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.

A Piece of Advice for XYs

I still have steam coming out of my ears, so I might be just a bit... erm... harsh, but bear with me.

Here's what happened, I wrote something vaguely like: 'boys who open their mouths to speak (or pass laws!) about ladies' biology must learn to shut their mouths because they're not equipped, can't understand, and those are twats'.

This is what I think. 

I'm not going to tell men how to play with their equipment, or how to wash it, or how to deal with it from a medical point of view. Not my frigging business, and honestly, I don't care (never have, never will).

But... when I see little boys (because they can be 65 or 72, in their heads, they're stuck in nursery school!) trying to tell me what I can or cannot do, that brings out the Italian matriarch in me - the one with a rolling pin glued to her hand and the '210 Ways to Break Bones with a Rolling Pin' manual encoded in her DNA.

Why am I growling now?

Is it because some new piece of news hit the Internet and made me blow a fuse?

Nope.

I just got a nice message from a bloke I don't know.

A bloke who nicely said that he agrees with me..............................................

*drop of the other shoe*

But...............................................

[Part to be read with a very annoying voice in your head...] He really wanted to tell me that "twat" was a poor choice of word, because I've got to understand that it's slang for, I quote, "vulva". [/stage direction]

No frelling way! I didn't know that! Well, of course, I could have not known it, but I do.

And what if I happen to think that those boys are twats - because it's a word, an insult, I happen to like? 

And what if I think that it's an appropriate word for boys who do sound as if:

          a- They've got an unhealthy fascination with ladies' equipments

          b- They sound a lot as if they wish they had one of their own to play with?

Dear XYs,

most of you are really nice, and I quite like you, but keep in mind a few things:

          1- I can say "twat" and "cunt" all I like, I'm equipped (and I can bloody say what I want!)

         2- Stop assuming that I don't know the etymology of words (I've got diplomas in English: Old English, Modern English, Etymology, translation - and don't get me started on my M.St. in Mediaeval Palaeography! I mean there are things I do not know, yes, but stop thinking you know more because you're a man. Ta! Muchly.).

         3- I'm going to be charitable and consider that the bloke in question might have meant well, but he should think a minute about what he's just done, put himself in my shoes, and hear how bloody patronizing he sounded! Basically, he corrected me for thinking I might have wanted to say something else. 

Sorry, Cupcake, I meant that those boys are twats, and for correcting me whilst I don't know you at all, you're a cunt.

       4- If you, boys, think that I'm not behaving/speaking/looking/whatever like a lady... Fuck off! This is the twenty-first century, and the girls in my family are born with a rolling pin.

Keep in mind to treat XXs the way you expect to be treated, and we'll keep the rolling pins in the kitchen.

Otherwise... 

Cheers!

Dru, really pissed off

The Tale of the Other Bunny-Breeding Girl

Once upon a time, in a completely different kingdom, there was a girl who had many bunnies (in fact, she had so many bunnies that sometimes her house looked as if the floor were covered with soft fur).

She loved them all, and she could have kept them in her house, but one day, one of her friends encouraged her to show them to the villagers, and the girl opened her door and built special pens for the bunnies. Since she wasn’t doing this for gold, she placed a board near the bunnies that read “Free to good homes”.

The friend who had encouraged her to do this mentioned the bunnies to her other friends, and people started coming to see the bunnies.

Sometimes, the girl made a few mistakes, and there was a tiny knot in the fur of bunnies that had been put up for adoption, but it seldom happened, and the girl learnt better than to rush things.

In the first years, the girl had regular visitors who came to chat with her a bit before they headed home with a new bunny to pet and love, but things changed as more people offered bunnies-for-free and the activity became more usual, so to speak.

Bunnies-for-free became so common that the girl found herself with a lot of adopted bunnies, but they were almost all taken by people who didn’t even wait for her to show up and say “Hello!”. They walked by, took bunnies and left.

The girl could see that the bunnies were being taken (and loved, because she’d heard stories of breeders of bunnies-for-free who had to face criticism for offering bunnies in poor health, but not hers), but apart from a faithful tiny group of people, she no longer saw anyone.

Years and years after she started offering bunnies, and after she travelled to meet other bunny breeders who gave her tips to improve her work, the girl decided to try something new, and under the board that offered her bunnies, she added a piece of parchment that read: “Dear Visitor, why not wait for me to just chat a bit or leave me an address to contact you? I’d like some feedback on my bunnies. See you soon!”.

The piece of parchment was long gone with the wind when the girl decided that the silence hurt too much. She dearly loved the people who stopped by her house before they picked up a bunny, but these were a tiny fraction of the people who enjoyed the company of her bunnies.

It hurt.

It hurt, whilst it was supposed to be fun.

It hurt so much that the girl decided that it was time to change things for good.

She told her faithful visitors that her bunnies would be kept in a different place from now on, and that all they had to do to have one for free was to come see her and she’d take them to the new pens. She also warned them that the new bunnies were of slightly different colours.

On the board near the old pens, she added another piece of parchment that read: “Enjoy the bunnies; they’re the last ones I’m putting here. Thank you, and goodbye.”.

Then, it started…

First she found letters pinned under her message asking her to not stop breeding bunnies.

Then…

Then, at last, some of the people who’d been visiting the pens and taking the bunnies over the past years waited for her to show up when she fed the remaining bunnies.

The first one said, ‘I know I cannot force you to go on doing this, but it’d be awesome if you did keep doing it. Your bunnies are cute beasts, and I like them a lot.’

The girl was so utterly flabbergasted that she was properly stunned when she answered, ‘Ta! And sorry, but I can’t go on.’ Then she fed the last bunnies, and when she turned around, the visitor had already left.

There were a few more visitors like that. Always people who’d been taking bunnies for years and had never said a word until then.

Then, there was that visitor who said, ‘I’ve been getting bunnies from your pens for years, and I’m so sad to see that you’re going to stop breeding bunnies.’

By then, the girl was beyond sadness and frustration. She looked at that visitor and yelled, ‘If you liked them so much, couldn’t you bloody let me know once in all those years?! I’ve never seen you before. Where were you when I had no one to talk to? It’s too late now. You broke my heart!’

The visitor looked at the bunny-breeder and fled, thinking that she’d become mad, or that she thought she was important whilst she was just breeding bunnies-for-free, or that she was being unfair because she did see that the bunnies were being taken and that should have been bloody enough for that girl.

The visitor never understood. Neither did the others since they’d ignored the first plea for more communication.

The girl made sure that the first bunnies were all taken eventually, and she started breeding a new species of bunnies, and she was damn proud – not because she’d come up with a new species that she hoped her faithful followers would like, no (she was quite lucid on that head). No, she was proud for not hitting the strangers who asked her to go on breeding bunnies-for-free once she’d decided to stop doing that; she really wanted to, but she refrained from doing it… That, and she was busy chatting with the visitors of her new pens.