Merry Clicks

T'is the season to be merry... and to make a list of things that I 'recently' discovered and that cheered me up tremendously.

This is when I'm quite happy that my odd habit to hop from link to link and to follow the works of artists I like turns into a very good thing.

When you start learning to fly and you look for... well, everything about planes, you wonder why there are so many things on YouTube about 'cabin pressure'. You click a link, and you start listening to an awesome radio show. Created by John Finnemore, Cabin Pressure is funny, witty, moving, and I love it... even if I do have to keep in mind that "M" is Mike, not - I repeat NOT - Molokai. ;)
Mr Finnemore is very funny, and he sounds quite nice - and he's got many other talents (I'll admit that I'm quite fond of his brain, and the man can draw, too. What's not to like? Seriously... I'd give a lot to be half as funny as he is!). [Note to self: you're good with another style. Deal with it.]

The day I was looking for info about Mark Gatiss (more films or series to watch), I discovered that he's written several novels, and I must say that I often read again his three novels featuring Lucifer Box. I highly recommend The Vesuvius Club (first in the series, and with quite a few - absolutely delicious - twists), but do read them all.

I'm definitely looking forward to some more Sherlock next year.
I did 'click' twice on that one: first, when I opened a friend's e-mail where she very strongly suggested that I watch it, and when I ordered the DVDs of Series 1 (same thing happened for Series 2, minus the e-mail: I now pre-order the DVDs).
Sherlock is so good that it rid me of depression for a few months (before another Real Life explosion made me go back to my plant pills). Just for that, I'd love it, but it's so incredibly good (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Holmes's novels and short stories - in two huge volumes - were among the very first books I read, and they're in my brain forever) and it's made with so much love that it's become very dear to me.
Sherlock is having Holmes and Watson beamed over to our century and updated by a team of fans and devoted people who make it look astoundingly good.

Then, there's CBBC.
Completely by chance, I discovered two series that are very good. The titles caught my eyes, and it turns out that both are quite nice to watch.
Not taking things in order, the second that caught my eye is Leonardo. The plot is completely improbable, but who cares? It's entertaining and good (seriously, I wish the series had been this good when I was a teen... a few aeons ago).
And then, there's my current new addiction. The best surprise (for me) of the end of 2012 was Young Dracula.
I caught Series 4 on the telly, just because I wondered what that was about, and I thought 'Hey, why not give it a try?' (I was hooked before the end of the first episode I saw), and thanks to a cousin who'd saved her old iPlayer files, I was able to catch up on Series 1 to 3 (bless her!).
I discovered this series right after Auntie Beeb decided to release Young Dracula's Series 1 DVDs. I wasn't done watching Series 1 at my cousin's that I was already ordering the DVDs.
Now, our lovely "auntie" needs to wake up in marketing and get the other series on DVD, too; there seems to be a devoted audience - teens and older viewers (*cough* I'm not the only older viewer who finds it really good), and producers need to learn to feed the fans properly - and before the next millennium!
[Note to readers: if you've got an e-mail address to contact Auntie Beeb, share it with me. My hunt on the net was fruitless between CBBC and BBC Worldwide (which was indicated as the site to contact in order to know what DVDs are going to be released)]
So... if you like witty vampires and a stellar cast --> Young Dracula. You're welcome. Enjoy!

The Tale of the Warmongering Boy

Once upon a time, there was a boy who insinuated himself into a town guild. It wasn’t because he was interested in the activities of that particular group, but because he was planning to make himself look good and to profit from the prestige of the guild – and make fun of a few guildsmen as well.

The boy decided to pretend that he was terribly cute and charming; his strategy was to insist on those fake aspects of his personality.

For months, he worked diligently, and his act, combined with a fake exotic accent to ingratiate himself with the head of the guild, worked so well that he was soon welcome to all guild activities.

Yet, there was one member of the guild who’d always found the boy’s accent and behaviour to be suspicious.

One day, during a meeting, the member of the guild was disagreeing with the current politics of their trade, and he was pointing out that he didn’t think they were making the right choice, but he’d follow the decision of the guild.

That was when he heard the boy hiss that he should keep his words to himself because his point of view was useless.

He swirled towards the boy and growled, ‘What did you just say?’

‘Nuttin’, m’lord!’ the boy answered quickly, flustered.

‘How strange! I was under the impression that you wished me to remain silent on the topic,’ the guildsman pointed out.

The boy knew that he was trapped, and his only hope was to attack the man who could show the entire guild how petty and vain he was. He rushed to the side of the head of the guild and willed fake tears to his eyes as he mumbled, ‘Puhliz, m’lord! I was jus’ sayin’ tha’ the guildsman ough’ to tell us more on the topic. Tha’s all yar ‘ighness! I swear!’

The head of the guild looked at the guildsman and shrugged.

The guildsman turned to the boy and said, ‘All right, I’m willing to accept that you didn’t mean that. If you’ve got something to say, speak up and be clear.’

Then, the boy made a dire mistake; in his blind wish to turn the other guildsmen against the trader who was daring to call his shitehawk bluff, he went too far by using standard bullying technique: he tried to turn himself into the victim.

The boy started whimpering and pretended to cry as he wailed, ‘’Onest to Gawd, m’lord! Now it’s yous that’s picking on me because I’m so small, and I ‘asn’t ‘ad the good education that yous ‘ad. So yous’re picking on poor lil’ me. T’is unfair!’

By now, the guildsman had lost all respect for the boy, and he was ready to have him flayed for trying to make him look like a fool when all he’d done was defend himself.

‘And pray, boy! When did I pick on you?’ the guildsman inquired, his anger boiling dangerously up.

‘Right now! You said that I’m stupid!’ the boy shouted. ‘I never deserved tha’! Am a nic’ boy!’

Since all the other traders were silent, and not offering a word, for either side, the guildsman made a decision: he’d read the riot act to the boy.

‘Stop it!’ the guildsman yelled. ‘Even if I were to grant you that you did mean something different when I asked you to explain yourself, it would not change the fact that you’re trying to make me look bad, on purpose, in order to have the others say “Oh, that poor child! That adult is being so mean to him!”, but I can see through your sham. First, you should stop using that idiotic fake accent of yours! It’s childish; and sometimes, you stop using it, which shows that it’s not something natural to you. Then, I can tell a bully when I see one, and right now, you’re just playing the victim card. All bullies do that because most people are going to react to the last thing that was said, and they won’t look too far – or even stop to think!’

‘Bloody bastard! You’re a nuisance, and you should really shut your trap!’ the boy hissed.

The guildsman looked triumphantly at his fellows and said, ‘See! The boy is a bully. Now, it’s up to you all to make up your minds about him.’

The guildsman settled comfortably in his chair, whilst the boys looked daggers at him.

The moral of this story is that if you allow bullying boys to grow up into adults who still have the same mentality, they’ll end up being whingeing wankers of a variety that can start wars by twisting facts.

Think about it.

Fake Definitions: bipedhood

Disclaimer: This is obviously a fake definition.

bipedhood

Pronunciation: /ˈbʌɪpɛdhʊd/

noun

informal

[mass noun]

1 the state of acting like a warranted idiot rather than a human being: Brainless plonkers are extremely good examples of average bipedhood.

• the qualities that can nowadays be associated with stupid specimens of bipeds calling themselves humans, such as stupidity, parasitic behaviour, and complete intolerance: Most of the current nasty things on Earth are due to too many idiots being allowed to give in to their common inner bipedhood. 
• the sad members of the Homo Sapiens /ˌhəʊməʊ ˈsapɪɛnz, ˌhɒməʊ ˈsapɪɛnz/ species as a group: Apart from the fact that it makes the Latin name, 'wise man', look like a pathetic joke, or a blunder, bipedhood is characterised by the fact that its members are utterly incapable of seeing how harmful, bigoted, short-sighted, twisted and generally limited they are. 

2 splendid neologism the condition of being a twat: His bipedhood shows when he attempts to fight against human and civil rights in the 21st century.

 

Origin:
December, 11th, 2012: from Latin bipes, biped- (from bi- 'having two' + pes, ped- 'foot') + -hood

 

My E-Speakers' Corner

[Fair] WARNING: This is not a rant, just a growl. Read at your own risk.

I feel as if I've spent my whole week being angry because of tiny details, but with enough straw all backs break.

I've been annoyed by insignificant things - and yet... They are not that insignificant because, in my book, they reveal much, much deeper things, things that would make most people snort at me, but that I find important.

So, in no particular order, I give you:

-   I’ve caught several articles in Irish, British and American newspapers that were referring to the Duchess of Cambridge as “Kate Middleton”. That’s funny, because I seem to remember some big wedding months ago. 
 So, what is it? Is it that readers are too stupid (lazy?) to adapt to her new surname and title, or is it one of those sexist things where she’ll always be the commoner who married into the Royal family? 
 If you can call Miss X, “Mrs Y”, after her wedding to Mr Y, then you can do the same for the duchess. 
 I know it’s going to sound barmy, but I feel the urge to contact editors and ask them to do their jobs properly and/or volunteer my eyes to edit their papers because, Merlin! I’m not out of work soon if the current state of writing is any indication.

-         I’ve had a few problems in my classrooms this week: one student thought I was too stupid to spot that he’d copied and pasted a full page from the Internet (I’m an adult, so I must be stupid, right?); apart from the fact that he thinks that I wouldn’t notice that his first page was full of mistakes, whilst the second was almost perfect, my classroom rules clearly state that plagiarism is a thing that automatically makes a student fail. Perhaps the student will learn to spell ‘ouch’… 
 Mind you, I caught another one cheating, and the student was barely embarrassed as in ‘Oops, yea, I did that’; I didn’t even get an apology. 
 Icing on the cake, a friend of the cheating student cannot keep his mouth shut, so much that I’m left wondering if the precious one is smoking the bad lawn or inhaling some glue (seriously, there’s something odd). Well, that’s three students who’ll have to come back to class next semester for the same thing – Oh, joy of joys! *headDESK*

-         I see that our victim-blaming culture is alive and kicking. After the tragic death of the poor nurse who put the prank call through to her colleague in charge of the Duchess of Cambridge (if you want to read an excellent account of what happened, go there), I’ve seen a few people say that there was a security/privacy breach and that there was to be more to the story because no one dies because of a prank. Whatever happened to ‘Who gave these idiots the right to call the hospital for so-called fun?’? Um??? 
Let’s not forget that a young woman’s health was in the picture, too (I’ve also seen people says ‘Pfft! She’s pregnant; that’s all!’, but all these twats forget that all pregnancies are potentially lethal and that the condition that had her shipped to the hospital is quite serious). 
Perhaps I’m wrong, but if someone calls, pretending to be her Majesty at 5:30 in the morning, I’d probably go: ‘Yes, Ma’am. Whatever you want, Ma’am.’, which takes us back to the ‘Who gave them the right to do this?!’. 
And to the heartless bipeds that think there’s no reason to die over a prank, I’ll say that they’re not the victim of a callous stupidity that went virally global, that they can’t know how bad the nurse felt for falling for that prank and that they basically don’t know (or care about) how she felt after this. 
Two people thought that it was funny to make a prank call because, somehow, they think that they’re entitled to make fun of and/or profit from a charming young woman only because she’ll be a queen someday. 
Like gossipers, pranksters consider that they’ve got the right to do what they do, but they do NOT, and today the world has lost a woman (a wife and a mother) to heartless arrogance and complete stupidity.

-         On Twitter, I started following the Sea Shepherd group. 
I might have to start buying more tissues: I’m watching the preparations to dolphins’ slaughter in Taiji, Wakayama Prefecture, Japan, live. 
I have to take short breaks, or I’d kill my keyboard by soaking it. Dolphins are either murdered or sold to aquariums. 
In the live feed, you can hear the dolphins’ cries, and it’s so incredibly sad. I’d rather starve to death than harm a dolphin (and yes, I mean that), and I can’t understand how anyone can do that. 
I’ll go a step farther: the murderers are very lucky that I’m not over there because I’d try to stop them. Over the past minutes, I’ve been dreaming of baseball bats, and even if I dream of a Klingon ship coming to help, I know it’s unrealistic… but I do dream of snipers. Awful? Yes, but I’m on the side of dolphins.

There are days when I wonder if my DNA mutated, or something, because I really don't feel related to most of  this Earth's lazy, heartless, brainless, greedy bipeds.
I'm going to stay on my soap box for a while, if you don't mind...

Я люблю Київ

All right, my silent blog visitors, I can see quite a few clicks coming from beautiful Ukraine... and I've got "bait" to (hopefully) make you comment.

If my health allows it, I'm planning to go spend a few days in Ukraine - probably next Spring.

My main aim is going to be Kiev, but I'd like to hop by Odessa, too.

So, first, confession time: the title of this post might be an attempt at Ukrainian, but I just started Russian in fact (I'll learn Ukrainian once I've tackled more Russian, I promise). Will (very) elementary Russian, fluent English and French and bits of Spanish and German be enough for the trip?

Would you have tips? Things to see, do, eat, avoid like the plague.........

C'mon! Help a fellow Earthling.

Good Cause, Wrong (High) Horse

I can understand that when you want to see evil somewhere, you'll find it, but I'm so angry that I've got to growl a bit because of an Op-Ed I've just caught in The Advocate.

It's there... Go and read it for yourself. Perhaps you'll think that I'm the one who doesn't get it, but I've got to get this off my chest.

The author sounds pretty angry that some CSI characters deal with another character as a man, because he states that the character is clearly a transgender one. Erm... perhaps I didn't see the same thing, but it never occurred to me that this character was a transgender one. Never ever. It was clear that the character was a transvestite, and just that.

You can blame:

                         - casting

                         - wardrobe

                         - director (if you want)

BUT the writers meant to have a transvestite bloke with a broken teapot, or a medical condition, or... as it turned out, who was higher than a kite above the ISS.

There are so many real problems that it's a disservice to the cause and all transgender people who need love and protection, to see evil where there's nothing worth getting your underwear in a twist.

Perhaps the filming was really bad, and the make-up, and the dress, but once it's obvious that the character is short a few marbles, or something, the entire "I'm a woman and I'm pregnant" line takes a different turn and dimension.

Now... I surfed a bit, and until I caught the Op-Ed, no one saw the transvestite character as a transgender one being mocked. Granted, I found a few very disappointing "tranny" references, but that's all.

I'll admit that I'm angry. Not because I'm a CSI fan (I mostly lost interest when Grissom left), but because the author is directing his anger at something that doesn't deserve it.

I'll take for example the reference to the episode 8 of season 5: when the author mentions only the doctor who committed the crime that's being investigated, he doesn't say a single word about the way, throughout the entire episode, Grissom treats Mimosa, the gal who helps him find the truth. That character, Grissom, behaves like a gentleman, treats her like a lady and tries to cheer her up in the conclusion of the episode.

So, yes, the culprit was a MtF trans (for Body #1), but Body #2 was killed by her husband.

You see, between the blinkers the author seems to be fond of, and the blatant ignorance of positive points in plots, I ended up with my blood boiling.

Growling at a franchise for wrong reasons isn't going to educate the public and the happy bunch of idiots who insist on using the wrong pronoun (for whatever nutty reason) once a change is started. The trolls and thugs who physically and verbally abuse our trans brothers and sisters do so because they've got the brains of the average cavemen.

I find the CSI casting obvious and predictable and the plots are mostly going south, but the latest episode never was about a transgender character. FULL STOP.

If the author's group's been monitoring CSI, as it is said in the article, it looks as if they've never properly listened to the Grissom character, the one who told his team to look beyond the appearances.

Yes, people (viewers and various telly addicts) need to be shown good examples, but methinks someone's barking up the wrong tree...

*off the soap box*

Of Incompetent, Lying Bankers - Take 2 (Lights, Camera, Action!)

I haven't been around long enough to update the bank situation, but it's so Kafkaesque that I've got to share these adventures with you now...

Do you remember the letter that I got from Bank #3 where someone tried to charge my dead account for some current running costs? It turns out that it was perfectly "normal"... since I thought that it had been closed since last August, whilst the final step hadn't been taken, and the account was still on life support.

The advisor, who is still super nice and efficient, rectified everything in thirty seconds.

Lend me a wall, I need to crack my skull!

Oh, and now for something just as Kafkaesque: Bank #1, where I e-mailed my silent and basically uninterested advisor in order to ask her if she still had a trace of my mother's mandate on MY account and she answered about my lost mandate on my MOTHER's account. Can't people read?! [Don't bother answering, I know... I know... Or comment with barmy bank stories of your own]

Since the cherry on the icing on that frigging cake was that she'd used the wrong title to address me in her answer, I grabbed the phone, though I really had another fish to fry that day, and I told her she'd missed the plot.

She did apologize, but that doesn't change the fact that her branch has lost my mother's mandate on my account, which means that were I stuck in hospital for whatever reason, Mother could not use my account in that bank.

December quiz: Guess which account is going dormant again because of an uncaring advisor in an incompetent branch?

I can feel a tiny lil' letter for the manager taking shape in my brain: if they lose their archives that easily (and aren't bothered one bit!), why should we trust them with our hard-won money in the first place?

Of Incompetent, Lying Bankers

There are many good things when you live in the E.U., and there are a few idiotic things.

Today's topic is: bankers and their arrogance (and irremediable stupidity).

I've had three banks in my life. Let's use no name, and just call them 1, 2 and 3.

Bank #1 became my bank as soon as I came of age. 

It was Mother's bank (as well, it was down my street and that was very useful).

Things began going south when I gave them a cheque and they credited it... on Mother's account. I sent a scathing letter to the director, and he apologized (I still have that letter somewhere; perhaps I should frame it and display it proudly).

Things went from bad to worse, and I went to Bank #2, but… I never closed my account at Bank #1 (I left about £4 on it).

Bank #2 is still my main bank. At one point, I had a lot of hourly paid classes, and I saved a bit of money (I saved enough to not quiver with fear now that I’m down to one teaching job with few hours. However, I’m not worth abducting – except if you take books as a currency). So, since my main account is never in the red, and I’ve got a few pennies on a kind of savings account, my bank advisor is blissfully leaving me alone (that’s going to be important in a few paragraphs).

Not wanting to keep all my eggs in the same basket, I opened a third account in Bank #3. This one had a bank advisor who promised me that he’d do some trick, bank thingy, magic, book cooking or I don’t know what (and I don’t care what!) so that I’d never pay the bank fee to manage my account (it’s one of my principles: I leave my hard-won money in banks so they can make some profit by lending it to people who need it, but I don’t pay them for the “privilege” of having an account with them. I’m no frelling sheeple).

Three things happened at Bank #3. First, they treated my mother, who had an account there, too, as if she had the plague for daring to ask her advisor to be polite, then (according to some E.U. new thingy to make sheeple think that the states a looking for, and hunting, terrorists and criminals) they asked me to give proof of my identity (you know, that thing I’d done when I opened the account three years earlier), and I was told that I’d have to pay some fee for my account management. I closed that account at the speed of light, after some rock’n’roll adventures: the gal I had on the phone told me to write a letter and come give it to my advisor.

I met that advisor for the first time the day I closed my account. She was, it may be said, charming; all the more since her colleague had forgotten to give me half the info I needed! She did her best, and that account has been closed since last August. Since that account was a bit like a piggybank with a real safe, I transferred the money to… Bank #1 (where I’ve been, I remind you, since I came of age, and that wasn’t five years ago).

And now, for the list of lies and proof of incompetence:

Four years ago, Bank #2 sent me some bumph in order to give proof of my identity, tell them where I work, and other personal stuff (you’d think that the wages sent to my account would be a clue). I never answered, and since it was back when I had three decent jobs, you bet that my advisor left me alone.

I’m neither a terrorist, nor a criminal, and a quick look at my account will tell you that.

Four years ago, Bank #1, with my £4 on my dormant account, didn’t send me anything. No sign of life from them. With £4, we’ll say that it might have been logical.

Was it?

No.

There’s about £200 on that account now, and my brand new advisor would like to meet me (to get the E.U. thingy info, I bet). I was the one who had to contact her. Perhaps she’s being slaved and has thousands of accounts to manage (not a clue, and I seriously do not care), but I’m a bit shocked that an account being used again after so many years didn’t raise a single flag. Cherry on the cake: I’ve been too unwell to contact her for a third time, but she’s not bothered at all, and I haven’t heard from her (then again, with £200, I’m probably just barely plankton in her ocean).

Another branch of Bank #1 (Mother’s) has lost the mandate I signed to be allowed to operate her account last year, and the director is trying to pretend that I never signed the bloody thing – he also tried to say that it might be because I didn’t give proof of my identity that the paper wasn’t archived (he never asked me to give proof of my identity in any way, and I’m so going to read him the Riot Act on the phone if he keeps pretending that he did or that I didn’t sign the proper papers).

They just all love bumph (and they love to lose it!).

I was also shocked when I had to give my signature again at Bank #1. Explanation: they didn’t have it on computer (apparently, they’ve been eating the papers I gave them and the things I signed when I opened that account). In consequence, and because of the stupidity at the other branch, I’m going to have to check that they haven’t lost my mother’s mandate on my account…

It’s very cute to make sheeple believe that the 1984 adaptation is to fight terrorism and crime when it’s really to control people. Those people (terrorists and criminals) don’t use banks that bother them; they use banks that as long as you’ve got the references to an account allow you to deposit cash in vast amounts (Switzerland, Cayman Islands, places like that…). In fact, a few E.U. banks were caught red-handed asking too personal questions to clients. Why? In order to sell lists of info to commercial partners and/or to invite sheeple to the bank and have them invest money in bank-ish stuff. It’d be so nice if they didn’t take us for nuts (then again, if we consider the number of sheeple and the number of people who are too afraid to yell at them, they’d be silly to be bothered).

One last cherry on the icing on that particular cake? I just got a letter from Bank #3 (the one where I closed my account last August).

Are you with me? Someone there tried to charge my dead account for some current running costs. My former advisor caught it and rectified the BLUNDER, but it meant that a balance had to be sent to me. Guess who’s going to phone her former advisor in order to ask her to whom she should read the Riot Act… Yep! First thing on Tuesday after I’m caffeinated (I wouldn’t want to yell at the poor gal).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an e-mail to send to the lazy Bank #1 advisor in order to check that her branch isn’t completely managed by incompetents (yea, I know… I’m too optimistic).

Writing News

Plot bunnies, it seems, need to simmer.

The one character in my P.I. Sci-Fi plot, who was being secretive and elusive, has finally deign to tell me who she is, and what she's going to do in the plot. That silly bunny took her sweet time, but it was well worth the wait!

No kidding! Initially, I thought she could be some sort of local animal, but I came up with something much more twisted, and completely linked to the general backdrop I've got in mind for that universe.

I could have pushed the plot bunny, but it would have been... not as good.

So, that's one thing settled.

I've got other short stories being written (three plots simmering, one being typed).

My second play is nicely taking shape as well (strangely, I seem to need to have two stories to work on at the same time, and I alternate days writing one short story and the play). I honestly don't know if it's going to be as good and/or interesting as the first one, but since it's a literary testimony and testament, this changes everything (at least, for me).

I have ideas for other plays, but I'll definitely need to do a tad of research.

Happy One Year Anniversary to Me... Or Not...

Back in Autumn 2011, I decided to launch a blog (and a Twitter account to go with it) in order to train my new literary voice and share things with readers.

I decided to launch both on 11/11/11. It would be, I thought, a good date...

So what's the general assessment?

Two friends and my brother are talking to me. The rest of the world is merely clicking and hopping by in complete silence (naming my blog counter "I Can See You" was a good idea: I can see clicks, but no one takes a moment to say anything).

The silence used to take its toll, but now... Now, I just know that communication is mostly dead, and it's not that I no longer care; I merely got used to the absence of communication. I mean, after my last post about that young artist who died, which is something that still makes me feel extremely sad and empty, something happened in Real Life that warped me at the speed of a neutrino into a nasty bout of Void (definitely getting used to that particular Sword of Damocles that, one day, is going to get me for good). When the Void strikes and takes me, I stop trying to interact on the Internet, and what happens then? Nothing. I was off Twitter for a fortnight, off here since my last post, and, in another literary incarnation, off another site since October 19th... and all I got is silence.

I've sent two SOS over the past months. It is now clear that my being here (I mean, on Earth, and alive) or not is uninteresting to most people.

A little something has changed in me; I'm not planning to walk back to my prior incarnation's haunting places. I'm done with that.

From now on, I shall be focussing on this new part of my life.

P.S.: BBH! If you read my posts and you're not my brother or the two aforementioned friends. Take a few seconds to say something. I. Can. See. You. (And normally, I don't bite, but I feel as if I'm living above rivers of slime and I'm the only one around being - remotely - unaffected.)

My Stupidly Broken Heart

A while ago, a young artist I barely knew died.

I never met that person, so I know that my next sentence is going to turn me into a candidate for Bedlam, but ever since I heard about that passing there's been a tiny hole in my heart.

I miss that person more than I miss some of my blood relatives who died.

I know it's weird, but that person was a very interesting artist, and I really, really wish I'd discovered more about that person's works before it was too late.

Last night, something odd happened. I was looking for some info, and as I often do, I hopped from link to link, and I eventually found myself on a page that mentioned that artist - a page that mentioned a Facebook page and a Twitter account.

Now... don't call Bedlam just yet, please, but, yes, I do find myself reading the frozen timeline of a young artist we've lost, and the few things I read have widened the little hole in my heart because that person was funny, witty, goofy, interesting, challenging, and now that I'm on Twitter, I really wish I could have tweeted that person.

I know that I'm somehow sorry for myself because I never even was on a stamp-sized map for that person, but what a bloody loss.

I'll keep reading these tweets from months ago. They're going to make me happy and sad, but I want to know more about that person, even now that that person's gone forever.

In my book (and no need to tell me it's silly; I know it is), the world became a tad darker and sadder the day that person died. I'll keep the tiny hole in my heart for as long as I'll live.

I've got no right to miss that person, but, hell, I do.

Typing & Reading & Editing

I feel like telling you about the various plot bunnies, so... here's a post just about them.

I'm editing old bunnies written by one of my other literary incarnations in order to try to keep my eyes "sharp" for the more recent things I wrote.

I've been reading things about the way to format a play, and I've been reading again a few plays I really like in order to see how things were done; I think I got all the stage directions and indications right now.

I'm going to let Paper Cranes simmer a little bit more now that it's properly formatted (I'll come back to it with fresh-er eyes in a few weeks).

I've been working on my second play, as well. Since the topic's very, very close to me, it's coming rather nicely. It won't be as long as my first one (I am the proud owner of a 106-page play), but it should be somewhat interesting.

Working on my plays, I found a topic that interests me. If I finally dive into it, I'll have to do some research because Hadrian and Antinous would be the main characters of this story. It's tempting and frightening at the same time.

I also have ideas for two other couple-related short stories (both would be tragedies this time, and I guess it's time to be courageous and tackle "no happy ending" plots).

I'm still working on the background for my Sci-Fi PI short stories. Most of the characters, the worlds, the philosophies are taking shape, but there's still one alien character who's playing hide and seek (there's got to be something that I must come up with about her that I haven't spotted yet).

And back to my keyboard............................

The Lost Child

There might well be a Sordid Fairy Tale in the making with this entry, but I first only need to say what I saw on my way to work last Wednesday.

I was on my usual bus (the direct one that stops two streets away from work), and I had one eye on my book, and the other on the scenery around me.

At one point, we drive by a smallish garden where there are two nice playgrounds for the many children who come there with their mothers or nannies.

First, I saw a young man near the smallish slide (it’s built for children no older than about 6, I’d say).

Since there’s a bus stop right next to the garden, I had about a minute to observe the young man. I saw him climb on the smooth surface of the slide (which was odd and made me take a closer look at what he was doing), take position on the small platform and then slide down it as if he were riding an imaginary static wave, run once he reached the ground, be stopped by the railings and smile like a Bedlam resident high on something.

My first reaction, with one eye still somehow on my book, was: ‘He’s nuts!’, ‘He should be stopped.’ And ‘Good thing there aren’t any children here today.’

And then…

Then I tried to really pay attention, and it hit me like a ton of latinum. There was one child: the “young man”.

I really looked at him, and, though he was somewhat tall, he couldn’t be older than 17 (my money’s on barely 16).

And then there was the way he looked: decent clothes, but somewhat dusty – the kind that’s given by charitable associations to people who need them and that's worn until they fall apart.

And he looked Afghan.

His game took an entirely different meaning.

I know that there are many Afghan boys, who fled their country and ended up in various European countries where they’re like ghosts. I know that they try to gather in groups at night in order to protect one another, but by day it’s a different story.

Of course, I could be completely wrong, but I bet this teen was a lost boy, and when I came to that conclusion, I was disappointed with myself for my initial reaction [and even if he’s a local boy who was having some fun, he wasn’t destroying the playground, and I was denying someone a bit of fun for being too “old”. I’ve already slapped myself, thank you].

I could well be a victim of my wild imagination, but his boyish grin is haunting me, and I fear I spotted some sad tragedy right in my district.

Now, I imagine this boy alone, miles away from his country, fending for himself all alone, and claiming bits of normal childhood even if he looks too old for that.

I’m going to sound like a fool, but it broke my heart. He was grinning after he slid down and reached the railings, but no one was there to share that with him. He may be almost an adult (and I have no doubt that the authorities would treat him as an adult), but, right then, he was such a child. A lost child, alone in a foreign country.

My bus drove on, and I’ll probably never see him again, but he’s changed something in me.

I’ve got just enough money to take care of myself – and my cat – but this is with encounters like this one that I wish I could protect a few children and take them in or something [Note to the universe: never make me Dictator of the World, or I’d treat all the children on the planet as “mine”].

We’ll be a good species when our children don’t have to catch up on their childhoods in their teen years (or later, if at all). We must fight so our children can be children, and nothing else.

Inspiration: That Weird Thing, or 'Thank You, Mr Roddenberry!'

I'm still working on several things.

I'm not done editing my first play (the scary tragedy).

I'm still writing my second play (a kind of literary testament where I get to tell my truth about my life and how I relate to the world).

I have a Sci-Fi war-related story in my folders, and that one is linked to a fairy tale/pseudo legend I want to write and it's also linked to the Sci-Fi PI short stories on which I'm working.

I've got ideas for couple-related short stories that can join the ones I've already written on the topic.

I still have to finish the novel that takes place in Japan that I started months ago...

Basically, and in spite of the recent testament posts, I hope I won't kick the bucket soon, otherwise I'd be disappointed to leave all these plot bunnies in their closed and unfinished folders!

I'm writing a lot, and I'm reading a lot, too.

Last week, I started reading Stephen E. Whitfield's The Making of Star Trek. No pun intended, but it's absolutely fascinating.

That made me watch again the second pilot, Where No Man Has Gone Before. Now... I'm a Star Trek fan, so I'll never be objective, but I encourage you to do what I did and watch it (again?). It's incredibly modern and daring (not as daring as the first pilot that had a lady for second-in-command, but one couldn't ask producers in the mid-'60s to be that bold).

Funnily enough, as I grew up watching Star Trek, I found a quiz last week that said I'm close to Uhura (that seriously made my day). I think that Uhura's role, and the way she was written in the novels (she ends up working for Intelligence, which was something I loved: Uhura. Nyota Uhura, the discreet spy from Starfleet), was somewhere in my head.

The role of women in the series wasn't as important as Mr Roddenberry wanted it to be, but he did his best, and *points at the producers again* the Power That Be probably thought that the show would start a civil war if it hinted at full male/female equality - and yet, this is where we must go if we mean to survive as a species.

Sometimes, I dream that Mr Roddenberry had been given full, free reign over his stories. How things would be today for all these little Trekkers who grew up to wish the Federation will exist one day? Would people from minorities be even stronger? Would gals be bolder?

I know I am bolder thanks to Star Trek. I was a rather (read quite) shy girl, and when there was something I had to do, I thought about my TV heroes and went, 'Okay, if Starfleet were real, you'd never get in by being such a wimp! Go and do what needs to be done!'. I know it sounds as if I'm ready for Bedlam, but it was just a way to push myself - and it worked: today, I dare to travel to the other side of the globe all alone - and I'm not even scared a bit, so, thank you, Mr Roddenberry for that, as well.

Mr Roddenberry created many things, but he was slowed down by idiots who didn't see the potential of the jewel he was producing (the same idiots eventually killed the series - incidentally, I'm convinced that if the Internet had existed back then, the audacious fans who momentarily saved the series would have managed to save it for at least two Enterprise five-year missions).

Mind you, most channels thought, and still think, in fact, that viewers are stupid (just look at the sordid number of Reality TV shows! If that's not taking the audience for a bunch of brainless monkeys, I don't know what is - and the other appeal to producers is that it's cheap to make). Mr Roddenberry wanted to believe that most of the audience members were people with brains and the manual that goes with it; in most cases, he was completely right.

If you give people something a notch above their usual dose of brain stimulation, some will recoil and whimper (I've got blood relatives in that category... or read the one-star reviews for JK Rowling's The Casual Vacancy, that's scary stuff: 'Oh, brain hurts! That's not Potter-verse. Bad book! Too dark!!!'), but others will be curious, open up and learn new things, and when something another notch higher comes their way, they'll be ready to learn and improve.

Incidentally, when I think of the way Star Trek was killed in the late '60s, I often also think of the way Alien Nation was killed in 1990; here's another series that was ahead of its time - so much that it wasn't renewed.

People working on TV series must really have a hard time when they come up with great ideas that are stopped and killed by a limiting budget.

I've always had a wild imagination (no kidding, as far as I can remember, I've always been imagining stories), but discovering Star Trek opened up my world and made my plot bunnies go at Warp 9.9.

I am still working on my Sci-Fi PI stories (as I've said, I'm really happy with the central plot). There's one character that I'm still wrestling with as she refuses to tell me everything about her, but that has to be because I'm missing a clue about her, who she really is, and what the heck she's doing in my plot - oh, and since it's Sci-Fi, I need to know what she is, too. If you spot her, kick her my way, please... ;)

While I'm constructing the universe for the characters in these stories, I've realized that I want to use it to describe the kind of world I wish for our future here.

Above my desk, I've got a signed photo of Mr Roddenberry smiling at me. He'll keep inspiring me, and I'll do my best to write a good world.

*off to tackle plot bunnies and build planets*

PS: My life as a Trekker/Trekkie started thanks to Mr Nimoy, but that'll be the topic of another entry - or maybe not.

This Is Impossible!

I am not going to pretend that I'm a GP, but I'm in my body, and I happen to know it rather well.

Since my nerve VII froze, I got even more used to reading the weird healing signals that I've been given over the past six years.

Strangely enough, since my nerve froze, I caught one cold. Just the one.

But... each time I have a major defrost, I do have cold symptoms, as if whatever I caught was attempting to leave my body alone at last.

Now, I can hear most doctors telling me that it's impossible because the virus died six years ago. I may not be a GP, but I understand as much. And yet... Each and every time I get better, it's after a bout of fever, or a lot of sneezing, or a runny nose, or some coughing (and let's not forget that each morning my eyes are practically sealed shut because of the infection)... and I'm not catching a cold or some odd-ish virus every other fortnight.

Now, that thing I've caught six years ago may have changed me, but I have super strong antibodies (I've got a vaccine scar to prove it), and when I do catch something, it lasts for a week - at least.

And what happened this week? Wednesday night, I thought I was severely dehydrated (after all, it wouldn't have been surprising since I was back on stage this week, and I hadn't been drinking enough on Monday night), but it turns out it was the beginning of two days of fever cum runny nose and severe coughing.

Work was hell on Thursday, and I spent most of Friday plagued with fever.

Last night was mostly unpleasant, but today was okay.

Then, I've been unwell for about two days. Now, I did some research and it might not be entirely impossible for a common cold to last only three days (anyway, I was 'off' only for two days), but with my reactions, it has never happened to me - and I don't think this is what happened to me.

I can see most doctors ready to ship me to Bedlam, or growl at me that 'it is impossible', but since I probably caught an orphan disease, I'll be the judge of what oddities my body's guilty of producing.

Oh, and to the ones who are going to think that I'm smoking the lawn (and I'm not a GP), how do you explain that, after this bout of weird and severe fever, my cheek is almost back to normal?

Then again, in the 'weird' department, I've had a really noticeable improvement when it's 'that time of the month' (not complaining, but you'll have to admit that it is odd).

Amongst the few people who caught the same virus I caught, I am recovering, but not everybody's that lucky.

The Faculty washed its hands and abandoned me four years ago. 

It's a bit sad when unusual cases are dropped because they're too strange, or too complicated, or too 'I don't know what' (might it be 'not common enough'?).

I know I've got to be right about that thing that's in me (and leaving me), but professionals never listened to me or believed me from day one. Why would they listen to me or believe me today?

I'm "just" in that body, and I read it pretty well, but even if I'm right, most doctors would look at me as if I were a simpleton, and some would snort at my audacity to self-diagnose.

I loved House, but each time one of the characters said that everybody lies (meaning patients lie), I cringed. I keep telling the truth, and no one listens because it doesn't fit known symptoms. Perhaps I should write a TV pilot on this topic...

Testament Update 2 (the sequel)

I'm going to get a free appointment with a notary (I hope I'll get a nice - and competent - one who can tell me if the testament I wrote is blood relatives-proofed).

Incidentally, something happened this week that really confirmed that for me, except my mother, the rest of my family is 'dead to me' (Merlin! If I didn't look so much like all the other gals in the family, I'd be tempted to think that there was a mistake at the hospital after my birth because I'm not wired like any of them).

After the family 'something' that happened, Mother mentioned testaments, and I had to tell her we're more or less covered since I wrote one. That was a bit awkward.

I'll write a 'Return of the Testament' when I've seen the notary. :)

Testament Update

All right...

I'll still have to show it to a notary next month in order to make sure that it's fine, but I now am the proud "owner" of a brand new testament.

Just in case I'm run over by a cab or I catch the Plague before next month, the page is in an envelope in the "Tax" folder of my black document box (I mention the colour, because I've got a red one, too - nothing fancy about that... and it's really black, not orange).

And just in case... I'm not going to name my heirs in this entry, but I want the universe and all the galaxies to know that, in it, I clearly, fully, eternally disinherit all my blood relatives. If they were to get a penny from me, I'd reincarnate to make things right and kick them to Pluto.

When I go see the notary, I'll take a photocopy of my testament - not taking any chance!

Somehow, now... you're all digital witnesses. ;)

Testament

I'm not being possessed by the Void or anything dark (Merlin be praised!), but I'm going to start writing a testament.

What happened is that I started following Neil Gaiman on Twitter yesterday (why not before? Because I was a very silly bunny, that's why. Now, back to our current topic), and I read a page (this one) that scared me beyond words.

I already have a few things published (under my legal name, not my chosen pen-name), and it would bug me like hell if my cousins became my heirs, which is what would happen if I kick the bucket without a written testament.

I'll start working on one tomorrow after breakfast.

It's going to be entertaining because I'm planning to leave my works, my "babies", with people I trust, but who are outside of the E.C.

I started doing bits of research, and the Washington Convention (?) might be helpful in this case (if it guarantees that I can name my heirs within the area covered by that convention).

I Googled "notary" for my current place of residence, and there's a notary event for free next month (I'll have to rush after work to the place where that event shall be held, but I can consult a notary for free and show him/her the text of my testament).

It'd really bug me if people who don't like, or even appreciate, me were to inherit my plot bunnies (and my collection of books, too!).

Like my gran used to say, talking about a testament isn't going to kill you...

And this blog is an additional security. I'll post an update next month once I've seen someone competent in law.

.................. And right now, I just realized that I'll have to take care of my Internet legacy, too. I can't have sharks blood suckers relatives erase my words once I'm gone...

Got some serious planning to do!

Someone, give Mr Gaiman a hug!

Whatever Happened to Common Decency?

Two things.

Let’s begin with something that has absolutely no connection with me.

Right now, some fishwrap editors have bought nasty photos of a young woman because… because she married into a famous family, and they all have the feeling that they own her because of her new surname.

I know they’d never answer me, but I’d like to know how they’d react if they were bullied and hunted the way they track and abuse their victims.

Same thing for the bipeds who buy the publications where stolen photos are published. Don’t they have a life? Don’t they have something better to do? Seriously, I hadn’t noticed that there’s peace on Earth and no children and animals dying so that people can justify being nosey about what their neighbours do. Silly me! [Where’s the sarcasm font when you need it???]

It’s seeing the gossip-mongering mentality of the “cave”, of the “village”, being blown at the speed of light in the media and on the Internet – and it’s not pretty.

In the same category, I was a bit shocked to see the lack of respect that’s rampant on the net.

I’ll keep focussing on this story.

Even if people are not fans of the Royal family, it’d be nice if they showed a minimum of respect. But it seems that a lot of people were raised in barns by illiterate beasts.

I’ve seen people mention the husband as “William” (it was a huge minority); mostly, he was called “Prince William”.

Well… How was the charming Duchess of Cambridge referred to? Go on, make a guess… “Kate” or, even better, “#Kate”. Did they all go to school with her that they can allow themselves to be so familiar? A few might have, but the rest of the planet hasn’t.

So, we have:

-         arrogant thieves paparazzi taking pictures of a young woman staying with friends (seriously, with a normal camera, you wouldn’t get a clear photo of the first line of trees, so the bathing suit of the young lady would be out of the question)

-         plonkers working in magazines and newspapers buying the photos in order to make money whilst abusing the young woman’s rights.

-         a collection of heartless bipeds interested in the photos because they think that the fact that the young woman is now famous makes her their property (last I checked, slavery has been abolished centuries ago in the UK).

-         various people referring to the male element of the couple with a modicum of respect, whilst they treat the female element as inferior in that couple (and it was a tad disappointing when the BBC joined the disrespectful bunch and used “#Kate” in most of their tweets last weekend).

-         a small proportion of bullies who approve and are cheering (I even caught one “she brought it on herself”. How?! By being alive and on Earth?! Twats!).

I know it’s none of my business, but if I knew someone – anyone – hunted by photographers and vilified for trying to protect himself, or herself, I’d stand by that person.

Incidentally (karmically?), something happened today.

My mother moved far from me, and today, she informed me that some local group where she now lives has sent a leaflet to the village (and probably the whole area). In that leaflet, there’s a photo of my mother. Since she’s not one of their members, you can imagine her surprise. 

She phoned the group, and after being transferred higher and higher, the second-in-command had the nerve to tell her that as long as she wasn’t “directly looking at the camera”, they didn’t need to ask for her authorization to publish the photo.

All good, except that…………. *drumroll, please* …………. That decerebrated idiot is either incompetent in law, or a pathological liar – and I honestly don’t know which.

You see, the thing, where my mother lives now, is that there is a law to protect people – everybody, from my mother to the Duchess of Cambridge – and to guarantee that it’s only after signing an agreement that any photo can be published.

Cherry on the cake? My mother lives in France, and she and the Duchess of Cambridge are protected by the same law (this is not the kind of sentence I ever thought I’d type!). Some will object that the duchess is a public figure, but... back to "how would you react if you were the one hunted 24/7?".

A president at a museum opening, an actor at a premiere, a princess visiting a school... fair game. But after "work", all the public figures deserve privacy - because they are not public properties.

The plonkers who published the photos of the duchess know the laws (they’ve been sued in enough courts to know) and the idiot that stressed my mother knows, or should know better, but they don’t care.

What’s sad is that the duchess will win in court, but she shouldn’t have to fight to be allowed shreds of privacy. She may be a public figure, but she’s not a property.

What’s awful is that even a small fish like my mother can find herself in a situation to have to defend her right to privacy.

No one would have to fight for that right if some bipeds knew the laws and abode by them. And it would also help if most people didn’t put their curious noses where they don’t belong.

To conclude, I hope the Duchess of Cambridge will manage to start something that will stop the fishwraps and mosquitoes (because those plonkers have been running wild for way too long).

I also hope that my mother will phone the stupid second-in-command, too, in order to rub that idiot’s nose in her mistake – just for fun, because she highly deserves it.

P.S.: even if you do not approve of royal family members, of presidents, of... anyone, if you haven’t been raised by wolves, being polite isn’t going to make your tongue fall to the floor. It’s not quantum mechanics to be polite and use proper protocol.

Perhaps my education was too good… but I don’t think that common decency is too much to ask.

Fish and Chips

I like fishwrap exclusively with my fish and chips. Otherwise, it's the kind of publication that makes me sick.

Why am I telling you this?

Merely because of the recent scandal caused by certain photos taken of a naked prince.

Let me first tell you that, for once, I'm not going to do any research on the topic (garbage cans are perfectly well  - and useful - outside, but I'm not going to dive into their e-equivalent on the Internet).

I'm just going to tell you how I feel (why not? This is my blog, a window to my thoughts... Mind the draughts!).

CAUTION: Random thoughts ahead

First, I find that it's absolutely despicable that these photos ever got out. 

The twat [look! That awful word again... Must really mean that I like to use it when I'm angry] who took (and, I guess, sold) them is a pitiful biped, the people who bought and distributed the photos are greedy leeches, and the people who went looking for those photos or bought papers where they were printed should get a life.

I'll admit that I might be weird; I hate fishwraps (so much that I'm writing a short story against them right now) and I avoid so-called Reality TV like the Plague, the Inquisition and Ebola all wrapped together.

I cannot understand that "village" mentality where so many bipeds think they need to know what the people next door are doing. Get. A. Life.

There's quite a few people I admire and like, but I'd never go search their garbage cans in order to know what they do at home. I'm perfectly happy just looking for their next album/film/book/whatever. When I like someone, I want to hear about their career, not their private lives. I don't care about their private lives. I'm never going to meet them, become friends with them or... No! Wait! Hold the press! I did meet a few authors a few aeons ago when I was a reader, and... yep. I was always talking about their works - mostly. I politely asked about their families and loved one, and I was back to business because their private lives were none of my business!

I want to ask the plonkers that circulated the photos if they've already forgotten what their bullying did to Princess Diana. Apparently, they have forgotten.

The whole thing's despicable. Prince Henry's allowed to have a life and not be stalked. He’s not the public’s property or a State slave. 

Hell, I don't have a pretty gal to cuddle in my room (drat!!!), but if I had, I'd be really angry if our photo ended up on the Internet. And let's face it, everybody would.

It's not even as if Prince Henry asked for it. He was born in a royal family, and that should make his life hell? No, this is not right, decent or human.

I don't understand why bipeds buy fishwraps (then again, people - mostly women - get lapidated or jailed because others put their noses where their noses had no right to be).

One last thing. It should be Prince Henry, not Harry, and it should come from the media and the people.

I was too young to remember why and how Henry turned into "Harry", but he was baptised as Henry.

He's 27 now, and I can just imagine that if he were to correct anyone about his name, he'd never get to hear the end of it. Yet... Harry's a nickname. If His Royal Highness prefers "Harry", it'd be easier for him to say that it's all right to use that name, but let's imagine that he doesn't like it, then he finds himself in yet another trap.

We'd be so much better as a species if we tried to have some consideration for others - without being nosey.