Furbaby

The big guy Bruce went to the vet today. It's hard with pets. You love them, want them to be happy and healthy, and have no way of telling what's going on with them. A big gaping wound on Bruce's tail told me he needed to see a professional. No amount of salt baths would reverse the damage done.

The night before last, I noticed he was off. Sleeping inside. Generally looking a little pinched faced. I checked him over, but I missed the injury. Makes me feel like a bad parent. The bill was terrible, but we pay because we love these creatures and we want them to be okay. Sadly, I do believe our love is exploited.

Anyhow, he's home, and he's going to be just fine because he's strong. He's tough. He's tenacious. He's the Captain of the football team and he keeps all the other players in line.

To Hell With Positive Thinking

You know, the thing about positive thinking is, in order for it to be effective you kind of need a sign every once in while that it's actually working. I mean, I'm not a scholar or whiz kid, but I'm pretty sure in order for us to stay on the 'you need rain to make a rainbow' train, you actually need to see a rainbow. Right? Like a little break would be nice. A small one. A teeny tiny sign that good things are on route. 

The truth is, it's exhausting trying to look on the sunny side of things. Keeping your chin up is hard work when a metric ton of stress is bearing down on you. It's virtually impossible to have a stiff upper lip all the time. Sometimes you don't want to keep swimming. Sometimes you want to shuck off your water wings and give in to the riptide of negativity. Allow the sea of annoyance and grumpiness to wash over you. Submerge in anger. Wallow in melancholy. Drown in pessimism. 

Instead of smiling and saying things like, "It can only get better", which is an outright lie because it actually can get worse, you want to snarl, snap and shout a big eff you to the big blue sky, maybe even throw a middle finger up, just in case someone is watching. 

Of course, there are hiccups for all of us on this road to life, for sure. Troubles are not unique to me, nor are they to you. Yes, it is always optimal to maintain your hopefulness and to remain cheerful in the face of strife, but sometimes that's just not feasible. Sometimes smiling and saying 'everything happens for a reason' is downright impossible. Once in awhile, it's okay to get mad. To be agitated and enraged. You don't always have to be pleasant. Sometimes you have to let the world know you aren't happy with the way things are working out. In fact, you're utterly unimpressed with how the situation is unfolding and would like your time and money back, if possible. 

Sure, it's important to remain upbeat and carry on, to struggle through the rough times and remind yourself 'this too shall pass'. That doesn't mean it isn't equally important to slam the door to your bedroom and hide under your covers for a couple days. To eat a pint of ice cream. Dodge your mother's phone call. Or write a snarky post about giving up on positive thinking and embracing the negativity you've been beating away with a stick.

It's warm and familiar in this cocoon of discontentment.

As the elevens grow deeper on my forehead and my face slips easily into a mask of dissatisfaction, I relax into my 'this sucks' attitude. For tonight, I stew, immersing myself in irritation and pulling up the 'leave me alone' blanket. I will turn inwards and question why I even bother, feel foolish for caring, and mock all the eager, go-getter thoughts I've had through this worrisome week. The loveliness will be put on the back burner, the hold button pushed, and I will be a ball of irate wretchedness. 

Tomorrow I will wake up and return to the positive, but tonight to hell with it.   

Wordy Wednesday

The word: Phantasmagoria

This is explained as an ever-changing scene that is confounding or strange and reminds you of a dream. Or, a shifting series of phantasms, illusions, or deceptive appearances as created by the imagination. Honestly, I just love the way this word sounds. There is a classiness to it. A fantastical eerie feel to it. I've never actually used it in a sentence, but one of these days I hope to.

After doing a bit of reading, I've discovered phantasmagoria is a form of theatre where people used seemingly magical lanterns to project spooky images onto walls, either with smoke, light or screens. With a mobile projector, the images could move and change in size, either growing bigger and smaller. This form of theatre came from France in the late 18th century but gained popularity in the 19th century in Europe (especially with the English.)

Phantasmagoria, and the usage of this magic lantern, which was really just a candle and concave mirror, is actually still used today, though the lanterns are modernized. Have you ever been to Disneyland? When you're on the Haunted Mansion ride and your cart turns around only for you to see a ghost between you and whoever you're riding with? This is phantasmagoria!

In fact, this ride utilizes this form of theatre a lot. Consider all those spectres you see along the way. Not to ruin it for you, but those are all created by a projector, which is nothing more than a modern day magic lantern.

Creative Hour

The Sidekick and I are trying to have a creative hour every night. From eight to nine. It's a tactic for each of us to focus on our arts. His being painting and drawing and mine being writing. I thought of the idea and wanted him to join me because if he doesn't participate then I'll feel as if I am ignoring him for an hour every night. Maybe even more, if I get on a roll. 

Last night was our first attempt and it was a complete disaster, though. I opened one of my old documents, a spark that fizzled out, and I wanted to breathe some life into it. Except, the dog I am babysitting decided he wanted to bite me, twice. And, believe it or not, I am one of those annoying people who are affected by their surroundings and what's going on. I love having the television on or music while I am writing, I can even handle the Skype noises when someone is trying to talk to me. 

One of these days, I'm going to finish these WIPs (work in progresses). If anyone asks, I'm not finished here. I have words to write. Books to complete. Stories to wrap up. Characters to flesh out. And plots to weave. Sometimes I worry about exciting stage left without having finished all these books that are half completed (some are even three quarters of the way there.) It concerns me that one day someone will look at my Dropbox writing folder and notice how most of the novels aren't finished. 

Then said person will write a blog about it. 

And the world will know how little follow through I have. 

These are the things I think about when my mind has a couple minutes to run off on its own. 

With all this being said, creative hour is simply a way to dedicate more time to what we love doing. Setting aside this time of day for our art means we have a reason to shut out the world, even each other, and just create. This is nice. Maybe tonight will go smoother. 

The Death In Rural Living

Up until I moved to Vancouver Island I'd only seen roadkill. Not a ton of it. A chipmunk here. A cat there. On the rare occasion a deer when I headed into the mountains to see my parents. These days, I see something dread pretty much every day. The more rural my living becomes, the higher the death count. As an animal lover and vegan, all this decay and loss of life is unsettling. Yes, I understand it's all the circle of life and death is ultimately the end result for all of us, but I don't like seeing it.

Today, Dixon tried to roll in a dead octopus but didn't manage to get into it. I pulled him away just in time and continued to drag him across the rocks and halfway down the beach before he realized he didn't stink like rottenness. He looked so happy. Just this big pitbull grin on his gorgeous face, thrilled to be alive and able to roll in dead things. Does anyone actually know why dogs feel the need to do this?

The dead octopus isn't the first time Dixon and I have ran into a dead animal. There was the dead fish he actually managed to roll in and let me reassure you, the bath that came afterwards was met with far less enthusiasm. And once when we were hiking up to Elk Falls there was a deer at the side of the road, also dead, and he tried to roll in that, but he missed.

Still, the dead things keep piling up.

In the last year I've seen a dead beaver, a decapitated sea lion, raccoons and possums, one smooshed badger, a handful of deer, crows, an octopus, fish, crabs, one cat, a rabbit, squirrels, crickets galore, a bunch of mice and a mole. At least I think it was a mole. Sometimes it's hard to identify the creatures I come across. Insert a disturbed sad face here.

I suppose in some ways I'm not cut out for living so close to nature. While I love exploring and touching trees and wading through water, I'm not really a fan of all this death and dying business.
On the other hand, this sort of scenery means I will never move away.