Swimming In Concentric Circles

I had to do this.

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 17:04:00 GMT

A quick hello from Ohio! :D

Headin' back to Canada on Monday. Hope everyone's fine!

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 22:52:48 GMT

Ok.

Well, we're moving on the 24th, and so we probably won't have the internet for a while. And things are going to get hectic.

And spring is here.

SO. I will not be posting, nor be online, for a bit.

Thanks and bye for now!

Lyrics

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 01:34:23 GMT

Pinci-pincette veulent se marier Bravons guère
Mais ils n'ont rien à manger ça je le sais
Mais ils n'ont rien à manger ça je le sais
Mais ils n'ont rien à manger mais ils n'ont rien à manger
Mais ils n'ont rien à manger mais ils n'ont rien à manger
J'aperçois venir un grand chien Bravons guère
Sur son dos une cuite de pains ça ce fin
Sur son dos une cuite de pains ça ce fin
Sur son dos une cuite de pain sur son dos une cuite de pain
Sur son dos une cuite de pain sur son dos une cuite de pain
Du pain nous en avons bien Bravons guère
Du vin nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Du vin nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Du vin nous n'en avons point du vin nous n'en avons point
Du vin nous n'en avons point du vin nous n'en avons point
J'aperçois venir une souris Bravons guère
Dans ses pattes tournait baril ça t'as menti
Dans ses pattes tournait baril ça t'as menti
Dans ses pattes tournait baril dans ses pattes tournait baril
Dans ses pattes tournait baril dans ses pattes tournait baril
Du vin nous en avons bien Bravons guère
Du petit lard nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Du petit lard nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Du petit lard nous n'en avons point du petit lard nous n'en avons point
Du petit lard nous n'en avons point du petit lard nous n'en avons point
J'aperçois venir un gros renard Bravons guère
Sur son dos un quart de lard ça ce fort
Sur son dos un quart de lard ça ce fort
Sur son dos un quart de lard sur son dos un quart de lard
Sur son dos un quart de lard sur son dos un quart de lard
Du petit lard nous en avons bien Bravons guère
Des belles filles nous en n'avons point ça je le vois bien
Des belles filles nous en n'avons point ça je le vois bien
Des belles filles nous n'en avons point des belles filles nous n'en avons point
Des belles filles nous n'en avons point des belles filles nous n'en avons point
J'aperçois venir une grosse chenille Bravons guère
Sur son dos quatorze belles filles ça, ça fortille
Sur son dos quatorze belles filles ça, ça fortille
Sur son dos quatorze belles filles sur son dos quatorze belles filles
Sur son dos quatorze belles filles sur son dos quatorze belles filles
Des belles filles nous en avons bien Bravons guère
Des garçons nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Des garçons nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Des garçons nous n'en avons point des garçons nous n'en avons point
Des garçons nous n'en avons point des garçons nous n'en avons point
J'aperçois un chameau Bravons guère
Quatorze garçons sur chaque bosse ça ce tought
Quatorze garçons sur chaque bosse ça ce tought
Quatorze garçons sur chaque bosse quatorze garçons sur chaque bosse
Quatorze garçons sur chaque bosse quatorze garçons sur chaque bosse
Des garçons nous en avons bien Bravons guère
Des joueurs de violon nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Des joueurs de violon nous n'en avons point ça je le vois bien
Des joueurs de violon nous n'en avons point des joueurs de violon nous n'en avons point
Des joueurs de violon nous n'en avons point des joueurs de violon nous n'en avons point
J'aperçois venir un grand rat Bravons guère
Le violon en-dessous du bras oui ce ça
Le violon en-dessous du bras oui ce ça
Le violon en dessous du bras le violon en dessous du bras
Le violon en dessous du bras le violon en dessous du bras
Entrez-entrez monsieur olivier Bravons guère
Notre chatte est dans le grenier ça je le sais
Notre chatte est dans le grenier ça je le sais
Notre chatte est dans le grenier notre chatte est dans le grenier
Notre chatte est dans le grenier notre chatte est dans le grenier
La chatte qui entendit ça Bravons guère
A sauta du haut en bas Dret su le rat
A sauta du haut en bas Dret su le rat
A sauta du haut en bas a sauta du haut en bas
A sauta du haut en bas a sauta du haut en bas
A lui sauta sur le croupion Bravons guère
Lui fit perdre son arcanson ça ce bon
Lui fit perdre son arcanson ça ce bon
Oh ça ce bon

And that's all. :)

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 00:40:36 GMT

Lyrics to 2033 (Le Manifeste D'un Vieux Chasseur D'oies) :

En l'an 2033
Un vieux Québécois décida
De r'tourner à chasse à l'oie
Su' l'île Dupas
Par le premier du mois
Il partit d'un bon pas
Quand il y arriva
Tourne d'un bord, pis tourne de l'aut'
Lève la tête, pis lève les bras
Pas un osti d'oie
Tout c'qu'il y trouva
Des cannes de coca-cola
Et pis des douilles de 303
Made in USA

Ça fa que là, Josapha L'Espérance
Du rang des Oies blanches
Y a tiré deux coups d'gun dans le ciel vide
Y sé t'assis s'une bûche, y'a sorti
Un crayon pi un papier, pis y sé concentré :
Mon cher Ministre
Dans mon pays je suis allé
Pour l'oie y chasser
Aucune oie j'y ai trouvée
De nombreuses fois j'ai sacré
Ça s'rait-y trop vous d'mander
Que de savoir où c'qui cé qui sont passées
Baptême !
Signé Josapha L'Espérance
Du rang des Oies blanches

Par le dixième du mois, ce dernier reçut
Un beau message sur page blanche
Qui lui disait à peu près cela :
Nous sommes pour vous déçus
Croyions que vous l'eussiez déjà su
Mais, cette terre ne vous appartient plus
Elle a été vendue

En d'autres termes ...
Vous avez pas d'affaires là
On vous souhaite d'excellentes récoltes
Le moins de maladie possible dans la famille
Signé : le Ministre de l'au-delà

En l'an 2033 par le dixième du mois
Un vieux Québécois
Décida ...

Le quai de Berthier - Les Cowboys Fringants

Sun, 08 Feb 2009 03:56:30 GMT

Ti-cul, y’avait une cabane dans ma cour
On jouait là à toué jours
Pis d’ins carcasses de chars
On ‘tait toujours dehors
Nos mères nous habillaient en fluo
On jouait à guerre en bottes d’eau
Tout’les gars s’appelaient Joe
Pis quand y faisait beau

On jouait au hockey l’aut’bord d’la butte
Ça jouait dur mais pas comme des brutes
On avait des buts en poche de jute
Quand j’goalais j’t’ais Mike Liut

J’me promenais en BMX l’été
J’t’ais fier qui’soit bien équipé
On faisait d’la trail d’ins sentiers
Pis Ti-Louis m’disait...

Viens faire un tour su’l quai
Les gars attendent après toi
J’ai du coke pis des peanuts
On va s’pêcher une barbotte
On rira de Guy Dubuc
Parce qu’y a une face de Lucky Luke
Dis à ton père qu’tu vas veiller
Avec nous autres, su’l quai de Berthier...

J’ai fini par dev’nir un ado
J’avais une p’tite couette dans l’dos
Moé pis mon chum Ti-Louis
C’était comme dans Degrassi

Ma moustache, poussait pas ben vite
J’n’ai pas eu une tu-suite
On allait au 14-18
Boy Georges c’t’ait l’gros hit

C’est là, que dans cour arrière
On a bu nos premières bières
c’t’ait drôle, on savait pas boire
On ‘tait pas beaux à voir

Y’a eu, les premiers slows collés
Les premiers baisers
Pis mon premier cœur brisé
Comme réconfort Ti-Louis m’as dit :

Viens faire un tour su’l quai
Les gars s’ennuient d’toi
Amène ta ligne pis tes appâts
Même si dans l’fond on l’sait qu’ça mord pas
Le St-Laurent est tranquille
Y’a du brouillard sé’îles
Viens t’asseoir on va jaser
Toé pis moé, su’l quai de Berthier...

Aujourd’hui, chu déménagé
J’fais ma vie à Malbaie
J’pense de temps en temps
À quand j’avais 10-12 ans
Ti-Louis, y reste toujours là-bas

J’t’ais sûr qu’y changerait pas
J’entends pu parler d’lui
Comme de nos autres amis

Comme Sophie qu’j’allais souvent voir
À faisait du ski d’fond à toué soirs
Dans ma mitaine y’avait un trou
J’y ai donné un bec su’a joue

C’était pendant l’congé d’Noël
J’voulais déjà m’marier avec elle
À m’a appelé tantôt après les nouvelles
A m’a dit :

Viens faire un tour su’l quai
Tu sais ben qu’j’m’ennuie d’toi
Même après toutes ces années
J’pouvais pas t’oublier
J’habite encore chez mes parents
J’travaille dans un restaurant
J’ai revu les gars d’la gang
Y’a Ti-Louis qui fait dire :

Viens faire un tour su’l quai
Les gars s’ennuient d’toi
Amène ta ligne pis tes appâts
Même si dans l’fond on l’sait qu’ça mord pas
Au pire on pognera une barbotte
J’ai d’la bière pis des peanuts
Le St-Laurent est tranquille
Dans l’bout’ de Berthierville...

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 01:07:55 GMT

"City and union negotiators have struck a deal to end the city’s 52-day-old transit strike.

Both sides have agreed to send all outstanding issues, including the controversial driver-scheduling issue, to binding arbitration.

City officials plan to continue to demand that OC Transpo bus drivers meet federal work-rest rules, including a minimum of eight hours rest between shifts.

The deal comes a day after the Conservative government announced it was prepared to introduce back-to-work legislation to end the strike.

OC Transpo's 2,300 dispatchers, mechanics and drivers have been on strike since Dec. 10."

Oh. Yes. Finally!

Because lyrics reflects my mood more than my words can.

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 00:13:37 GMT

I woke up, broke free, drove a long time
It didn't purge you from my mind
Hang up the halo, maybe you're right
Chalk it up to a starry night
To be set free, to live and learn
Did we pass or fail the term?
You wrote a note with chalk on my door
A message I'd known long before:
On any given day, you'll find me gone
On any given day, you'll find me gone

Give me your reason, give me your rhyme
So I can tempo me to your time
So I can scratch your surface and be
A deeper part of the mystery
To be undone, to be alone
To live life in monotone
I reach the beach and try to ignore
The warning I'd known long before
On any given day, you'll find me gone
On any given day, you'll find me gone

Chorus
----------
I've been down to the sea
I've been down to the sea
And so all of the lovers will say
Forever star-crossed will we stay
Still I can't help feeling
Castaway on any given day
Still I can't help feeling
You'll run away on any given day

I window shop for you in my mind
A flannel shirt at the five and dime
A leather coat cut big city style
Boots from plastic crocodile
A pine cone dipped in glitter glue
A penny 1942
A necklace with a cheap green stone
Barefeet, cold sand, chilled to the bone

Chorus

My eye on you. My eye on you.
My eye on you always

Chorus

I lift my hands up, smell to reveal
Your perfume on the steering wheel
You're next to me asleep and I smile
I think I'll drive on for awhile

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 01:37:26 GMT

Thank you all for your comments. :3

My husband's sick with a bad flu, so we haven't celebrated yet. Soon, soon...

In other news, Adaemon ate again today, eagerly.

Erm, probably will have to withdraw from classes for this semester, as I have no way of getting to and back from school (my class is after work, until 9, and I do *not* want to walk 10 blocks to the mall at 10 at night.) SO... that sucks. I wish the stupid bus drivers would've accepted the offer... (For those of you not aware, the city of Ottawa's transit (OCTranspo) have been on strike since December 10th... no buses, no OTrain, nothing.)

BUT.

Things are good. :3

Fire.

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 01:20:27 GMT

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 23:45:54 GMT

Don't Call My Name in Battle

(Author: Shoshanna Hathaway & Leslie Fish Tune: Heather Alexander)

Don't call my name in battle - it's not wise
Do not distract me when you see a new soul in these eyes.
For when the War God fills this flesh I wear,
I am no more your friend, I am the spirit of the bear.

[alternate lyric] Don't call my name in battle - it's not wise.
Do not distract me when you see a new soul in these eyes.
For when the War-God fills this flesh I'm in,
I am no more your friend - I am the fury of the Wind.

Don't call my name in battle - stand away
For I will never hear you, but another creature may.
It never sees a friend, but only foes -
Just count the bodies flying where this taken body goes.

Don't call my name in battle - wait the time
Until I fall and rise again, with eyes you know are mine.
And then perhaps we'll rest and talk of home
But you'll not be surprised to see how much I walk alone.

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 01:39:48 GMT

Here's a picture of my boy! I'll be getting him on the weekend after new year.

Mmyep...

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 02:07:39 GMT

4 o'Clock
4 o'Clock
Never let me sleep
I close my eyes and pray
For the garish light of day
Like a frightened child I run
From the sleep that never comes

4 o'Clock
4 o'Clock
Out of bed I creep
To climb this tower of shame
But the hour's still the same
Only madness knows my name
At 4 o'Clock

4 o'Clock
4 o'Clock
Never let me sleep
I close my eyes and pray
For the garish light of day
Like a frightened child I run
From the sleep that never comes

4 o'Clock
4 o'Clock
Out of bed I creep
To climb this tower of shame
But the hour's still the same
Only madness knows my name
At 4 o'Clock

Why can we never go back to bed?
Whose is the voice ringing in my head?
Where is the sense in these desperate dreams?
Why should I wake when I'm half past dead?

Sure as the clock keeps its steady chime
Weak as I walk to its steady rhyme
Ticking away from the ones we love
So many girls, so little time

Why can we never go back to bed?
Whose is the voice ringing in my head?
Where is the sense in these desperate dreams?
Why should I wake when I'm half past dead?

4 o'Clock
4 o'Clock
Never let me sleep
I close my eyes and pray
For the garish light of day
Like a frightened child I run
From the sleep that never comes

4 o'Clock
4 o'Clock
Out of bed I creep
To climb this tower of shame
But the hour's still the same
Only slumber never came
Only madness knows my name
At 4 o'Clock

Why can we never go back to bed?
Whose is the voice ringing in my head?
Where is the sense in these desperate dreams?
Why should I wake when I'm half past dead?

Sure as the clock keeps its steady chime
Weak as I walk to its steady rhyme
Ticking away from the ones we love
So many girls, so little time

Why can we never go back to bed?

Mmm...

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 16:10:00 GMT

“Mother, I am hungry for some musical theater! I long for acoustic guitars, medieval melodies and operatic librettos! I would hear stories of the idle rich, humanoid anomalies, and criminal geniuses of the early nineteenth century! I need to observe the melodious consumption of fruit and the sifting through of old newspapers and listen to the prattle of simple minds and the banter of their superiors! I crave songs that deliver me into new worlds from far away, from long ago, and introduce me to characters I’d be, otherwise, afraid to know! Mother, I am hungry for some theatrical music!”

“My dear! What you want is the Deadfly Ensemble!”

And this, in short, sums up my current mood.

If you care...

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 02:17:21 GMT

For anyone interested, "One of the missing" by Ambrose Bierce.

Jerome Searing, a private soldier of General Sherman's army, then confronting the enemy at and about Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, turned his back upon a small group of officers with whom he had been talking in low tones, stepped across a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in a forest. None of the men in line behind the work had said a word to him, nor had he so much as nodded to them in passing, but all who saw understood that this brave man had been intrusted with some perilous duty. Jerome Searing, though a private, did not serve in the ranks; he was detailed for service at division headquarters, being borne upon the rolls as an orderly. "Orderly" is a word covering a multitude of duties. An orderly may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer's servant--anything. He may perform services for which no provision is made in orders and army regulations. Their nature may depend upon his aptitude, upon favor, upon accident. Private Searing, an incomparable marksman, young, hardy, intelligent and insensible to fear, was a scout. The general commanding his division was not content to obey orders blindly without knowing what was in his front, even when his command was not on detached service, but formed a fraction of the line of the army; nor was he satisfied to receive his knowledge of his vis-a-vis through the customary channels; he wanted to know more than he was apprised of by the corps commander and the collisions of pickets and skirmishers. Hence Jerome Searing, with his extraordinary daring, his woodcraft, his sharp eyes, and truthful tongue. On this occasion his instructions were simple: to get as near the enemy's lines as possible and learn all that he could.

In a few moments he had arrived at the picketline, the men on duty there lying in groups of two and four behind little banks of earth scooped out of the slight depression in which they lay, their rifles protruding from the green boughs with which they had masked their small defenses. The forest extended without a break toward the front, so solemn and silent that only by an effort of the imagination could it be conceived as populous with armed men, alert and vigilant--a forest formidable with possibilities of battle. Pausing a moment in one of these rifle-pits to apprise the men of his intention Searing crept stealthily forward on his hands and knees and was soon lost to view in a dense thicket of underbrush.

"That is the last of him," said one of the men; "I wish I had his rifle; those fellows will hurt some of us with it."

Searing crept on, taking advantage of every accident of ground and growth to give himself better cover. His eyes penetrated everywhere, his ears took note of every sound. He stilled his breathing, and at the cracking of a twig beneath his knee stopped his progress and hugged the earth. It was slow work, but not tedious; the danger made it exciting, but by no physical signs was the excitement manifest. His pulse was as regular, his nerves were as steady as if he were trying to trap a sparrow.

"It seems a long time," he thought, "but I cannot have come very far; I am still alive."

He smiled at his own method of estimating distance, and crept forward. A moment later he suddenly flattened himself upon the earth and lay motionless, minute after minute. Through a narrow opening in the bushes he had caught sight of a small mound of yellow clay--one of the enemy's rifle-pits. After some little time he cautiously raised his head, inch by inch, then his body upon his hands, spread out on each side of him, all the while intently regarding the hillock of clay. In another moment he was upon his feet, rifle in hand, striding rapidly forward with little attempt at concealment. He had rightly interpreted the signs, whatever they were; the enemy was gone.

To assure himself beyond a doubt before going back to report upon so important a matter, Searing pushed forward across the line of abandoned pits, running from cover to cover in the more open forest, his eyes vigilant to discover possible stragglers. He came to the edge of a plantation--one of those forlorn, deserted homesteads of the last years of the war, upgrown with brambles, ugly with broken fences and desolate with vacant buildings having blank apertures in place of doors and windows. After a keen reconnaissance from the safe seclusion of a clump of young pines Searing ran lightly across a field and through an orchard to a small structure which stood apart from the other farm buildings, on a slight elevation. This he thought would enable him to overlook a large scope of country in the direction that he supposed the enemy to have taken in withdrawing. This building, which had originally consisted of a single room elevated upon four posts about ten feet high, was now little more than a roof; the floor had fallen away, the joists and planks loosely piled on the ground below or resting on end at various angles, not wholly torn from their fastening above. The supporting posts were themselves no longer vertical. It looked as if the whole edifice would go down at the touch of a finger.

Concealing himself in the débris of joists and flooring Searing looked across the open ground between his point of view and a spur of Kennesaw Mountain, a half-mile away. A road leading up and across this spur was crowded with troops--the rear-guard of the retiring enemy, their gun-barrels gleaming in the morning sunlight.

Searing had now learned all that he could hope to know. It was his duty to return to his own command with all possible speed and report his discovery. But the gray column of Confederates toiling up the mountain road was singularly tempting. His rifle--an ordinary "Springfield," but fitted with a globe sight and hair-trigger--would easily send its ounce and a quarter of lead hissing into their midst. That would probably not affect the duration and result of the war, but it is the business of a soldier to kill. It is also his habit if he is a good soldier. Searing cocked his rifle and "set" the trigger.

But it was decreed from the beginning of time that Private Searing was not to murder anybody that bright summer morning, nor was the Confederate retreat to be announced by him. For countless ages events had been so matching themselves together in that wondrous mosaic to some parts of which, dimly discernible, we give the name of history, that the acts which he had in will would have marred the harmony of the pattern. Some twenty-five years previously the Power charged with the execution of the work according to the design had provided against that mischance by causing the birth of a certain male child in a little village at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains, had carefully reared it, supervised its education, directed its desires into a military channel, and in due time made it an officer of artillery. By the concurrence of an infinite number of favoring influences and their preponderance over an infinite number of opposing ones, this officer of artillery had been made to commit a breach of discipline and flee from his native country to avoid punishment. He had been directed to New Orleans (instead of New York), where a recruiting officer awaited him on the wharf. He was enlisted and promoted, and things were so ordered that he now commanded a Confederate battery some two miles along the line from where Jerome Searing, the Federal scout, stood cocking his rifle. Nothing had been neglected--at every step in the progress of both these men's lives, and in the lives of their contemporaries of their ancestors, the right thing had been done to bring about the desired result. Had anything in all this vast concatenation been overlooked Private Searing might have fired on the retreating Confederates that morning, and would perhaps have missed. As it fell out, a Confederate captain of artillery, having nothing better to do while awaiting his turn to pull out and be off, amused himself by sighting a field-piece obliquely to his right at what he mistook for some Federal officers on the crest of a hill, and discharged it. The shot flew high of its mark.

As Jerome Searing drew back the hammer of his rifle and with his eyes upon the distant Confederates considered where he could plant his shot with the best hope of making a widow or an orphan or a childless mother,--perhaps all three, for Private Searing, although he had repeatedly refused promotion, was not without a certain kind of ambition,--he heard a rushing sound in the air, like that made by the wings of a great bird swooping down upon its prey. More quickly than he could apprehend the gradation, it increased to a hoarse and horrible roar, as the missile that made it sprang at him out of the sky, striking with a deafening impact one of the posts supporting the confusion of timbers above him, smashing it into matchwood, and bringing down the crazy edifice with a loud clatter, in clouds of blinding dust!

When Jerome Searing recovered consciousness he did not at once understand what had occurred. It was, indeed, some time before he opened his eyes. For a while he believed that he had died and been buried, and he tried to recall some portions of the burial service. He thought that his wife was kneeling upon his grave, adding her weight to that of the earth upon his breast. The two of them, widow and earth, had crushed his coffin. Unless the children should persuade her to go home he would not much longer be able to breathe. He felt a sense of wrong. "I cannot speak to her," he thought; "the dead have no voice; and if I open my eyes I shall get them full of earth."

He opened his eyes. A great expanse of blue sky, rising from a fringe of the tops of trees. In the foreground, shutting out some of the trees, a high, dun mound, angular in outline and crossed by an intricate, patternless system of straight lines; the whole an immeasurable distance away--a distance so inconceivably great that it fatigued him, and he closed his eyes. The moment that he did so he was conscious of an insufferable light. A sound was in his ears like the low, rhythmic thunder of a distant sea breaking in successive waves upon the beach, and out of this noise, seeming a part of it, or possibly coming from beyond it, and intermingled with its ceaseless undertone, came the articulate words: "Jerome Searing, you are caught like a rat in a trap--in a trap, trap, trap."

Suddenly there fell a great silence, a black darkness, an infinite tranquillity, and Jerome Searing, perfectly conscious of his rathood, and well assured of the trap that he was in, remembering all and nowise alarmed, again opened his eyes to reconnoitre, to note the strength of his enemy, to plan his defense.

He was caught in a reclining posture, his back firmly supported by a solid beam. Another lay across his breast, but he had been able to shrink a little away from it so that it no longer oppressed him, though it was immovable. A brace joining it at an angle had wedged him against a pile of boards on his left, fastening the arm on that side. His legs, slightly parted and straight along the ground, were covered upward to the knees with a mass of débris which towered above his narrow horizon. His head was as rigidly fixed as in a vise; he could move his eyes, his chin--no more. Only his right arm was partly free. "You must help us out of this," he said to it. But he could not get it from under the heavy timber athwart his chest, nor move it outward more than six inches at the elbow.

Searing was not seriously injured, nor did he suffer pain. A smart rap on the head from a flying fragment of the splintered post, incurred simultaneously with the frightfully sudden shock to the nervous system, had momentarily dazed him. His term of unconsciousness, including the period of recovery, during which he had had the strange fancies, had probably not exceeded a few seconds, for the dust of the wreck had not wholly cleared away as he began an intelligent survey of the situation.

With his partly free right hand he now tried to get hold of the beam that lay across, but not quite against, his breast. In no way could he do so. He was unable to depress the shoulder so as to push the elbow beyond that edge of the timber which was nearest his knees; failing in that, he could not raise the forearm and hand to grasp the beam. The brace that made an angle with it downward and backward prevented him from doing anything in that direction, and between it and his body the space was not half so wide as the length of his forearm. Obviously he could not get his hand under the beam nor over it; the hand could not, in fact, touch it at all. Having demonstrated his inability, he desisted, and began to think whether he could reach any of the débris piled upon his legs.

In surveying the mass with a view to determining that point, his attention was arrested by what seemed to be a ring of shining metal immediately in front of his eyes. It appeared to him at first to surround some perfectly black substance, and it was somewhat more than a half-inch in diameter. It suddenly occurred to his mind that the blackness was simply shadow and that the ring was in fact the muzzle of his rifle protruding from the pile of débris. He was not long in satisfying himself that this was so--if it was a satisfaction. By closing either eye he could look a little way along the barrel--to the point where it was hidden by the rubbish that held it. He could see the one side, with the corresponding eye, at apparently the same angle as the other side with the other eye. Looking with the right eye, the weapon seemed to be directed at a point to the left of his head, and vice versa. He was unable to see the upper surface of the barrel, but could see the under surface of the stock at a slight angle. The piece was, in fact, aimed at the exact centre of his forehead.

In the perception of this circumstance, in the recollection that just previously to the mischance of which this uncomfortable situation was the result he had cocked the rifle and set the trigger so that a touch would discharge it, Private Searing was affected with a feeling of uneasiness. But that was as far as possible from fear; he was a brave man, somewhat familiar with the aspect of rifles from that point of view, and of cannon too. And now he recalled, with something like amusement, an incident of his experience at the storming of Missionary Ridge, where, walking up to one of the enemy's embrasures from which he had seen a heavy gun throw charge after charge of grape among the assailants he had thought for a moment that the piece had been withdrawn; he could see nothing in the opening but a brazen circle. What that was he had understood just in time to step aside as it pitched another peck of iron down that swarming slope. To face firearms is one of the commonest incidents in a soldier's life--firearms, too, with malevolent eyes blazing behind them. That is what a soldier is for. Still, Private Searing did not altogether relish the situation, and turned away his eyes.

After groping, aimless, with his right hand for a time he made an ineffectual attempt to release his left. Then he tried to disengage his head, the fixity of which was the more annoying from his ignorance of what held it. Next he tried to free his feet, but while exerting the powerful muscles of his legs for that purpose it occurred to him that a disturbance of the rubbish which held them might discharge the rifle; how it could have endured what had already befallen it he could not understand, although memory assisted him with several instances in point. One in particular he recalled, in which in a moment of mental abstraction he had clubbed his rifle and beaten out another gentleman's brains, observing afterward that the weapon which he had been diligently swinging by the muzzle was loaded, capped, and at full clock--knowledge of which circumstance would doubtless have cheered his antagonist to longer endurance. He had always smiled in recalling that blunder of his "green and salad days" as a soldier, but now he did not smile. He turned his eyes again to the muzzle of the rifle and for a moment fancied that it had moved; it seemed somewhat nearer.

Again he looked away. The tops of the distant trees beyond the bounds of the plantation interested him: he had not before observed how light and feathery they were, nor how darkly blue the sky was, even among their branches, where they somewhat paled it with their green; above him it appeared almost black. "It will be uncomfortably hot here," he thought, "as the day advances. I wonder which way I am looking."

Judging by such shadows as he could see, he decided that his face was due north; he would at least not have the sun in his eyes, and north--well, that was toward his wife and children.

"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud, "what have they to do with it?"

He closed his eyes. "As I can't get out I may as well go to sleep. The rebels are gone and some of our fellows are sure to stray out here foraging. They'll find me."

But he did not sleep. Gradually he became sensible of a pain in his forehead--a dull ache, hardly perceptible at first, but growing more and more uncomfortable. He opened his eyes and it was gone--closed them and it returned. "The devil!" he said, irrelevantly, and stared again at the sky. He heard the singing of birds, the strange metallic note of the meadow lark, suggesting the clash of vibrant blades. He fell into pleasant memories of his childhood, played again with his brother and sister, raced across the fields, shouting to alarm the sedentary larks, entered the sombre forest beyond and with timid steps followed the faint path to Ghost Rock, standing at last with audible heart-throbs before Dead Man's Cave and seeking to penetrate its awful mystery. For the first time he observed that the opening of the haunted cavern was encircled by a ring of metal. Then all else vanished and left him gazing into the barrel of his rifle as before. But whereas before it had seemed near, it now seemed an inconceivable distance away, and all the more sinister for that. He cried out and, startled by something in his own voice--the note of fear--lied to himself in denial: "If I don't sing out I may stay here till I die."

He now made no further attempt to evade the menacing stare of the gun barrel. If he turned away his eyes an instant it was to look for assistance (although he could not see the ground on either side the ruin), and he permitted them to return, obedient to the imperative fascination. If he closed them it was from weariness, and instantly the poignant pain in his forehead--the prophecy and menace of the bullet--forced him to reopen them.

The tension of nerve and brain was too severe; nature came to his relief with intervals of unconsciousness. Reviving from one of these he became sensible of a sharp, smarting pain in his right hand, and when he worked his fingers together, or rubbed his palm with them, he could feel that they were wet and slippery. He could not see the hand, but he knew the sensation; it was running blood. In his delirium he had beaten it against the jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched it full of splinters. He resolved that he would meet his fate more manly. He was a plain, common soldier, had no religion and not much philosophy; he could not die like a hero, with great and wise last words, even if there had been some one to hear them, but he could die "game," and he would. But if he could only know when to expect the shot!

Some rats which had probably inhabited the shed came sneaking and scampering about. One of them mounted the pile of debris that held the rifle; another followed and another. Searing regarded them at first with indifference, then with friendly interest; then, as the thought flashed into his bewildered mind that they might touch the trigger of his rifle, he cursed them and ordered them to go away. "It is no business of yours," he cried.

The creatures went away; they would return later, attack his face, gnaw away his nose, cut his throat--he knew that, but he hoped by that time to be dead.

Nothing could now unfix his gaze from the little ring of metal with its black interior. The pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant. He felt it gradually penetrating the brain more and more deeply, until at last its progress was arrested by the wood at the back of his head. It grew momentarily more insufferable: he began wantonly beating his lacerated hand against the splinters again to counteract that horrible ache. It seemed to throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each pulsation sharper than the preceding, and sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt the fatal bullet. No thoughts of home, of wife and children, of country, of glory. The whole record of memory was effaced. The world had passed away--not a vestige remained. Here in this confusion of timbers and boards is the sole universe. Here is immortality in time--each pain an everlasting life. The throbs tick off eternities.

Jerome Searing, the man of courage, the formidable enemy, the strong, resolute warrior, was as pale as a ghost. His jaw was fallen; his eyes protruded; he trembled in every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire body; he screamed with fear. He was not insane--he was terrified.

In groping about with his torn and bleeding hand he seized at last a strip of board, and, pulling, felt it give way. It lay parallel with his body, and by bending his elbow as much as the contracted space would permit, he could draw it a few inches at a time. Finally it was altogether loosened from the wreckage covering his legs; he could lift it clear of the ground its whole length. A great hope came into his mind: perhaps he could work it upward, that is to say backward, far enough to lift the end and push aside the rifle; or, if that were too tightly wedged, so place the strip of board as to deflect the bullet. With this object he passed it backward inch by inch, hardly daring to breathe lest that act somehow defeat his intent, and more than ever unable to remove his eyes from the rifle, which might perhaps now hasten to improve its waning opportunity. Something at least had been gained: in the occupation of his mind in this attempt at self-defense he was less sensible of the pain in his head and had ceased to wince. But he was still dreadfully frightened and his teeth rattled like castanets.

The strip of board ceased to move to the suasion of his hand. He tugged at it with all his strength, changed the direction of its length all he could, but it had met some extended obstruction behind him and the end in front was still too far away to clear the pile of debris and reach the muzzle of the gun. It extended, indeed, nearly as far as the trigger guard, which, uncovered by the rubbish, he could imperfectly see with his right eye. He tried to break the strip with his hand, but had no leverage. In his defeat, all his terror returned, augmented tenfold. The black aperture of the rifle appeared to threaten a sharper and more imminent death in punishment of his rebellion. The track of the bullet through his head ached with an intenser anguish. He began to tremble again.

Suddenly he became composed. His tremor subsided. He clenched his teeth and drew down his eyebrows. He had not exhausted his means of defense; a new design had shaped itself in his mind--another plan of battle. Raising the front end of the strip of board, he carefully pushed it forward through the wreckage at the side of the rifle until it pressed against the trigger guard. Then he moved the end slowly outward until he could feel that it had cleared it, then, closing his eyes, thrust it against the trigger with all his strength! There was no explosion; the rifle had been discharged as it dropped from his hand when the building fell. But it did its work.

Lieutenant Adrian Searing, in command of the picket-guard on that part of the line through which his brother Jerome had passed on his mission, sat with attentive ears in his breastwork behind the line. Not the faintest sound escaped him; the cry of a bird, the barking of a squirrel, the noise of the wind among the pines--all were anxiously noted by his overstrained sense. Suddenly, directly in front of his line, he heard a faint, confused rumble, like the clatter of a falling building translated by distance. The lieutenant mechanically looked at his watch. Six o'clock and eighteen minutes. At the same moment an officer approached him on foot from the rear and saluted.

"Lieutenant," said the officer, "the colonel directs you to move forward your line and feel the enemy if you find him. If not, continue the advance until directed to halt. There is reason to think that the enemy has retreated."

The lieutenant nodded and said nothing; the other officer retired. In a moment the men, apprised of their duty by the non-commissioned officers in low tones, had deployed from their rifle-pits and were moving forward in skirmishing order, with set teeth and beating hearts.

This line of skirmishers sweeps across the plantation toward the mountain. They pass on both sides of the wrecked building, observing nothing. At a short distance in their rear their commander comes. He casts his eyes curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body half buried in board and timbers. It is so covered with dust that its clothing is Confederate gray. Its face is yellowish white; the checks are fallen in, the temples sunken, too, with sharp ridges about them, making the forehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip, slightly lifted, shows the white teeth, rigidly clenched. The hair is heavy with moisture, the face as wet as the dewy grass all about. From his point of view the officer does not observe the rifle; the man was apparently killed by the fall of the building.

"Dead a week," said the officer curtly, moving on and absently pulling out his watch as if to verify his estimate of time. Six o'clock and forty minutes.

In other news, my toenail just came off. Whole. For no reason. I didn't even bump it or rip it or anything. It just... came off.

Tue, 11 Nov 2008 15:26:01 GMT

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride, Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 21:27:41 GMT

Work's great so far. :) It's rather odd to be surrounded by military personnel, though.

Anyway, meme cause I'm bored at school.

01. What is your favorite show on TV?
House, hands down.

02. What are you wearing at the moment?
Er, office clothing- black pants and dark, pinstripe shirt.

03. What was the best part of your day?
Was pretty good overall, actually.

04. What is your favorite scent?
Earthy scent. Dead leaves, fall, woods...

05. What is your favorite drink?
Guinness, or absinthe if I'm feeling particularly naughty.

06. What do you drink the most?
Alcoholic drinks, see above. Other stuff, mostly coffee.

07. What is your favorite restaurant?
D'Arcy McGee's is pretty close to the top right now.

08. What will you be doing after finishing this?
Wait for Gris to get out of class and head home.

09. What did you want to be when you grew up?
Wanted to be an artist, then decided I didn't really want to starve to death.

10. Your favorite romantic movie?
P.S. I love you.

11. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
Wasn't tagged. Just stole this.

12. What are you afraid of?
Failing.

13. What's your favorite item of clothing?
Nothing.

14. What time do you usually go to bed?
Depends, usually around 10 or so.

15. What's the story behind your LJ username?
Number 9's a name I've been using for eons, but it was taken, so the_9th it is.

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 23:58:33 GMT

Ye gods.

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 07:35:57 GMT

Quick post.

Can someone PLEASE tell me a good way to treat middle-of-the-night insomnia? Knocking myself unconscious is the next thing I'll try.

Sleeping pills are okay, but I don't want to have to use those every night.

It's now 3:35 am, I've been awake for about two hours and can't fall back asleep. I had to leave bed to let Gris try to get some sleep.

Ugh.

It's been like this for a while now. x_x

Photos

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 16:32:04 GMT

Since I'm boring and have nothing to talk about, here's a photo post!

Hey... have some lyrics

Fri, 01 Aug 2008 14:38:15 GMT

Stuck on limbo bridge
Where below me ol' Nick grins
Then laughs through the chaos of it all
Gets up off his chair
Spins a jig to my despair
He can't wait to count the times where I went wrong

Underneath the bush, lay a beggar out of luck
On his lips, was a taste he forgets
His hopes were filled with sand
That he watched fall through his hand
Every grain, was a lifetime of regret

So go and bow your head and weep
For your world won't change while you sleep
Yeah, go and bow your head and weep
For the summer that was lost, now is gone

Fertile Mrs. Moore had thirteen kids
But still looked good
Till her ol' man jumped leave on a ship
She never read a book
But by Christ she understood
That the meanin' of life
Starts in bed

So go and bow your head and weep
For your world won't change while you sleep
Yeah, go and bow your head and weep
For the summer that was lost, now is gone

Killer Kilbain kicked me senseless everyday
I hope that bastard is beneath a head of stone
Where I'd dance upon his grave
For all the madness I now crave
While the scars that remain are still a curse
So I'm stuck on a limbo bridge
Where below me ol' Nick grins
Then laughs through the chaos of it all
Gets up off his chair
Spins a jig to my despair
He can't wait to count the times where I went wrong
Yeah, he can't wait to count the times where I went wrong

Acces Interdit

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 01:17:23 GMT

Hey look that poor bastards garage blew up!

Wait.. I think that's OUR garage..

Just a fusebox and some sticks.

Including the melted refrigerator and firewood pile.

The siding half melted off of the house and the neighbors house as well. Crazy shit.

OMG Get in the car!!!

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 18:11:19 GMT

http://www.ottawasun.com/News/OttawaAndRegion/2008/04/30/5431121.html

Seriously. Whoever had that lion is a fucking idiot.

:D

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 16:51:56 GMT

see more crazy cat pics

lalala

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 23:26:40 GMT

I have nothing to write about. Basically, I've been sick since thursday last week, and slowly, maybe, perhaps getting better. But yeah...

Have a meme.

I'll provide french and english versions :P Keep in mind, most of those will be a bastardized french version of the english word.

Where did you grow up: South-western Quebec

WHAT DO YOU CALL:
1. A body of water, smaller than a river, contained within relatively narrow banks? crique/creek
2. The thing you push around the grocery store? carosse/cart
3. A metal container to carry a meal in? boîte à lunch/lunchbox
4. The thing that you cook bacon and eggs in? poêle/frying pan
5. The piece of furniture that seats three people? sofa/couch
6. The device on the outside of the house that carries rain off the roof? goutière/gutter
7. The covered area outside a house where people sit in the evening? gazébo/porch or deck
8. Carbonated, sweetened, non-alcoholic beverages? coke (yes, it applies for everything)
9. A flat, round breakfast food served with syrup? crèpe/pancake
10. A long sandwich designed to be a whole meal in itself? sous-marin/sub
11. The piece of clothing worn by men at the beach? culotte de bain/swim shorts
12. Shoes worn for sports? runnings
13. Putting a room in order? ramasser/cleaning up
14. A flying insect that glows in the dark? mouche à feu/lightning bug or firefly
15. The little insect that curls up into a ball? bibitte à patate/pill bug (the french translates to potato bug, btw)
16. The children's playground equipment where one kid sits on one side and goes up while the other sits on the other side and goes down? balance/see-saw
17. How do you eat your pizza? Eat the cheese/toppings first, then the crust. Sometimes.
18. What's it called when private citizens put up signs and sell their used stuff? vente de garage/garage sale
19. What's the evening meal? souper/supper
20. The thing under a house where the furnace and perhaps a rec room are? cave/basement
21. What do you call the thing that you can get water out of to drink in public places? buvette/fountain

winces

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 18:50:28 GMT

Because it's their fault they're there in the first place, and because the proper way for a minority to survive is to give up and be just like us..

Don't throw that bread away...

...