drama is not always a bad thing

 

Drama is not always a bad thing

A lot of people talk about drama like it’s all a bad thing. Maybe it’s my background in HS theatre classes, but I don’t see it that way.

It was tragedy that was always bad. Someone was sick or dying. Someone was in a dark day. They could not get out of.

But in drama, you also had things like passion and romance. Someone could be going on a journey or voyage of discovery, a quest. It could be one of the mind, the body or the spirit. But there was a new thing to deal with. And change is only bad when you are scared of it. When you feel out of control.

Drama is also bad when you are the spectator, and you don’t have skin in the game. You get bored. And when you do, but you get frustrated if you have no control over what the players are doing. Either way, it can get annoying, really quickly. And repetitive.

But the point of this is, that the word is often misused, instead of gossip or people being mean to each other. And that just isn’t what it means.

It could be a baby taking it’s first steps (or for a kinkster first attending or taking part in their passion). It could be a couple learning about each other, or falling in love. And yes, the initial stages of passion and introduction can lead to bickering and control issues. But there is still the excitement of a new romance. It could be an older person feeling they have done everything and not sure how to shake that feeling. It could be someone deciding that the bad they see outweighs the good. And whether they know it or not, that moment they walk away from the bad, they leave behind someone who really needed their support or tutilage. And their absence was felt. Heart felt.

Anyways, that is what I see as aspects of drama, because drama can have aspects of heartbreak and laughter in it, that leave one feeling ambiguous, or confused. Because it’s a mix of things, rather than either straight up comedy or tragedy.

Drama covers the sentiment of a lot of life. It is not a bad thing then. Not in it’s context.

Schrodinger’s Parent (a story/ish)

 

Schrodinger’s Parent

M was laying on his death bed. Looking forward to seeing his much beloved first wife’s face waiting for him at the pearly gates. So he was getting more and more relaxed and content to be dying. And yes, Mary was waiting for him…

But the last thing she planned on giving him were hugs and kisses. She had a flame in her eyes that didn’t bode well for M.

And when M’s last breath was exhaled, never to be taken up again, Mary grabbed his throat and yanked him to stand before her. M was confused…

He stammered out, “Mary, my love!”

“Don’t you ‘my love’ me, you rat’s ass you!” She glared at him.

“The way you treated my sister wife, the damage to your own body and life. The way you treated my brother and mother when they were family in your house under your roof! But worst of all, sirrah! The way you treated my poor, motherless, grieving children!! I have no words for that!!”, she snarled at him.

“But Mary, they always had clothes, food and a roof over their heads! What more could I have done in your name for them?? I took them to church every Sunday too”

“Do you think I wanted them to have a mean drunk for a father?? Is that what I showed you I wanted for them when I was alive?? And a hypocrite too??”

M bowed his head…”No Mary, you never drank.”

“Exactly! You were as ornery as a pig rustled out of the mud with them! And as combative too! And since when in our marriage were you so happy with me that you should batter my sister wife over the head, with me as the bat? You were a cheat, a liar and a mean drunk our whole marriage as well. Yet you kept saying she wasn’t your beloved, as if I had been!” Mary started to cry. ” I can’t believe she married you, knowing what you were to me!”

M was shocked. ” I gave those children everything they needed, Mary. Including a new mother!”

“Oh yeah! Someone who felt forced to marry you, out of duty to me and my kids. And did you show her appreciation? Well, did you?? She never wanted to be a wife or mother! And as soon as the kids were grown, you dumped her for a string of floozies!!”

“She was unnatural for a woman!”

Mary slapped M with all the force of her little chubby body.
“You arrogant mysogynistic pig you! Is this what you taught my children?? My daughters??”

M whined, “But Mary!! I must have done something right or I’d not be standing here with you at heaven’s gates, would I??”

Mary rose up on her heels as high as she could and howled at him in her rage! “You are here so I can pass sentence on you, M. Your sentence is that you will spend eternity in that bottle you craved so much! So sayeth My Lord!!”

And as fast as the words fell out of her mouth, it was done.

His children gathered at his grave for a minute. Then wandered over to their mother’s instead. How could you grieve for a father’s love missed, if it had never been? If his obsession over the bottle had meant more to him than any of them had?

Answer? You can’t grieve over wishes. That’s why M was Schrodinger’s parent to them. The mean drunk he really was would never be missed by them.

….

the story of  Schrodinger’s cat in a box

– quantum theory

….

Training a Pony (a story)

Training a Pony

Clyde came to me with dreams in his eyes. Imagining he knew what it took to be a pony. I had met men like him before, so I was pretty sure he had no clue. He’d never been on a farm, or even to riding stables. He thought it was a matter of me whipping his bum as he galloped and pretended he was a horse for a bit. I disagreed. Obviously!

I gave Clyde a rough idea of what I put my new ponies thru and his face fell. But he said, he wanted to try. Just for the experience. For the day when he was finally able to canter attached to a small wagon. With me riding, of course. Both of us, full of pride.

I told him there was a long road between here and there. I sent him home to really think about it. Because there were easier dommes he could do it with. It didn’t have to me. Not if all he wanted was a day of the fantasy.

I was surprised when he came back the next morning, bright and early. He was eager. I had to give him that. But was he ready?

We’d soon see!

First things he needed to learn were bridle training, how to sleep standing on all fours, and being led at a show gait. And while he did that, I had him pull the grandkids around, harnessed to a wagon. Between the old farm’s bldgs. He was actually beaming. Exhausted, but beaming. It’s hard for humans to sleep on all fours. He was far from a pony. But he had been introduced now, at least.

Clyde practiced his beginning tasks very hard, and did everything he could to earn a carrot or apple, as a treat. A break from his mash.

When I thought he was ready for the next stage, I took him out to the master of the fields and had him harnessed to a wagon. Every day Clyde was harrowing or making rows in the fields. He came home with burning shoulders from sun and the chafing of the harness. I had a groom put some liniment on his shoulders and back. Then gave him his evening meal and put him into hs stall for the night. I thought he’d soon give up. But no. Clyde was still eager. For that fantasy he had and for the carrot and apples I gave him, or the groom did.

I finally saw that he was ready for the next stage. So I put him in a harness and attached him to the smalll buggy. The grandkids took him up and down the long farm lane. They had a hoot, and so did Clyde. So I taught Clyde how to comport himself as a pony. And I gave him the gift I felt he had earned now… his own tack.

You should have seen his face! I thought I had seen him beam before. But he was just a joy to watch! And I finally got to the point where I had to show him off.

So I rode Clyde and carriage over to a friend’s farm about a kilo away. Slow but steady, so he’d get used to my weight. Not that I was much heavier than the kids all together. And at least I sat still. Them monkeys had no clue what still meant.

There came the day when my lady friend and I rode our carriages with ponies in between the shafts to town. Clyde’s proudest moment yet! The town folk were used to us, so we just paraded the ponies down the main street, tied them to the post and did a bit of shopping, then returned home.

Clyde was busting with pride. And he thought he was done.

One more thing had to happen though. Because cute and eager as he was, I wasn’t keeping Clyde. And neither was my friend. So I asked him how he felt about getting sold? There was a market nearby. I left him to think about it overnight.

The next morning, he agreed. So we went off to the market and I handed him and his tack over to the auctioneer. Clyde nearly busted his harness with pride when he was purchased. And I felt my heart drop. I was going to miss him. But after talking with the new owner, I knew he’d be fine. So we said goodbye.

And Clyde went off to his new farm. Ready for his new life. And I made a date for him to cover a brood mare I had that was almost ready to be a mother.

It would be good to see him again. Check if he was happy in his new home.

The Mortician’s Gift ( a story)

The Mortician’s Gift

Usually the mortician was a happy go-lucky guy who found ways to bring humour and spirituality into his day, and his tasks. And music.

He began preparing the body before him with a song that he thought was perfect for this client:

Don’t pay the ferryman,
Don’t even fix a price,
Don’t pay the ferryman,
Until he gets you to the other side”
In the rolling mist, then he gets on board,
Now there’ll be no turning back,
Beware that hooded old man at the rudder,
And then the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared,
And people calling out his name,
And dancing bones that jabbered and a-moaned
On the water. (Chris de Burgh)

The mortician pulled out some tubing and attached the needles for the embalming fluids to go thru into the client’s arms and feet. Today he was using a mix he had never used before, so he was watching closely to see how it reacted.

Everything went smoothly, so he cut the ends of the tubes, and melted them with a bit of heat from his bunsen burner.

Then the mortician pulled together the makeup jars and did a light coat of foundation and blush to give the body some colour. Then he did the face. With a light coat for the eyes, and the lips, since the poor thing was so young. No party looks for them!

He brushed out the hairs and put it into a nice chignon. He thought something classic best suited such a formal occasion. And you should look good going out right?

Then he dressed the body in the array the family had put together for the display, and stuffed cotton in the nether holes, and yes even the mouth. What was in must not leak out.

And the final touch was to put a silk pillow and cloth into the box and lay the client in it. All was set now.

The mortician called to the family. All was set for the funeral. His daughter came in to inspect the job he did on her doll. Her fave doll was beyond repair and she was heartbroken to say goodbye, so she had asked dad for this gift. Her mother wasn’t particularily thrilled, thought it a bit goulish and all. But she guessed it was better a doll teaching her child the rites than a family member or a friend gone much too young. Or even a pet.

So she held the mortician’s hand as he said a few words for their daughter’s comfort. And laid a hand on their dear child’s head.

They buried the box under a tree out back. And sang along to the song as a word of warning for the doll:

And then the ferryman said,
“There is trouble ahead,
So you must pay me now, ” “Don’t do it!”
“You must pay me now, ” “Don’t do it!”
And still that voice came from beyond,
“Whatever you do,
Don’t pay the ferryman,
Don’t even fix a price,
Don’t pay the ferryman,
Until he gets you to the other side;
Don’t pay – the ferryman!” (Chris de Burgh)

you could call me an anarchist…

anarchists themes

you could call me an anarchist…

I’m a huge fan of writings and philosophies that burn what is old before they rebuild. I don’t mean to rebuild the same, or to the same level either. I mean if we want what we have, we should just keep that, right?

I also don’t want to share a table with those already in power either. Because those who have, unchallenged, will never cede it, will they?

So you may find some themes in my writing that reflect that thinking. I certainly hope I put it in them.

I heartily accept the motto, “That government is best which governs least”; and I should like to see it acted up to more rapidly and systematically. Carried out, it finally amounts to this, which also I believe — “That government is best which governs not at all”; and when men are prepared for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have. Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments are usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient.

Henry David Thoreau

Even if the absence of government really did mean anarchy in a negative, disorderly sense – which is far from being the case – even then, no anarchical disorder could be worse than the position to which government has led humanity.

Leo Tolstoy

Revenge of a Cookie (a story)

Revenge of a Cookie

I know you think I’m about to talk about the “moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips” issue, right? But no! That’d be too easy, too pretty. And I just don’t do that, do I?

No this story is about a town that had been built around a cookie factory. In every home, they had at least one member who worked at the factory. The dad might be in management, or packing. The mom might be on the lines, and a teen or two might spend their weekends sorting broken cookies or doing inventory while the machines were down. They might even be cleaning.

When the economy changed though, the runs got smaller and smaller. And there were fewer second incomes made at the factory. Some of the younger couples moved away and now the average workers were in their middle ages. Seniority, right? A few of the lifers retired though, so someone else in their family could keep their job and stay in town. Mostly grandparents who wanted to watch their grandbabies grow up.

It didn’t just affect the factory though. Every business in town was impacted. The pub started closing down at 10 pm thru the week, and mostly had a singer who played guitar or piano in Friday and Saturday instead of a band. The girls in the back had to double as waitresses, or the owner told them they’d be fired.

The store in town took special orders, instead of getting in what was selling “out there”. They wanted folk in town fed and shopping there. They couldn’t see the sense of opening Sundays, cuzz everyone was at home or at church. But they hooked up a bell for anyone who was desperate for that one thing. If they ran out of pills for their bad head, dicky tummy, or diapers for a youngling.

The bank was only open by appt. And it’s manager took shifts at the factory. It made it a bit awkward working with people whose mortgages were late, or he had to refuse though. He wasn’t much liked.

The motel and B&B in town were mostly for tourist bookings now. And other than the town fairs close by, there wasn’t much to offer them. Though the motel did get the occasional cheater’s special. It taught the manager to keep his mouth shut when he saw folk in town. He mostly just tipped his hat as civility demanded and kept walking as if he barely knew his regulars.

The sheriff had more domestics these days than D&Ds at the pub or motel. People were taking their bottles home. He’d have the company of a husband who got too fisty now and then. But mostly he’d just have to separate a shouting match.

The farmers, fishers and hunters still came to town on Saturdays to get their goods. And things’d perk up for the day. But as they saw the town going to dust, they started spending their money in other towns.

Which meant the blacksmith relocated his family, and the shoes of the horses were needing repair.

Finally, the factory was closed. and the town council knew they were in trouble. There were whole days when nobody went downtown. And people just weren’t buying extra. All of the council were on partial pay. They had the luxury of having a second job after all.

With the factory closed though, nobody expected noises from the buildings. And when it first occurred, they put it down to rodents, or teenagers deciding to break in and party in the open spaces. But when the sheriff checked it out, there was no garbage left. No droppings from animals either.

This went on for awhile. To the point the town people really didn’t think much of it. The sheriff just made his rounds as usual. He became security for the factory as well as doing his domestic runs.

But even he was losing interest.

Till one day… He stopped by the factory to peek about, and smelled cookies baking. What the?? He scratched his head and looked around harder but noone was there! So he thought he might be hallucinating.

This kept happening more and more. And now and then the cookies smelled like they were burning. But nobody was baking!

The sheriff went to the town doctor and had a checkup, but he was given a clean bill of health. Which meant there was no explanation.

The teens in town had one though. They thought the factory was mad at being empty so long, so they started sneaking in. Looking around, with sage and candles along so they could clear the building of ghosts. But no spirits showed themselves. So they brought a spirit board. But nothing made itself known.

Till late one night, when the sheriff made his final riound, he was very startled by a huge cookie bearing down on him! Wait, what now!? Yes you heard me! A cookie was coming toward the sheriff, I said!

The sheriff shook his head, slapped his face, went to draw his gun… but does a cookie die when you shoot it?? Yeah that was when the sheriff got smart and started running! He used to run track so he was pretty fit. But the cookie managed to gain on him, overtake him and jump him. The sheriff was down on the cement floor now. And he felt sick as he realized he was about to be eaten!

IDK I guess, is turnabout fair play? Those who found his ripped up uniform covered in cookie crumbs the next day weren’t exactly sure. They boarded up the factory and made sure no one else would face the revenge of the cookie.

Fort Garry (a story/ish)

Fort Garry

One of the little people came by to tell me a story of long ago, from the people who lived in two tribes near the Red and Assiniboine rivers of long ago. From a land that was built by the first people’s and French, English, Dutch and Scots ‘ children. They called themselves the Métis. And at first they felt blessed. They had farms, they had trap lines, and traders who sold their goods so they could live.

The story teller told the tale of the slaying of many animals, and called forth his brothers and sisters; the beaver, squirrel, otter, moose, rabbits, foxes, seals, mink, martens and raccoon dogs to hear their wisdom of how the people were made to live in days of old.

Of a time of upheaval in a land that was only new in this incarnation. When the faces were changing from brown to paler. And the bands’ wisdoms were being replaced by the power of the big white brother.

Of a people much maligned, and misused so those in power could steal their land out from under them. Their children were sent off to schools far away; their blankets were given to them with a coating of diseases on them; men came to take advantage of the knowledge of their women, and married them to change their ways; and the traders changed their barter ways, to something more like gold or silver. Maybe they knew, or not, that this would change the way of the people forever?

The people were beginning to wonder if the govt worked for the trixsters, but it seemed to have a darker spirit than any they’d ever seen or known before. Especially when the people lost everything they held dear, under the guns of law and commerce.

And how one man led the Métis against the big white brother who wanted to take their land, without a word and change their ways forever. One man who lost his life and throat for daring to open his mouth for his people. Hung between two rivers, hung between churches and the old ways. As a symbol of what rebellion gets you.

It gets you the name of nemo, kin to no one. Not even your mother, under the new laws.

I cried for the people, I cried for the hero. And asked if the little one knew a name I could light a candle for?

A name I heard in history class came from his lips and I understood. The story was real. The name? Louis Riel and the Red River Rebellion .

I cried harder now that I knew.

But they’re just a mirror for you… (moods are like chocolates)

 

But they’re just a mirror for you… (moods are like chocolates)

I hear a lot of people say that someone “made them” feel this or that, or “made them” do this or that. If you are responsive or reactionary, it’s rarely them who triggers you. Not to the point where they find something that was never there in you to begin with. They can offer you something, but you don’t have to accept their “gift”, do you?

I get that when you have a craving for chocolate, it’s all you can think about, and you’re just waiting for the first person who hands you some. You practically bite their hand off trying to get the chocolate as well. But it’s not their fault that you are so needy is it? Unless they starved you for a week first?

Nor is it their fault if when you want chocolate so bad, you stupidly walk into a candy store and down the chocolate aisle. Yeah you know you’re not getting out of that aisle without gobbling some, right? It’s all you can do to get to the cashier desk and pay before you start gobbling is it? And the cashier is left looking at you with shock, right?

At some point, as an adult, you have to learn to regulate your own emotions. You have to accept responsibility for your own actions. You have to recognize that what they offer you does not have to be accepted.

You can walk away from them. And you should.

Esp as a dominant, the first rule of domination is to master yourself, after all. Isn’t it?

A Crèche of Angry Ghosts (a story)

A Crèche of Angry Ghosts

Between the 17-20C, several Christian (Catholic, Anglican, United, and Presbyterian) churches and countries’ govts (Aus/NZ, North Am, North Euro and South Africa) formed a collective method of assimilating the next generation of Indigenous people. They separaed kids who were @4-15 yrs of age from their parents, their tribes and boarded them in schools, where they were taught the ways of the “white”. (Whatever that is?) They were forced to speak languages not their own, and trained to live ways that were not their own. And punished if they were slow or disobedient. Many children died in those schools. We just don’t know for sure how many. In some of those countries, where the schools left off, the child protection services took over. And still continue to act to break families of Indigenous people apart. The assimilation continues. And whole tribes have been lost to history. That is the truth,…

…and this is the story….

There were these schools, that were made of stone and wood, that grew up shaped by the blood of children, by the tears of children and the gods of the people decided something needed to be done. The people were heartbroken and children were dying. So they gathered the children’s spirits together and gave them a chance to teach these “Christians” a lesson or two…

And they began it all at this first school. As a trial.

The children were happy to help and came up with some creative little insults that’d bother the adults at the school. Nuisance pranks that’d offend and frustrate the adults, and maybe scare them? And put them into practice.

The male teachers and priests were sent threats and love notes by their male colleagues. The female teachers and nuns had their few possessions stolen and put into the trunks of other women there.

And in the classrooms, anything AV was translated from the language of the teachers and govts to the ones of the kids. The children were hearing their own languages for the first time since they last saw their parents. Which for most was weeks ago. For some, it was months or years. And some of them had tears in their eyes and felt homesick.

The windows and doors blew about, of their own volition. The art supplies managed to creep to the teachers’ seats and make messes for them to unknowingly sit in. So their clothes were sullied.

Birds managed to fly thru closed windows and rodents let themselves in and chased the female teachers thru the halls. Smakes and spiders were found in many desk drawers by the teachers and principals. It was like a plague. That bad.

All the chalk went missing and for some unknown reason, the school never seemed able to order more.

The kids were getting a bit of comic relief, and nostalgia. The adults were getting confused and frustrated. So it was working.

And with that knowledge, the gods spread the plan. Wherever Christianity was designed as a weapon, as a destructive counter-force to Indigenous cultures, the ghosts went into action. It might take time, but this lesson would be taught.

A Zombie For Show and Tell. (a story)

A Zombie For Show and Tell.

I should have known teacher’s nose was sharp before that day. She always seemed to know when something was off in the classroom fridge, or if someone was playing with the knobs in the science area. So maybe it was foolish of me to try and fool her. Should I have done something differently? Probably. But kids have to learn by doing, as teacher often says.

So I brought my zombie into class when teacher had her meeting with the principal and other teachers at the beginning of the day. I hid him in the coat area, under some boxes and old coats in the lost and found area. And giggled at my desk.

Teacher came into the room and greeted us first thing when she got there. And started roll call. Half way thru she sniffed and looked around… “If somoene has an upset tummy, you can excuse yourself now” and finished roll call. No one had left the room.

So teacher walked up and down the aisles between the desks and sniffed near each kid. “Did someone forget to change their socks before coming to school?” She sniffed into a rose-scented linen handkerchief between her sniffs of us. By the time she got to me, I wasn’t sure if I should be giggling anymore. I was worried I might be in trouble now. She came close to me, but there was a sink between us and she apparently detected an odour there, so she returned to the front of the room and called for the school janitor and handyman. And started her lesson.

The janitor came, inspected the sink, but could find nothing wrong. The water ran freely. Sank in the drain freely and there was no sludge under the sink either. All good signs. But he poured some drain freshener down the drain, just to show he heard her concern about the odour. And left the room.

But soon enough teacher was exploring again. And getting closer to the truth. She was headed in the direction of the closets, so I stuck my hand up quick and asked her a question. Something she might think the class could learn from, so she didn’t come lean over me. Do zombies leave odours behind? I didn’t want to take the chance.

That solved things and kept teacher busy for a bit. I managed to keep her distracted till show and tell. Whew! I was also glad to be one of the first presenters.

When my turn came, I ran back to the closet and led him out. Some of the girls started screaming and running away from the zombie. Some of the boys had that awe look on their face and were coming closer to look. The zombie seemed to be gaining interest in them as well. I didn’t make it to the front of the class though… Teacher ran up to us and firmly said I was to remove the zombie from the class, “Now!”.

But then she seemed to think better of it and directed me to wait. Everone else was told to leave the class. She stayed with me while she called for help. The principal came running, but really… who do you call when a kid brings a zombie to school for show and tell?

Yeah they didn’t know either.