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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| It was about 8 or 9 years ago that I decided to try genealogical research. I didn’t want to pay for any service, so all my research would have to be through information that was free on the internet. Google was my research assistant. I didn’t realize it then, but that was the perfect time to do this research as many of the sites that were giving out vital statistics and such for free, have now shuttered their search functions and charge for any release of information. I was lucky also that nearly all my mother’s paternal ancestry was already recorded and kept on a website that was completely free to search. The Island Registry contains detailed family trees on many families that immigrated to Prince Edward Island, Canada. Without that giant first step, I might have not pursued further. There was a story told in my mother’s family of a situation involving a murder. This happened in the 19th century, so no one who knew what really happened was still living. The story the family circulated amongst themselves made the murderer out to be quite a noble creature, and the murder a tragedy, but not a real crime. I was surprised, therefore, when I accessed the local papers of the time on Google and read some very salacious details that the family had never disclosed (though, I don’t believe my mother knew of these facts). Unfortunately, I did not print these out and Google has since been stopped from publishing them for free. This week, I was searching the internet, trying to find those newspaper articles again when I happened upon a Facebook page devoted to crime with a post about this very murder. Through the post, I have made contact with cousins I didn’t know existed. Sometimes it is worthwhile to google something that you’ve searched for dozens of times before. The internet is always changing and new information is being added all the time. I found much more than I was looking for. |
| I remember when I first experienced Facebook, I sneered at the number of people who used this great communication medium as a place to share photos of cats. They posted photos of cats all day long - fluffy cats, hairless cats, mischievous cats, fat cats, grumpy cats and cats who “can haz cheeseburger”. I just could not understand it, having been a dog person my whole life. Then, through no fault of my own, I became a cat owner. My daughter had lobbied for a cat for years and I had remained steadfast. I did not want to be responsible for another pet as I had for the guinea pigs she brought home but tired of maintaining. One day, nearly two years ago, I was entreated with pitiful pleas. My desire to see my child happy finally overcame my objections. I agreed to let her bring home a cat. This kitten with the tiny, perfect triangle of a head that sat atop long spindly legs, soon won us over with her boundless energy and appetite for fun. Then my daughter decided she was ready to move out on her own. Her own, meaning the cat did not go with her. And that was fine with me. What I discovered when the cat came into my life is that cats aren’t as aloof or uncaring as they appear. They do care about you, but it’s not in the “just happy to be near you” tail-wagging way that dogs care. Dogs rush to you and win you over with exuberant expressions of their love and devotion. Cats are more subtle. They are so subtle, they don’t even know they are doing it. Cats naturally exhibit behaviors that appeal to humans. They strike poses that we find irresistibly cute and adorable. With no effort at all, a decent cat can reduce the average owner to emotional mush by just rolling over, resting its head on a paw or displaying those big, round, dilated pupils that strangely, are often called “puppy dog eyes”. If we could resist these poses, these behaviors, then cats would never know that they could manipulate us. Alas, we are driven by instinct, too. Because a cat who is sitting atop a cat tree, rolling onto its back and flipping its head upside down to look at you cannot be resisted, the owner rushes to the cat instead of the other way around as with a dog. Cats soon learn to lure you, to make you come to them and because they don’t want to make it easy for you, they let you guess what they want until you get it right. Food? Water? Treat? Window open? You want the window up so you can look out and hear the birds? Okay. Cats do what comes naturally, and in doing so, alter our attitudes and actions. A curled up ball of fur makes us feel protective of something so soft and vulnerable and so, the cat can rely on the human to watch over it while it sleeps. We are satisfied with the feelings we get from viewing such cuteness, and in turn, provide our services and devotion. It’s a perfect arrangement and one that does not cost the cat anything. The cat does not learn to sit, or beg, or heel, or stay. It does not work as an alarm system to warn of strangers approaching. It will not eat your scraps to save you money. The cat does nothing more than be and that is all it takes to train a human to do the heavy lifting in the relationship. I have realized that I can work to change the world through social media, and use the internet to influence the minds and hearts of all those who might listen, just by posting cute photos of my cat. If we could all just let our hearts be melted by these adorable felines, we wouldn’t have to worry about the future ever again. The cats would be in charge. |
| I belong to a number of special interest groups on Facebook. Some are for hobbies, others celebrate certain authors or artists, and there’s even a couple of groups devoted to quirky television series that I enjoy. I love being able to share my enthusiasm for different pursuits with like-minded people. I don’t love it when the discussions go off topic and into emotionally-charged political debates. Don’t get me wrong - I love to debate politics. Just not in a knitting group. In my craft groups, I want to discuss techniques, share patterns and encourage others by praising the quality of their latest projects. I don’t want to know the politics of the others in the group and I don’t want to preach mine. I want to like them as people, as friends. But bring in politics and people change. They go from being supportive and encouraging to hurling insults and oh! how the uppercase letters and exclamation marks multiply across the screen! I prefer it when the admins shut down the off-topic political fights. If they don’t, I generally leave the group. I prefer to continue liking my fellow enthusiasts. I don’t want to hate them and I don’t want them to hate me. Because political debates can go to an unhealthy level of anger and nonsense. I know this from experience. See, I was having a conversation with a group of people on the interwebs recently when I opened my argument with the well-known quote: “Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.” Since this was a political discussion, another participant immediately countered with “That’s what the Nazis said!”. I was taken aback completely. I felt like a fool. How did I not know that Edgar Allan Poe was a Nazi?  *Apologies to Elvis Costello, but I am hoping to leave you with an earworm. |
| If I had to describe myself in one word, that word would be: awkward. I am awkward in every way. I am socially awkward. I am physically awkward. I have an awkward sense of humor. I say awkward truths in front of people in authority. I hold awkward opinions. And if there is a way to do the normal thing in an awkward manner, I am driven to do it. A few years back, on another writing site that has since disappeared from the interwebs, there was a challenge to write a series of romantic poems based on specific prompts. I think I was already growing weary of this site, for I set out to write poems of great longing and desire, all of which included fish. I wrote poems full of carp and goldfish, all sorts of fish - even angler fish, the kind with a bio-luminescent dangly bit with which they lure other sea life to their mouths full of jagged, sharp teeth. Why fish? Because I was being awkward and daring people to smell what my poetry was made of. Hold your nose, here's a sample: I miss something, when you’ve turned out the light that I should see. But my eyes, unaccustomed In the dark, know the uselessness of sight. Hooded, I perceive only love’s phantoms. You’re the angler fish in my ocean deep In my inky, sunless depths, you were light. I lie awake, wondering, while you sleep Where is that which drew me, that future bright? Was I that hapless creature in the dark, Knowing only a life of rayless gloom? Who fearlessly swam to your dangling spark, And in pursuit of your sun, was consumed? Yes, There is something wrong with me. Just today I wrote a poem to a prompt that required that I use 5 words all starting with the same letter. I used 5 words starting with a silent letter. Was that just to be awkward? No, not really. I thought it would be fun and a challenge, which shows you that I have an awkward definition of “fun”. I suppose that being awkward is my way of daring the world to understand me in my most individualistic moments of philosophical whimsy. I don’t recommend it, though. As a wise squirrel once said: "That trick never works, Bullwinkle". |
| They are the homeless - crumpled spirits that huddle together in corners and mutter against me. When the time came they were found unworthy, and thus, discarded. They were the first to tell the glorious story. Yet here they lie - formerly cherished, but now forsaken cast offs who have been abandoned and left to exist on scraps. They see the work that went on without them and envy consumes them. Once they were part of it - the construction, the vision. But the vision changed without notice. Suddenly and without warning they were deleted out of existence. Muttering in mutinous anger they haunt me, and call to me. I turn back to them for a moment, remembering my love for them, and yet they are not part of the work that goes forth and I cannot heed their calls. Even amongst themselves there is division. Great and nice are considered to be common and unworthy company for the likes of splendorous and decorous and are relegated to a lower place. In the darkest corner, wrath and ruin join desolation in a cacophony of grievous moans at their fate. Once they were all inspirations, scribbled hastily on bits of paper and store receipts, kept in jacket pockets until they could be set in place. Now they are set adrift in forgotten text files, victims of the editor's cut. These are the homeless words. |
| It’s time to address the 600 pound email in the room: [REMINDER] Update Your Blog. I get this reminder daily. Even updating my blog only buys me 24 hours of peace. It’s been pointed out to me that I don’t have to get this reminder quite as often. I could set the trigger to fire it off monthly. I could even turn it off entirely. Or so you would think. The blog reminder is like an alarm clock. Without an alarm, one might sleep all day and miss the school bus, or be late for work. And there’s this little loophole built in. You can hit the snooze button a number of times, allowing you to jolt your brain over and over until it accepts the fact that it’s morning. You can set the alarm to go off half an hour early as a test run to wake you up a little then let you slip back to dreamland before the real alarm goes off. You can set multiple alarms at half-hour intervals to annoy you (and anyone else in the house) awake. I do all of these things - and I set my blog to send a reminder to update daily (probably because there’s no way to set it for more than once per day). Without a blog reminder, I truly would forget all about the blog. I would start watching television, updating my Facebook, or get lost in YouTube and never find my way out. The blog reminder and the alarm clock are similar in another way. Eventually, the alarm clock is so irritating it gets sworn at, has a book hurled at it, or it is thrown to the floor. In the same way, the blog reminder annoys me and makes me angry. It’s relentless. I bristle at being told what to do and swear never to blog again. But I don’t turn the reminder off, just as I always set my alarm again for the next day, because I am human and believe that someday, I will develop willpower (I won’t). But here’s another problem: I did update my blog the other day and the next morning, there was no “[REMINDER] Update Your Blog” email. I felt ignored and lonely. So, you see, I can’t turn off the reminder. Ever. |
| Names change a lot around here. I noticed over the last year since I joined WDC, that people often change their handles to suit the season or a holiday or for personal reasons that they are not required to share with me. Not trying to pry, not at all. But I hadn't thought about changing my name until I realized it probably made no sense to most people. I am not sure I thought very hard about my name when I chose it. After all, I didn't know what WDC was all about or how long I'd be staying. I might have chosen differently if I had. Anyway, at the time, I'd been watching some television shows from Scandinavia and since I am half Danish, the idea of "Nordic Noir" appealed. Nordic Noir is a genre of Scandinavian dark crime fiction. Maybe it doesn't fit exactly as I don't write crime fiction, but I felt both nordic and noir. I hadn't considered whether or not the name would make sense to anyone else or be difficult to pronounce. Noir is French for the color black or the general sense of darkness and is often used to describe various artistic styles - like "film noir" - but most non French-speaking people don't use the word noir on any regular basis. For the record, "noir" is pronounced something like "nwahr". But that doesn't really matter much when you're reading and what's in a name? So, I didn't really think much about NordicNoir being a poor name choice or that perhaps it should have been "noire" since that is the feminine form or even that the name might eventually become my "bête noire" (literally, black beast - something you dislike very much or is annoying to you). So, all of this to say that I have finally updated my portfolio introduction page and changed my handle to Ned. Now, I know that Ned doesn't sound any more feminine than NordicNoir, but it's a name I have used on the net and in writing and blogging for more than a decade. Ned is a diminutive form of an anagram of my real name, and it feels familiar to me. I can slip into Ned the way one can slip into an old, worn-out shoe. It's comfy and conformed to the shape of one's foot, no matter how deformed the toes or how big the corns. So, that's it. The story of Ned (me) who is also NordicNoir (me, too). Slightly boring, I know. But hey, anything to avoid the dreaded "Reminder: Update Your Blog" email, right? |
| I have done the unthinkable and purchased some coffee pods. It has always been my contention that making one cup of coffee at a time indicates a serious lack of intent to drink it by the gallon. But since the demise of the coffee pot, I have been left with a kindly gifted Flexbrew system that uses a tiny basket for single cup brewing with coffee grounds, or a basket that holds a K-cup. I don't mind filling a basket with grounds for a single cup of coffee, but I detest the mess of emptying it, Three times, In the morning. Asleep during at least one of those times, So, pods. They lure you with convenience. They use your laziness against you. They know your clumsiness is at its height in the morning, magnified by your groggy state. "Coffee! And Quickly!" your inner voice screams while your outer, and quite numb, fingers spill coffee everywhere. So, the pod. It's already done for you. Even if you do drop it on the floor, it doesn't spill. They have me, now. I have succumbed. "The Bard's Hall Contest"  |
| It's obvious to everyone except the auto blog reminder sending mechanism that I have forgotten how to write and I am trying desperately to avoid any feelings of responsibility. I've been knitting socks. It's November and keeping my feet warm is a decent reason for avoiding any activity that doesn't contribute to my pedal comfort. I don't know where the words went. I am going to force myself to write something, but that might just make it worse. |
| I think that early morning is the best time to write. I mean - really, early morning. Whether it's 4am or 5am, the most important thing is that it is still dark and no one else is up yet. Solitude and darkness. My old friends. Solitude is kind of a loner but darkness gets around a bit. Darkness is good friends with Paul Simon, too. Anyway, I like to get up early. Sometimes, I get up too early. That was the case yesterday morning when I was up too early but had this brilliant idea about putting the coffee on to brew while I crawled back under the bed covers for a few more blissful horizontal moments. Sorry, almost forgot to mention this - coffee is another old friend you need in the morning. Coffee, darkness and solitude. One thing you don't need is foggy morning brain. Not a friend. The coffee will clear it up, if you can make it, Aye, there's the rub, I got up too early yesterday and decided to make the coffee. I had the large can of coffee open on the counter when the cat made some distracting noises on the other side of the room. I turned to see and my arm brushed the coffee can right off the edge of the counter onto the floor. This was actually an amazing sight to see, for the can of coffee landed directly upside down, with its bottom in the air. The open end was on the floor, and there was a light dusting of coffee grounds in a brown halo all around it. "Go ahead." it taunted me. "Pick me up and see what happens." I knew I had foggy morning brain so I did nothing. Not right away. Well, I said a naughty word, but then I did nothing. It occurred to me that only the coffee that was actually touching the floor was to be discarded. The rest that remained in the can was still pure. What I needed was a thin sheet of steel to slide under it and then to flip it over. I didn't have any steel lying around so I had to go for sheets of printer paper. I used a couple to make it a bit stiffer. The whole process would have gone better if I could bend over and touch the floor first thing in the morning, but alas, that's unlikely to be the case before I have had my coffee. I saved more than half the coffee that was left in the can but I swept up and tossed out a good three or four pots' worth. I finished putting the coffee pot on and didn't bother going back to bed to wait for it. The mood was ruined. Today, I didn't get up so early. If darkness is really my old friend, he'll make the coffee. |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts