There are things about book publishing that drive me batshit. One of them being novels that say "a novel" on the cover. Presumably, given that I procured the item, I am aware of it's nature. This drives me insane the same way nails down a chalkboard drive others insane. The other thing I find irksome, are books that have the author's name printed larger than the title; especially annoying when the title is a person's name, and you can't tell which is which. Someone said they are merely marketing, but marketing carries with it a whole other set of unpleasantries.

If you choose to wear a mantle, put on a certain guise, act a part, and play a role, then it is no one's fault but your own that people estimate you based on what it is you show them. Why is it that so many people are so surprised and even shocked about the appraisals of others, when those appraisals merely sum up the parts these players have laid upon the table? If you act the tart, that is the part you'll get. If you act the diva, then that too is the role you will be slotted into.

What advice can I offer a man who fails to see what fortunes are in front of him, while he continues to moon about someone who is long since out of his life, even if he still communicates with her? I think that advice would be this: Get over it. Wake up and smell the coffee. Stop dismissing out of hand what greets you daily, because it fails to be Her. What a waste of a life, to spend so much effort waiting for something to come along that won't ever, because it won't fit the mold of your memories.

Since it takes far less energy for someone to simply say no, and even do so politely, than it does to be pissed off and vitriolic, I can only assume that people actually like being angry. It's never been something that turned my crank in any fashion, except when I was a much younger woman whose PMS was a battle of bile with no justifiable outlet. At such times as that, one's brain and reason depart for climes elsewhere, and leave you in no control of yourself, nor in any want to find such control.

I'm feeling much better now.

I've realised that I don't like cynicism. Listening to people bitch frustrates me. Healthy suspicion exists, but certain kinds of cynicism always smacked of too much blatant negativity, too much condemnation. I think I find it juvenile. Maybe that's because so much of the time it is expressed in such a fashion that it sounds like a sandbox fight ending in sour grapery. To put it more succinctly, it too often sounds like whining. Not only that, I figure that if you are going to bitch that much, you should do something about the situation, or shut the fuck up.

I was trying to find some online trace of someone I had a most affectionate crush on in high school; but, he seems to be one of those rare birds who has little to no presence on the Internet. I have a very vivid couple of memories of him. He was very sweet to me at a time when no one else outside my circle was. He took a moment aside, and was kind, comforting. It still makes me smile. I always thought he bore a slight resemblance to Jim Kerr from Simple Minds. If you're out there, say hello.

I don't believe in burial; not because of some post-mortem form of claustrophobia, but simply because I believe it to be a collossal waste of land. There are far better things to do with dirt than bury dead bodies in it. I like the idea of organic burial, of sticking the corpse into the ground in a canvas sack and letting it rot under a tree back into the dust from whence it came. I would prefer to be left to rot openly in a body farm; to provide some use, to have nothing remaining but a memory of me.

I've got laundry hanging on the shower rod in my bathroom. The place I normally do laundry has about the worst dryers I've ever used; which means that when I take my clothes out of them, they're still damp. When I was at my friend's wedding in June, which happened in his parents' backyard, I noticed that the shower rod in the bathroom was jammed from end to end with clothing. Turns out his mother's a shopaholic, and there isn't an inch of empty space in any closet or any wall hook. Judy is the poster girl for clothes horse.

I've decided to take a course on Shakespeare's plays. I've been avoiding it, concentrating on unfamiliar territory and saving this for a just in case. There are places in this world where they translate the Bard, and people who actively hate it because of bad school experiences. I've never had a problem with it. I've always loved Shakespeare; the poetic nature of the language; the clever turns of phrase. Someone suggested I keep a blog about things I'm studying for the course, quotations and such. I'll do that, but I wish I could think of more to do than that.

I fail in any fashion to be surprised that we are retaining our Liberal government in Ontario. After spending a day working in a polling station, though, I have two things to say: 1) It was very nice to see so many young people out voting for the first time, even older people voting for the first time also. 2) The percentage of eligible voters that actually turned out to vote was dismal; somewhere around fifty percent. So, methinks it is long past time to make voting mandatory, and not voting carry a fine. What the fuck is wrong with you people?

The next time I hear the words "You've got to understand that it's personal," during a conversation relating to one's feelings after the death of a parent, I am going to punch the person who says them in the mouth. No fucking shit it's personal, Captain Obvious. Can't get much more personal than that. The words "you've got to understand" are starting to grate on me like nails down a chalkboard. I don't have to understand fuck all, you condescending son of a bitch. But if you think I have to, then you should consider the same action in return.

Ways to Wisdom, our local occult shop, sells the only kind of jasmine incense I've ever been able to tolerate and like; been using it since I was seventeen years old. The others I've tried have been far too sickly sweet. There was nothing of the delicate blossom about them, only the overly perfumed. I used to drink jasmine tea and burn the incense at the same time. It was a nice, soothing little ritual; but I haven't seen Twinings' jasmine tea in years. I wonder if they even make it anymore. I miss General Foods' Cafe Irish Cream, too.

Intimate tensions are not the only basis for strife in a friendship between a man and a woman, particularly not with me; and I resent anyone automatically adding that in as a reason for any strife that might arise. There's more to existence than animal lust or pheremonal confusion, and I feel demeaned and abased that this sort of thing is ascribed to me. It's no wonder I feel more physically aloof every day of my life, if people keep trying to drag me down with the weight of things that I have put in a place I can control.

Is it the effects of getting older, or am I truly seeing a youth population bent more on entitlement and ignorance, than they are on being aware, participatory, and informed? I know each generation has its malcontents, and its own youth oriented linguistical twists; but reading a few websites recently was like trying to decipher code. It was unintelligible. How is this level of ignorance and lack of acceptance of paying one's dues, going to translate in the future? I have seen a shocking decline in cultural and linguistical knowledge in my lifetime, and a more disturbing lack of caring.

I'm starting to believe that we're never again going to see a traditional autumn in this neck of the woods. An autumn that actually starts at the end of September; sees the trees bare after a riot of reds, oranges, and yellows; and is dotted with a first snowfall on Hallowe'en. It was nice, those few weeks of wearing thick sweaters, crisp walks, and leaf-scuffing. I miss the sharp smell in the air that betokens the onset of winter. I miss fall fairs. If that's going to happen at all, though, it'll be so brief as to almost be worthless.

Someone in this building is baking bread. I could smell that peculiar sweetness that only yeast can yield, as I came up the stairs from checking my mailbox. It reminds me of long ago days when my grandmother would bake an entire army's worth of bread in a day; every flat surface, the couches and chairs counted, adorned with covered dishes of rising dough. There was and is nothing like the taste of bread fresh from the oven covered in butter. I don't think anything could aggravate feelings of hunger as does the smell of baking bread, or cooking onions.

I was talking to this lady some years ago, someone who'd obviously never had anyone explain the inner female workings to her. We got on the subject of periods, and it came out that her mother had told her that the thicker material that issues forth, was old stuff from previous months. She didn't know that it was uteran lining, and not leftover either. The mother of another lady I knew, thought that you only had one opening below, that blood and urine came out of the same place. It's tragic that people have so little understanding of their bodies.

I am not happy with the current turn of the wheel; but, like windmills, the wheel can turn 'round again and cast you up into the clouds as quickly as it can grind you into the gravel. It is amazing to me, and I don't mean that in the too common usage of the term as something positive, how it is such a prevalent attitude for us to put more faith, belief or trust into the negative or bland, than we do in the good, upbeat, or optimistic. Where did we learn such bad habits of perverseness and cultural doubt?

Being an avowed atheist, albeit a passive one, it may surprise that some of my favourite lyrics are religiously flavoured.

Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water,
And he spent a long time watching,
From his lonely wooden tower.
And when he knew for certain,
Only drowning men could see him;
He said, "All men shall be sailors, then
Until the sea shall free them."

- Leonard Cohen, Suzanne

The three men I admire most,
The father, son and holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast,
The day the music died.

- Don McLean, American Pie

I was talking to a friend of mine about the ridiculous amounts of money some actors and athletes make. In some cases they are certainly insane, but not always; and these people are in a position that has little to no permanence, and without the same sorts of securities and assurances that your average joe can expect from an average joe job. In a lot of cases they have a very short time in which to make money to compensate for lack of insurance, or the potential of injury that could end a career in the blink of an eye.

My grandmother was talking about how she wants to move her television back into her bedroom, because sometimes she's up late, can't sleep, and would rather watch TV than read. I asked why she would want to go through that much trouble, when she could just go lay on her couch. It's her place. She lives alone. She can do what she wants. While she perfectly understands the concept of locking the door on a hot day and walking around in her underthings, the concept of lounging on her own sofa just hadn't occurred to her. She likes the concept.

I figure that most folks are fairly normal, with a few spare quirks here and there to liven up the day. So I go into the pizza joint the other day, and there are two guys there I'd classify as being at least superficially normal: both wearing blue jeans, with some trendy short haircut, and buttoned shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Clean cut. Attractive. Neat, but with enough wrinkle to add charm. So, when I hear one of them say, out of the corner of my ear, "... Hallowe'en rectal treat..." I start thinking, "No, maybe not so normal perhaps."

I've been banging my head against some coding problems for the past day or so. Most of them have been fixable, so it hasn't been too frustrating. There's one issue, though, that's got me ornery. It's a problem that doesn't interfere with my programs, but it's one of those things that drives you nuts just by its very existence; like out of place items on a shelf. Ever have one of those days or weeks where you look at so many error codes, bug reports, and workarounds, that you forget there's actually an easy way out most of the time?

I grew up in an atmosphere where love and affection seemed, to me, to be nonexistent. Screaming, insults, verbal abuse, people thrusting you away when you try to touch them, or trying to touch you in ways that were inappropriate. Praise was always heaped on others, never to you, never to your face. When good things did happen, they couldn't be trusted, were quickly drowned. So, now, now I cannot accept familial pride. I don't like it when my family gives me direct praise about anything. I want to swat it away like one swats away a gnat. It's alien.

What the hell is it that people have started carrying around, that necessitates them using a small suitcase on wheels like most of us use a purse or knapsack? Really, exactly when did this become a trend, and precisely what statement are they trying to make? Is it the same statement being made by people that wear Zubaz pants, acid wash, or sweatsuits like they're suitable for framing? Are ya'll carrying tools, an entire change of clothing (shoes included), a Bond-like mini helicopter for those mad getaways from the law? I'm waiting for somebody to furnish me an intelligible explanation.

I don't know how to describe it exactly, but I find something warm and honest about certain comedic films from the 80s. They are part of the family of what I call Campbell's Soup films or comfort food films. They are warm, nonthreatening, comfortable, distracting, entertaining, undemanding, satisfying, and capable of warming a cold heart, easing a troubled mind, and comforting in a way that only favourite slippers, warm blankets, and a bowl of soup can be. They fill a void when you're lonely at three a.m., or bored on a Sunday afternoon. One of my favourites is Major League.

How is it possible that the people who complain most about the judgemental nature of others, are also of a judgemental nature themselves? They also seem patently incapable of taking any notice whatever of their own judgemental attitudes. I've never met someone more judgemental and regimented than my friend J; yet, that is what he most notes in others, and he spends an awful lot of time being rude about others' habits, tastes, pursuits, and natures. He's getting tiresome. He's got nothing to say to me, doesn't seem to try, and makes me feel I must tread eggshells about myself.

The thought of having to take a temporary job at an outbound call centre fills me with an almost incalculable dread. No one wants to do this. It's generates less gratitude than being a hooker would, at least I'm assuming. You are violating someone's personal space, and likely at times when they are least likely to be amenable to such violations. You are more than likely going to be offering them something that they don't want, won't use, or couldn't afford. I also despise the communal gung ho attitude of some call centres. I don't need the cheerleaders to succeed.

Hamilton slowly begins to look like a city in autumn's grip. It hasn't come soon enough, nor has it come in the manner I would like, but it comes. Some leaves fall, some chill tints the breezes, some people are out with sweaters instead of t-shirts. Yet, there is not quite enough chill to remind us of Hallowe'en, pumpkin patches, and mugs of cocoa on the front porch wrapped in the biggest cableknit sweater you can lay your hands to. This is not an autumn that warns us winter is coming; it feels more like spring telling us winter's gone.

Is there anything nicer smelling than fresh laundry? It is the best night's sleep in the world, when, on the first warm enough night of spring, you put clean sheets on the bed, and can sleep with the window open wide. Of course, we haven't had winter yet, and I'm already pining for the unbending newness of the vernal equinox. I don't like overly scented detergents and soaps, by the way; they're too perfumey and detract from that feeling of fresh cleanliness. Just give me plain old laundry soap smell any day, and keep your mountain fresh for the mountains.

It is the day when spirits of the dead roam the earth looking for living prey to put the heebies into. I don't think I can muster up enough frayed nerve to be in any fashion frightened by something dressed like a hooker, an adult dressed like a pregnant nun, or anyone dressed as a Power Ranger, Disney character, or Barbie. When did the tide shift from trick-or-treating that actually meant tricking, and costumes went from creep to the crassly commercial? Come over to my place, I'll blindfold you, and run your hand through a bowl of wet grapes (eyeballs!).