What's going on Cyberspace?
I spent the night at a friend's yesterday. We decided to cook something incredible and whipped up a cheese and broccoli souffle. Incredible. Followed by a fritatta this morning - a fritatta with caramelized onions, broccoli and cheddar cheese on a bed of fried potatoes. Wow. Way to go M(my tastebuds worship you)..that was amazing!
Being a Saturday, I hope you're in the mood to see a little bit of what I'm looking at this week. Enjoy!
"Capitalism vs Corporatism"
I swear, I'm not crazy...this stuff sounds a little loony, but I'm betting on seeing at least a couple of these come to fruition within my lifetime.
Zombie Guns?
And if my little introduction started your stomach a-grumblin', one of the other amazing cooks I know has a website that you should be monitoring...all of the recipes will knock your socks off.
www.foodfigure.com
Go check 'em out, I'll be taking tomorrow off, as it's Easter! Have a great day!
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestion are encouraged and appreciated!
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Friday, 6 April 2012
Good Friday Freewrite
Good Afternoon Cyberspace.
I just rolled out of bed and it is an absolutely beautiful day. So, out of respect for Mother Nature gracing us with such a gorgeous occasion, I am going to write something very quickly. I'm going to do a freewrite. I'm just going to write and see what comes out. I will not edit it (save for spelling and maybe punctuation if I feel like it) so what I write is exactly what you'll read. I hope something interesting develops...
I slept in today...it's been a loooooong time since I can remember sleeping in so late. I don't know what happened...I wasn't particularly tired before I went to bed. Yet I still slept until noon. I recently read a small textbook from the '60's called "The Anatomy of Sleep." It was surprisingly interesting, especially the stages of sleep and their different effects on your sleeping body. As you may have seen in the movie 'Inception' there are four stages of sleep, the fourth being the deepest. I guess the only explanation I can give for sleeping for so long is that I fell down the proverbial staircase of sleep and landed hard in a stage 4 four slumber. That kind of sounds like what Lewis Carroll was envisioning when he wrote 'Alice in Wonderland.' I know that everyone says he must have been high on LSD or something to that effect...but why couldn't he have just dreamed it? Dreams are an entirely different reality...dreams are the only place where we are bound by no laws. I've had some pretty crazy dreams in my day (well in my night mostly I suppose) and I'm sure that you have as well. One of the dreams that sticks out most in my mind is a recurring dream I had when I was younger. First, you have to understand that I was completely obsessed with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - I had a closet full of pizza throwers, turtle vans, turtle copters and action figures...not to mention my bedspread, curtains, floormat, underwear, pajamas, etc. Anyway...so I used to always begin this dream in some dark, dank, foreboding city. Suddenly I would catch a glimpse of something green in glow of a streetlamp...and of course, I had to follow it. I would follow these fleeting glimpses of green (or shell, or headband, or whatever) until the creature I was following eventually ended up going down a manhole cover into the sewer. I would follow all the way back to the lair, at which point I would realize that I was actually chillin' with the Turtles! Of course we would order pizza, Splinter would say something profound while Donotello fiddled with some type of gadget...Raphael would sit off in the corner...Leonardo and Michealangelo (he was my favourite by far, is that why I ended up liking The Fresh Prince so much? hmmmm) would sit with me on some ratty old couch and watch the old beat up TV. And wouldn't you know that every single time April O'Neill would come on with a breaking news story - a werewolf terrorizing the city. I'm dead serious, I dreamed this over and over and over again. The Turtles would spring to life and take me along for the ride. We would pile into the Turtle Van and follow the sirens and screams right to the werewolf. We fought - but the werewolf always won. Donotello would always be the first to concede defeat with a cry something akin to "We can't beat it here, let's at least get it away from the people!" So we would taunt the werewolf and do everything we had to to get it to follow us - and we always ended up on the same hillside. This was no ordinary hill...the top of the hill was a cliff. There was a single barren tree that grew here...grew out over the abyss. Everytime, the werewolf would push us back, further and further, until we were forced to climb the tree or face being eaten by the damn wolf. I still have the image in my head of the four Ninja Turtles and I clinging to the limbs of the tree; the full orange moon dominating the night sky; holding on for dear life or until the sun rose. This was always the point that I would wake up. I know, I know...anti-climatic right? Well how do you think I feel? I still wonder what the hell happened.
Well, that went somewhere completely unexpected and weird, but I promised you I would write unedited, so there it is. I hope you enjoyed at least some part of my childhood hero nightmare and learned a very valuable lesson - don't ever get cornered by a werewolf...it sucks.
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
I just rolled out of bed and it is an absolutely beautiful day. So, out of respect for Mother Nature gracing us with such a gorgeous occasion, I am going to write something very quickly. I'm going to do a freewrite. I'm just going to write and see what comes out. I will not edit it (save for spelling and maybe punctuation if I feel like it) so what I write is exactly what you'll read. I hope something interesting develops...
I slept in today...it's been a loooooong time since I can remember sleeping in so late. I don't know what happened...I wasn't particularly tired before I went to bed. Yet I still slept until noon. I recently read a small textbook from the '60's called "The Anatomy of Sleep." It was surprisingly interesting, especially the stages of sleep and their different effects on your sleeping body. As you may have seen in the movie 'Inception' there are four stages of sleep, the fourth being the deepest. I guess the only explanation I can give for sleeping for so long is that I fell down the proverbial staircase of sleep and landed hard in a stage 4 four slumber. That kind of sounds like what Lewis Carroll was envisioning when he wrote 'Alice in Wonderland.' I know that everyone says he must have been high on LSD or something to that effect...but why couldn't he have just dreamed it? Dreams are an entirely different reality...dreams are the only place where we are bound by no laws. I've had some pretty crazy dreams in my day (well in my night mostly I suppose) and I'm sure that you have as well. One of the dreams that sticks out most in my mind is a recurring dream I had when I was younger. First, you have to understand that I was completely obsessed with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - I had a closet full of pizza throwers, turtle vans, turtle copters and action figures...not to mention my bedspread, curtains, floormat, underwear, pajamas, etc. Anyway...so I used to always begin this dream in some dark, dank, foreboding city. Suddenly I would catch a glimpse of something green in glow of a streetlamp...and of course, I had to follow it. I would follow these fleeting glimpses of green (or shell, or headband, or whatever) until the creature I was following eventually ended up going down a manhole cover into the sewer. I would follow all the way back to the lair, at which point I would realize that I was actually chillin' with the Turtles! Of course we would order pizza, Splinter would say something profound while Donotello fiddled with some type of gadget...Raphael would sit off in the corner...Leonardo and Michealangelo (he was my favourite by far, is that why I ended up liking The Fresh Prince so much? hmmmm) would sit with me on some ratty old couch and watch the old beat up TV. And wouldn't you know that every single time April O'Neill would come on with a breaking news story - a werewolf terrorizing the city. I'm dead serious, I dreamed this over and over and over again. The Turtles would spring to life and take me along for the ride. We would pile into the Turtle Van and follow the sirens and screams right to the werewolf. We fought - but the werewolf always won. Donotello would always be the first to concede defeat with a cry something akin to "We can't beat it here, let's at least get it away from the people!" So we would taunt the werewolf and do everything we had to to get it to follow us - and we always ended up on the same hillside. This was no ordinary hill...the top of the hill was a cliff. There was a single barren tree that grew here...grew out over the abyss. Everytime, the werewolf would push us back, further and further, until we were forced to climb the tree or face being eaten by the damn wolf. I still have the image in my head of the four Ninja Turtles and I clinging to the limbs of the tree; the full orange moon dominating the night sky; holding on for dear life or until the sun rose. This was always the point that I would wake up. I know, I know...anti-climatic right? Well how do you think I feel? I still wonder what the hell happened.
Well, that went somewhere completely unexpected and weird, but I promised you I would write unedited, so there it is. I hope you enjoyed at least some part of my childhood hero nightmare and learned a very valuable lesson - don't ever get cornered by a werewolf...it sucks.
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
Thursday, 5 April 2012
So You Say You Want A Revolution...
Salutations Cyberspace.
I hope that you are well this morning. While I was thinking of what to write about today, I was perusing today's news stories and there was nothing that really jumped out at me. Then I started to notice a common theme - Canadian discontent with the Harper government and the moves it's been making since finally gaining the majority. I could sit and rag on some of these issues, such as the F-35 debacle or the defense cuts. But you know me, Cyberspace...I want to tango with the bigger issue at stake here - the misrepresentation of the Canadian people and how to beat it.
I'm sure that you know how the political system works in Canada...each riding elects an official to represent them and that individual is responsible for voting on the issues on behalf of the people he or she was elected by. With all the apparent unrest among the population, however, it seems as though there are more and more elected officials representing their own ideas as opposed to the ideas of the people. I have an extremely cheap way of circumventing this.
I propose that each bill put before the House of Commons be voted on by the actual people of the country. Yes - I'm suggesting that we have a referendum on every single issue. Sure, even ten years ago this may have sounded absolutely absurd...but now there isn't a single person I know that doesn't use the internet. So why not hire a company for a year to develop secure referendum software - this eliminates any problems with voter confusion, (such as the misinformation given to voters during the robocall scandal) allows each individual person's voice to be heard and eliminates political bribery. Not to mention the amount of elected officials that would no longer be needed, (you know...those ones who represent the people for five years and then get an $80,000/year pension for the rest of their lives that come directly from our tax dollars) which automatically gives our economy a boost.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not against elected officials. I am against corporations and banks being able to sway votes based on bribery, promises of financial security and other means that I'm sure I am unaware of. I believe that there are some honest politicians, and I believe that their jobs are unbelievably important to our country. But when there's so much wealth controlled by such a small group, that group has the power to sway votes - it's a fact. With great power comes great responsibility and I feel as though this responsibility should belong to the population of Canada - a true democracy.
Think about the recently passed Bill C-10 (if you don't know what this is, you can read a little bit about this ridiculousness here) which has some valid points, (such as minimum sentences for child sex offenders) but also has some MAJOR violations (such as giving the gov't the ability to deny any immigrant a work permit for no reason, mandatory jail sentences that put somebody caught with a single marijuana joint away longer than the aforementioned child sex offender, the right of any "victim of terror" to sue any accused "terrorist", so on and so forth) of Canadian rights and liberties. I would have loved to vote on that bill (it almost didn't make it through parliament) and had my views properly expressed.
I might be crazy. To me, this makes sense. It strips power from the government and gives it back to the people - after all in a true democracy the government abides by the wants of the people, not the other way around (people scared of the gov't and feeling completely powerless to change any of their policies) which is what we seem to have right now. I mean, it even seems completely ridiculous to me that we have the Conservative party on the right wing and both the NDP and Liberal party on the left. Doesn't this stack the odds incredibly in Conservative favour?
Anyway, I've ranted enough. My point - let's give the power back to the people.
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestion are encouraged and appreciated!
PS - Big thanks to John Lennon for the title - you are sorely missed.
I hope that you are well this morning. While I was thinking of what to write about today, I was perusing today's news stories and there was nothing that really jumped out at me. Then I started to notice a common theme - Canadian discontent with the Harper government and the moves it's been making since finally gaining the majority. I could sit and rag on some of these issues, such as the F-35 debacle or the defense cuts. But you know me, Cyberspace...I want to tango with the bigger issue at stake here - the misrepresentation of the Canadian people and how to beat it.
I'm sure that you know how the political system works in Canada...each riding elects an official to represent them and that individual is responsible for voting on the issues on behalf of the people he or she was elected by. With all the apparent unrest among the population, however, it seems as though there are more and more elected officials representing their own ideas as opposed to the ideas of the people. I have an extremely cheap way of circumventing this.
I propose that each bill put before the House of Commons be voted on by the actual people of the country. Yes - I'm suggesting that we have a referendum on every single issue. Sure, even ten years ago this may have sounded absolutely absurd...but now there isn't a single person I know that doesn't use the internet. So why not hire a company for a year to develop secure referendum software - this eliminates any problems with voter confusion, (such as the misinformation given to voters during the robocall scandal) allows each individual person's voice to be heard and eliminates political bribery. Not to mention the amount of elected officials that would no longer be needed, (you know...those ones who represent the people for five years and then get an $80,000/year pension for the rest of their lives that come directly from our tax dollars) which automatically gives our economy a boost.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not against elected officials. I am against corporations and banks being able to sway votes based on bribery, promises of financial security and other means that I'm sure I am unaware of. I believe that there are some honest politicians, and I believe that their jobs are unbelievably important to our country. But when there's so much wealth controlled by such a small group, that group has the power to sway votes - it's a fact. With great power comes great responsibility and I feel as though this responsibility should belong to the population of Canada - a true democracy.
Think about the recently passed Bill C-10 (if you don't know what this is, you can read a little bit about this ridiculousness here) which has some valid points, (such as minimum sentences for child sex offenders) but also has some MAJOR violations (such as giving the gov't the ability to deny any immigrant a work permit for no reason, mandatory jail sentences that put somebody caught with a single marijuana joint away longer than the aforementioned child sex offender, the right of any "victim of terror" to sue any accused "terrorist", so on and so forth) of Canadian rights and liberties. I would have loved to vote on that bill (it almost didn't make it through parliament) and had my views properly expressed.
I might be crazy. To me, this makes sense. It strips power from the government and gives it back to the people - after all in a true democracy the government abides by the wants of the people, not the other way around (people scared of the gov't and feeling completely powerless to change any of their policies) which is what we seem to have right now. I mean, it even seems completely ridiculous to me that we have the Conservative party on the right wing and both the NDP and Liberal party on the left. Doesn't this stack the odds incredibly in Conservative favour?
Anyway, I've ranted enough. My point - let's give the power back to the people.
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestion are encouraged and appreciated!
PS - Big thanks to John Lennon for the title - you are sorely missed.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Problems in Prose
Hiya Cyberspace.
I'm in the mood to write a poem. Last night I decided I was going to write my blog today about the world's problems...but that blog could literally go on forever. So I guess I'll combine the two and write a poem about some of the world's problems. Here goes...
The screen tells me
It tells me all
There's something wrong; but the trouble is not mine
The bombs don't fall in my yard
The screen tells me
I can't look away
My value is lessened; their values don't exist
My debt is my prison
The screen tells me
The planet screams
I hold its body in my arms; I feel the sorrow
My mother; my father; I can't save you alone
The screen tells me
I must be frightened
There is no enemy; there are only phantoms
I don't believe your ghosts
The screen shows me
The rise and the fall
Signs; people; the masses unite
They are labelled criminal
The screen tells me
I am a powerful individual
The doors are open; my decisions are not my own
Who's path have I travelled?
The screen...the screen
It is wool; it burns my eyes
I see the tears; I am afraid
The rats race in circles
Problems; the solutions are timid
My dream has been interrupted; awake I find the nightmare
But opportunity stems from tragedy
And our world is tragic.
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
I'm in the mood to write a poem. Last night I decided I was going to write my blog today about the world's problems...but that blog could literally go on forever. So I guess I'll combine the two and write a poem about some of the world's problems. Here goes...
The screen tells me
It tells me all
There's something wrong; but the trouble is not mine
The bombs don't fall in my yard
The screen tells me
I can't look away
My value is lessened; their values don't exist
My debt is my prison
The screen tells me
The planet screams
I hold its body in my arms; I feel the sorrow
My mother; my father; I can't save you alone
The screen tells me
I must be frightened
There is no enemy; there are only phantoms
I don't believe your ghosts
The screen shows me
The rise and the fall
Signs; people; the masses unite
They are labelled criminal
The screen tells me
I am a powerful individual
The doors are open; my decisions are not my own
Who's path have I travelled?
The screen...the screen
It is wool; it burns my eyes
I see the tears; I am afraid
The rats race in circles
Problems; the solutions are timid
My dream has been interrupted; awake I find the nightmare
But opportunity stems from tragedy
And our world is tragic.
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Quick to Quit
How are ya today Cyberspace? I'm well, thanks for asking. Trying to get used to my new schedule - my school has moved and now I have to drive to school every morning. I know, I know...first world problems. My point is...now I have to get up earlier and last night I stayed up to watch Kansas almost make a miraculous comeback against Kentucky in the NCAA national championship game. While they didn't win the game (they missed free throws all game long), they came awfully close...and that perseverance inspired me.
Perseverance is not a common trait in modern times. I find that as I get older, I see more and more people giving up; or not even trying at all because they have an expectation of failure. This could be concerning sports, work, school...I have literally watched people (no names involved) say "No, I'm not even going to try, I know I can't do that." But chances are, if you really want to you can do whatever you want. For example, I can't do a backflip...but I could if I practiced.
It's not just physical things I see folks give up on. One of the best writers I've ever met has a blog (Thibeau Time) and even he said to me yesterday, "I think I might give up on writing my blog - I just don't have the motivation anymore." I told him that he has to continue...I mean this is a guy who has some real writing talent. I was disappointed to hear this from him, and I hope he reneges on that statement. I've recommended many, many books to many, many different individuals and it's not uncommon to hear the response "No, that's too long," or "I don't even know if I could read that book," or, even worse, "I'll wait for the movie to come out."
Which brings me to my inference of why our society seems so quick to quit. Throughout history, there has always been some form of entertainment...something to distract the mind. Or for the mind to obsess over. Musical composers like Mozart, artists like Michealangelo, early thinkers like Galileo, explorers like Christopher Columbus and writers like William Shakespeare (if he was a real person) were great artists...but their 'arts' took time; their obsessions took focus. I think that today we suffer immensely from a lack of focus.
How many time have you walked down the street and had your shoulder bumped by someone not looking where they're walking because they're texting? How often have you had a conversation interrupted by the ringing phone of your fellow conversationalist? Have you watched any cartoons recently? Somebody told me (and I'm inclined to believe it to be at least partially true) that 10 minutes of Spongebob Squarepants is enough to have a detrimental effect on a child's attention span.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we are CONSTANTLY bombarded by information - newswires, sports tickers, text messages, emails, BBM, Twitter - all of these things teach us to focus only for a moment on a specific topic before moving on to the next. How can we expect to have a population that actually takes time to critically analyze anything when we're bred to distractedly think about everything? Then again...maybe that's why all this stuff exists...
Having said all this, the thought of one individual person to be able to focus enough to trump seemingly insurmountable odds, let alone a whole team, begins to seem slightly ludicrous. So when I see it, as I did last night (even though they lost in the end), I was extremely impressed. I love a good underdog story, as does everyone, and there was almost one written on the court before my eyes.
What challenge do you face that seems unbeatable? Don't shy away - embrace it. Make yourself focus...put the cell phone down for an hour and work toward your goals - they'll never be realized if you only focus on the obstacles in the way. Don't give up - ever.
I've already begun to write my own story - when will it be time for you to write yours?
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always, thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
Perseverance is not a common trait in modern times. I find that as I get older, I see more and more people giving up; or not even trying at all because they have an expectation of failure. This could be concerning sports, work, school...I have literally watched people (no names involved) say "No, I'm not even going to try, I know I can't do that." But chances are, if you really want to you can do whatever you want. For example, I can't do a backflip...but I could if I practiced.
It's not just physical things I see folks give up on. One of the best writers I've ever met has a blog (Thibeau Time) and even he said to me yesterday, "I think I might give up on writing my blog - I just don't have the motivation anymore." I told him that he has to continue...I mean this is a guy who has some real writing talent. I was disappointed to hear this from him, and I hope he reneges on that statement. I've recommended many, many books to many, many different individuals and it's not uncommon to hear the response "No, that's too long," or "I don't even know if I could read that book," or, even worse, "I'll wait for the movie to come out."
Which brings me to my inference of why our society seems so quick to quit. Throughout history, there has always been some form of entertainment...something to distract the mind. Or for the mind to obsess over. Musical composers like Mozart, artists like Michealangelo, early thinkers like Galileo, explorers like Christopher Columbus and writers like William Shakespeare (if he was a real person) were great artists...but their 'arts' took time; their obsessions took focus. I think that today we suffer immensely from a lack of focus.
How many time have you walked down the street and had your shoulder bumped by someone not looking where they're walking because they're texting? How often have you had a conversation interrupted by the ringing phone of your fellow conversationalist? Have you watched any cartoons recently? Somebody told me (and I'm inclined to believe it to be at least partially true) that 10 minutes of Spongebob Squarepants is enough to have a detrimental effect on a child's attention span.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we are CONSTANTLY bombarded by information - newswires, sports tickers, text messages, emails, BBM, Twitter - all of these things teach us to focus only for a moment on a specific topic before moving on to the next. How can we expect to have a population that actually takes time to critically analyze anything when we're bred to distractedly think about everything? Then again...maybe that's why all this stuff exists...
Having said all this, the thought of one individual person to be able to focus enough to trump seemingly insurmountable odds, let alone a whole team, begins to seem slightly ludicrous. So when I see it, as I did last night (even though they lost in the end), I was extremely impressed. I love a good underdog story, as does everyone, and there was almost one written on the court before my eyes.
What challenge do you face that seems unbeatable? Don't shy away - embrace it. Make yourself focus...put the cell phone down for an hour and work toward your goals - they'll never be realized if you only focus on the obstacles in the way. Don't give up - ever.
I've already begun to write my own story - when will it be time for you to write yours?
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always, thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
Monday, 2 April 2012
To the One I Love...
Hi Cyberspace.
Monday morning. Gross. I've never been much of a morning person...let alone on Mondays. So what's my cure for a case of the Mondays? As tired and beaten as the saying is - think happy thoughts! Of the many happy thoughts I have, one of the best is when I think of the woman I love. So, here's to you.
Since we met, you've given me a reason to be a better person. I look at you and think 'that's the person I want to be like...she's the example that everyone should follow.' You are compassionate, funny, easy going and absolutely beautiful inside and out. I love you for that.
I've always wanted to impress you, make you think of me...but most of all I've always wanted to make you laugh. Every time you smile, the room, the house, the street...the whole world gets a little brighter. You can change the whole complexion of a situation all by yourself, be it by bringing a more positive outlook, cracking a joke or giving love where it's needed. I love you for that.
I wish there were more people like you. I am cynical - you look for silver lining in every cloud. I am quite often dismissive of others - you make allowances for each and every person who touches your life. I have a small group of friends I keep close - you are that close friend for almost everyone that knows you. You inspire me everyday. I love you for that.
I don't think I would be here without you. You've always been there when I was in need. I feel perfectly comfortable talking to you about anything. I know that you will not judge me. I know that you will be completely honest, only giving me your actual opinion without trying to sugar coat it. I know that you are not afraid to speak your mind - you will always tell me when there's something bothering you. Honesty and sincerity are not easy traits to find in people nowadays - but I've found it in you. I love you for that.
Whenever I'm a little down, I look at you, I watch you with our daughter...and I see love. This is a privilege that many of us don't have - true love. I feel as though I have it; I feel as though I see it everyday. You and I have been through a lot since we first met in high school - and I don't regret a single second of any of it. My life is better with you in it...through thick and thin; pleasure and pain; love and hate; heaven and hell. There's nobody that I would rather have by my side in any situation. I love you for that.
It still shocks me sometimes when I come home and have you greet me with a hug and a kiss. When I think of you, I can't help but smile. I can't believe that I found someone as great as you. You make every day of my life better - and I love you for that.
I love you
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestion are encouraged and appreciated!
(Thanks to R.E.M. for the title)
Monday morning. Gross. I've never been much of a morning person...let alone on Mondays. So what's my cure for a case of the Mondays? As tired and beaten as the saying is - think happy thoughts! Of the many happy thoughts I have, one of the best is when I think of the woman I love. So, here's to you.
Since we met, you've given me a reason to be a better person. I look at you and think 'that's the person I want to be like...she's the example that everyone should follow.' You are compassionate, funny, easy going and absolutely beautiful inside and out. I love you for that.
I've always wanted to impress you, make you think of me...but most of all I've always wanted to make you laugh. Every time you smile, the room, the house, the street...the whole world gets a little brighter. You can change the whole complexion of a situation all by yourself, be it by bringing a more positive outlook, cracking a joke or giving love where it's needed. I love you for that.
I wish there were more people like you. I am cynical - you look for silver lining in every cloud. I am quite often dismissive of others - you make allowances for each and every person who touches your life. I have a small group of friends I keep close - you are that close friend for almost everyone that knows you. You inspire me everyday. I love you for that.
I don't think I would be here without you. You've always been there when I was in need. I feel perfectly comfortable talking to you about anything. I know that you will not judge me. I know that you will be completely honest, only giving me your actual opinion without trying to sugar coat it. I know that you are not afraid to speak your mind - you will always tell me when there's something bothering you. Honesty and sincerity are not easy traits to find in people nowadays - but I've found it in you. I love you for that.
Whenever I'm a little down, I look at you, I watch you with our daughter...and I see love. This is a privilege that many of us don't have - true love. I feel as though I have it; I feel as though I see it everyday. You and I have been through a lot since we first met in high school - and I don't regret a single second of any of it. My life is better with you in it...through thick and thin; pleasure and pain; love and hate; heaven and hell. There's nobody that I would rather have by my side in any situation. I love you for that.
It still shocks me sometimes when I come home and have you greet me with a hug and a kiss. When I think of you, I can't help but smile. I can't believe that I found someone as great as you. You make every day of my life better - and I love you for that.
I love you
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestion are encouraged and appreciated!
(Thanks to R.E.M. for the title)
Sunday, 1 April 2012
Sunday Storytime #3 - Harrison Bergeron
Morning Cyberspace.
It's Sunday again...time for you to curl up (around your computer) and read a great story. I was told to read this story by one of my classmates at the beginning of the year...and now I'm telling you it is a must read. It's an Orwellian-futuristic short story. I love it - I hope you do too.
Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut Jr, 1961 (courtesy of http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/harrison.html)
THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.
Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.
It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn't think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn't think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.
George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel's cheeks, but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about.
On the television screen were ballerinas.
A buzzer sounded in George's head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.
"That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did," said Hazel.
"Huh" said George.
"That dance-it was nice," said Hazel.
"Yup," said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren't really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn't be handicapped. But he didn't get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.
George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.
Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.
"Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer," said George.
"I'd think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds," said Hazel a little envious. "All the things they think up."
"Um," said George.
"Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. "If I was Diana Moon Glampers," said Hazel, "I'd have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion."
"I could think, if it was just chimes," said George.
"Well-maybe make 'em real loud," said Hazel. "I think I'd make a good Handicapper General."
"Good as anybody else," said George.
"Who knows better than I do what normal is?" said Hazel.
"Right," said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.
"Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy, wasn't it?"
It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.
"All of a sudden you look so tired," said Hazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa, so's you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George's neck. "Go on and rest the bag for a little while," she said. "I don't care if you're not equal to me for a while."
George weighed the bag with his hands. "I don't mind it," he said. "I don't notice it any more. It's just a part of me."
"You been so tired lately-kind of wore out," said Hazel. "If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few."
"Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out," said George. "I don't call that a bargain."
"If you could just take a few out when you came home from work," said Hazel. "I mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just sit around."
"If I tried to get away with it," said George, "then other people'd get away with it-and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn't like that, would you?"
"I'd hate it," said Hazel.
"There you are," said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?"
If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn't have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.
"Reckon it'd fall all apart," said Hazel.
"What would?" said George blankly.
"Society," said Hazel uncertainly. "Wasn't that what you just said?
"Who knows?" said George.
The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn't clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen."
He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.
"That's all right-" Hazel said of the announcer, "he tried. That's the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard."
"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men.
And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. "Excuse me-" she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.
"Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen," she said in a grackle squawk, "has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous."
A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.
The rest of Harrison's appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.
Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.
And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random.
"If you see this boy," said the ballerina, "do not - I repeat, do not - try to reason with him."
There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.
Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.
George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have - for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. "My God-" said George, "that must be Harrison!"
The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.
When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.
Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood - in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.
"I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!" He stamped his foot and the studio shook.
"Even as I stand here" he bellowed, "crippled, hobbled, sickened - I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!"
Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.
Harrison's scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor.
Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.
He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.
"I shall now select my Empress!" he said, looking down on the cowering people. "Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!"
A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.
Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask.
She was blindingly beautiful.
"Now-" said Harrison, taking her hand, "shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!" he commanded.
The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. "Play your best," he told them, "and I'll make you barons and dukes and earls."
The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.
The music began again and was much improved.
Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.
They shifted their weights to their toes.
Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.
And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!
Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.
They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.
They leaped like deer on the moon.
The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it.
It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it.
And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.
It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.
Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.
It was then that the Bergerons' television tube burned out.
Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.
George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. "You been crying" he said to Hazel.
"Yup," she said.
"What about?" he said.
"I forget," she said. "Something real sad on television."
"What was it?" he said.
"It's all kind of mixed up in my mind," said Hazel.
"Forget sad things," said George.
"I always do," said Hazel.
"That's my girl," said George. He winced. There was the sound of a rivetting gun in his head.
"Gee - I could tell that one was a doozy," said Hazel.
"You can say that again," said George.
"Gee-" said Hazel, "I could tell that one was a doozy."
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated! I would absolutely love to hear what you're taking away from this one.
It's Sunday again...time for you to curl up (around your computer) and read a great story. I was told to read this story by one of my classmates at the beginning of the year...and now I'm telling you it is a must read. It's an Orwellian-futuristic short story. I love it - I hope you do too.
Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut Jr, 1961 (courtesy of http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/harrison.html)
THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.
Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.
It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn't think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn't think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.
George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel's cheeks, but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about.
On the television screen were ballerinas.
A buzzer sounded in George's head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.
"That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did," said Hazel.
"Huh" said George.
"That dance-it was nice," said Hazel.
"Yup," said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren't really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn't be handicapped. But he didn't get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.
George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.
Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.
"Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer," said George.
"I'd think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds," said Hazel a little envious. "All the things they think up."
"Um," said George.
"Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. "If I was Diana Moon Glampers," said Hazel, "I'd have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion."
"I could think, if it was just chimes," said George.
"Well-maybe make 'em real loud," said Hazel. "I think I'd make a good Handicapper General."
"Good as anybody else," said George.
"Who knows better than I do what normal is?" said Hazel.
"Right," said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.
"Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy, wasn't it?"
It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.
"All of a sudden you look so tired," said Hazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa, so's you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George's neck. "Go on and rest the bag for a little while," she said. "I don't care if you're not equal to me for a while."
George weighed the bag with his hands. "I don't mind it," he said. "I don't notice it any more. It's just a part of me."
"You been so tired lately-kind of wore out," said Hazel. "If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few."
"Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out," said George. "I don't call that a bargain."
"If you could just take a few out when you came home from work," said Hazel. "I mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just sit around."
"If I tried to get away with it," said George, "then other people'd get away with it-and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn't like that, would you?"
"I'd hate it," said Hazel.
"There you are," said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?"
If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn't have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.
"Reckon it'd fall all apart," said Hazel.
"What would?" said George blankly.
"Society," said Hazel uncertainly. "Wasn't that what you just said?
"Who knows?" said George.
The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn't clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen."
He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.
"That's all right-" Hazel said of the announcer, "he tried. That's the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard."
"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men.
And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. "Excuse me-" she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.
"Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen," she said in a grackle squawk, "has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous."
A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.
The rest of Harrison's appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.
Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.
And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random.
"If you see this boy," said the ballerina, "do not - I repeat, do not - try to reason with him."
There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.
Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.
George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have - for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. "My God-" said George, "that must be Harrison!"
The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.
When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.
Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood - in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.
"I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!" He stamped his foot and the studio shook.
"Even as I stand here" he bellowed, "crippled, hobbled, sickened - I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!"
Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.
Harrison's scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor.
Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.
He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.
"I shall now select my Empress!" he said, looking down on the cowering people. "Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!"
A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.
Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask.
She was blindingly beautiful.
"Now-" said Harrison, taking her hand, "shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!" he commanded.
The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. "Play your best," he told them, "and I'll make you barons and dukes and earls."
The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.
The music began again and was much improved.
Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.
They shifted their weights to their toes.
Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.
And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!
Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.
They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.
They leaped like deer on the moon.
The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it.
It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it.
And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.
It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.
Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.
It was then that the Bergerons' television tube burned out.
Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.
George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. "You been crying" he said to Hazel.
"Yup," she said.
"What about?" he said.
"I forget," she said. "Something real sad on television."
"What was it?" he said.
"It's all kind of mixed up in my mind," said Hazel.
"Forget sad things," said George.
"I always do," said Hazel.
"That's my girl," said George. He winced. There was the sound of a rivetting gun in his head.
"Gee - I could tell that one was a doozy," said Hazel.
"You can say that again," said George.
"Gee-" said Hazel, "I could tell that one was a doozy."
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated! I would absolutely love to hear what you're taking away from this one.
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