Glory 11, Low 23-25
Music: Warp Bootleg, CKY

tomorrow is going to suck

I’ll have a lot more to say on that tomorrow, but suffice it to say, the day is going to be a real bummer.

The anticipation is almost worse than the act itself; neither of which makes me feel anything but horrid.

I’m so sorry, baby.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 701 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Rocket Ship Galileo, Robert Heinlein
Comics: Deadly Class 43-44, Death Or Glory 9-10
Music: Warning, Green Day

l names

There’s a bit in Bad Neighbours regarding last names, so I’ve been trying to come up with as many similar sounding L names as possible. I think I’ve managed it, but well, I’ve hit a wall and then I had to look it up.

My brain is jello.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 43 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Myths & Texts, Gary Snyder
Comics: Death And Glory 6-8, Deadly Class 42
Music: War Sucks, Let's Party!, Anti-Flag (damn straight)

i’m probably going to take some heat for that

Yesterday’s post, but I truly believe that innocent until proven guilty is the way to go. I don’t know the reality of what happened that night but what was presented in court (and I’ll fully admit to reading only the final verdict, because I always like to withhold judgment until I know enough facts to make a decision), but I do know that those boys were convicted in the court of public opinion way before there was even a trial.

Before anyone even knew anything beyond the broadest strokes of the allegations rendered.

And that’s not right. If they were guilty, fuck ’em, but as a society, we are beholden to be better than this. We need to be better toward the victims, less instantly assumptive about the presumption of guilt.

An accusation does not equal guilt. It doesn’t guarantee innocence.

It’s a statement, like a hypothesis in science. We believe this is what happened; now let’s check the facts and parse the logic to see if that adds up.

The law must be dispassionate; I know we’re all into victimhood these days, and certainly, underserved communities and minorities are due a major review and reconstruction of the social contract.

But innocent until proven guilty is not one of them.

If you don’t understand that, if you would rather presume guilt and refuse to change your mind, no matter the evidence against, well, then, I’m sorry. We are going to disagree.

And for that, I will be crucified.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1838 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Odds On, John Crichton (Michael Lange)
Comics: Black Science 42-43, Deadly Class 40-41
Music: War On The Blvd, Sublime

woo, doggie

I’m playing in the land of metaphor this morning, detailing exactly where the left coincides with the right and the metaphors that bind them, in the context of Bad Neighbours.

Ironically, it ended being filtered through the judge’s verdict on the Hockey Canada sexual assault case acquittal, in which she posited that while we are all on the train of believing victims, doing so without examination essentially means applying the doctrine of guilty until proven innocent, when our system runs on innocent until proven guilty. There was enough conflicts, contradictions and assertions that didn’t agree with established facts in the case for the judge to reasonably decide that she could not say there was a crime committed, beyond doubt.

Reading the specifics of her verdict, I would probably make the same choice.

And it’s important, the distinction of innocent until proven guilty versus guilty until proven innocent. How many of us had listened to someone make assertions about the behaviour of their ex, or a coworker, or a friend or enemy that had no actual bearing in reality, even if we didn’t know it at the time? How many of us have had someone assert that their significant other was mistreating them, or playing the role of victim, or rationalizing away bad or regrettable behaviour on their part, because they didn’t actually want to take responsibility for what happened?

Most people don’t want to be responsible for their own actions. They live in denial. They falsely equivocate, they exaggerate, they outright lie, often to the point of deluding themselves as to what’s actually real, in order to avoid accountability for what’s ultimately on them.

You say you want freedom? You want truth?

You have to accept two things then: understand that total freedom comes with total responsibility – these are inseparable – and secondly, that reality is not what you want it to be, it’s what is, and if you want truth, you have to be willing to suspend your beliefs and the little fictions you tell yourself about yourself, or about the way things “should” be, and surrender your open, empty mind to what is, no matter the consequences.

Freedom is responsibility. Freedom is accepting consequence. Truth is what is, it’s not what you’d like to to be, or how you want to frame it. It’s what is.

So, innocent until proven guilty is the better way to go, because believing the accuser means automatically accepting their version of the truth, which we all know can be a highly creative, even self-deluding fiction at times. It can also be true, but that’s what the process is meant to find out (and admittedly, that depends on the competence and relative framework of the process, whether truly fair, fact-finding mission or kangaroo court). But guilty until proven innocent It’s not about what is; it’s about what’s asserted; it’s hypothesis without testing. You claim donkeys can fly, you have to prove that they can. The people you’re telling they can don’t.

That’s the way it works.

And that’s infinitely better than someone shouting, “Donkeys can fly!” and then having everyone that heard them run around scrambling to build wings for mules to make it true.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 2749 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Odds On, Michael Lange (John Crichton)
Comics: Low 22, Black Science 40-41, Deadly Class 39
Music: War On Errorism, NOFX (legit one of the best punk albums ever written)

martyrs and charlatans

I once saw a chart that showed someone who worked super hard but made no connections versus someone who didn’t work, but made nothing but connections, and basically, it stuck them in two categories.

All work and no connection creates self-imposed martyrdom, while all connection and no work creates charlatans. Bullshitters versus drudge horses, with those that can find the balance (working hard and creating worthwhile things versus connecting with fans, with industry leaders and insiders, in a genuine, non-bullshit manner) as the true exceptions, the step above the rest. A martyr can find its work recognized and suddenly reach popularity, only to flame out over time (but still leaving behind good work).

A charlatan can become popular for nothing, and lose everything and be leave nothing behind.

I’m a martyr right now, that’s for sure.

May I never be a charlatan.

May I someday find the balance.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1114 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Odds On, John Lange (Michael Crichton)
Comics: Deadly Class 37-38, Black Science 39, Low 21
Music: War, U2

one more week

One week until we return to the glorious land of my forbears, the slopes of the Canadian shield, granite and mounted with tall pines and wild blueberries, deep, freezing lakes and a sky so full of stars one can forget there is anything else.

There is nothing else.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1524 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Odds On, Michael Crichton (as John Lange)
Comics: Seven To Eternity 12-13, Low 20, Deadly Class 36
Music: Walls And Bridges, John Lennon

on to draft three

Some minor shit to settle in between for clarity, but by the time we head up to Temagami, I should be knuckle deep in the third draft.

Damn, dog.

Scandulus.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1244 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Poorhouse Fair, John Updike (they're old and bigoted, is that the point?)
Comics: Death Or Glory 4-5, Black Science 38, Seven To Eternity 11
Music: Walking After You, Foo Fighters

diagonal

And I thought yesterday was bad.

Look out, world, here I flop on my face.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1304 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Poorhouse Fair, John Updike
Comics: Deadly Class 35, Death Or Glory 3, Black Science 37, Seven To Eternity 10
Music: Walk On The Wild Side: The Best Of Lou Reed, Lou Reed