Bite me, if you can

Really, Kristen Stewart? Really? You honestly think that (to paraphrase Alex Dobuzinskis) being dumped by (your) vampire man, sinking into depression and later flying to pursue him, is setting a good example to girls? 

Tonight - New Moon star Kristen Stewart says "be extreme" 

Let me tell you what I think: You're full of shit. And the fact that you're trying to make it seem like your lovelorn, pathetic, angst-ridden, whiny character Bella, is a rebel pursuing what she most wants in life, is a disservice to those strong women in history, literature and movies who were rebels and who actually did pursue their goals and dreams (Amelia Earhart? Mary Shelley? Hermione Granger or Ginny Weasley, both of whom would kick Bella's arse so hard her butt would come out of her nose?). Here's a hint: attainment, in those cases, didn't revolve around desperately seeking the love of a manipulative, passive-aggressive, stalker of a 'vampire' (and I use that term loosely) who's so pathetic he can't even nut up and use his fangs!

Oh wait, I forgot: he doesn't have fangs!

In fact, I take your bullshit downright personally! Because I would rather crawl on my belly through broken glass tipped with industrial-strength acid, than be associated with the idea that being a passive ninny like Bella, is what true love is all about. Oh yes, true love is about sacrifices. But it's also about knowing when someone's playing you, about knowing when someone loves you enough not to fuck with your head, and about knowing when it's time to walk away. Then again, I tend not to live in an old-style Mills & Boon romance.

Ooh, and you know what, you know what, Bella must be a real rebel because - *gasp* - she's in love with two guys! Hell, even Anita Blake is more of a rebel, and she's not only in love with vampires, werewolves, wereleopards and the like too, she's actually screwing them! (Often at the same time.) Of course, let's instantly dump the werewolf who's always loved you (and later develops an unhealthy, paedophilic attachment to your newborn daughter, by the way) for Sparkleboy and fly to his rescue! 

But, I am preaching to either the choir - as I know there are thousands who agree with me - or to the deaf, dumb, blind and stubborn. After all, say Twihards, "(Shakespeare) was a ripoff artist who knew how to market", and Stephen King's just jealous because he'll never attain success like Stephenie Meyer (newsflash: oh wait, do I actually need to give a newsflash about one of the most successful writers in modern history?). I'm not even shitting you about the Shakespeare quote.

I don't know what riles me more; the blatant stupidity rampant in these Twitards and their overwhelming love of the sparkleverse, to the exclusion of all other viewpoints ("You're just jeaaaallllllous! You don't understaaaaaaand! It's a masterpiece, better than than idiot Harry Potter! Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, stop being mean to my Eddiekins!") or the sheer stupidity displayed in their arguments. I mean, and I'm sorry I can't let this go, but DID THAT TWITARD ACTUALLY CALL SHAKESPEARE DERIVATIVE COMPARED TO STEPHENIE FUCKING MEYER? (Don't miss the other part of her comment about Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: "A teenager wrote it with the help of two accomplished authors. Give Meyer a break, and some credit."

The mind actually boggles. A red mist rises before my eyes, and I cannot even think coherently to muster some form of rational argument. Which, I suppose, may well render me nothing more than an over-emotional anti-Twitard.

And that, my friends, is why I would rather rip out and chew on my own liver, than read more than the chapter of Twilight I slogged through, or subject myself to more than the New Moon trailer - which I can't avoid these days anyway.

Not to mention that ripping out my own liver and eating it? Would make me more of a man than Sparkly-bum the pretty boy. 

But don't let me spew all the venom by myself. Masswyrm has already said it all so eloquently: 

"Bella Swan is one of the most detestable, obnoxious, mentally unstable characters in modern American literature. She is a character so over the top that she borders on satire; and were she some sort of Holden Caulfield-like, deliberately unlikable character written with the intent to openly mock the ideals of modern romantic literature, she would be acceptable, if not perfect for the part. But Stephanie Meyer isn’t that self-aware. Instead, she has woven together a cloyingly insufferable romantic saga – a junkfood and cheesecake epic, if you will – centering around a woman who revels in, nay celebrates, how damaged she is. I dated a girl like Bella once. Thank god they make medication for girls like that now."

Go, read. Then read his earlier column, about the sheer creepiness of a 90-year-old man lusting after a 17-year-old girl. Or is Eddie 109? After all those centuries, the years blur together, I suppose, and school kind of starts looking the same. 

Or, you know, don't bother, if you're a Twi-fan. Either way, I'll just continue my un-dazzled existence over here, wasting my time on romances.That Romeo and Juliet. So derivative!

I am

From my folders:

I am: mostly content, a little anxious, somewhat lusty, and rather offbeat
I have: an all-encompassing love, decent health, a good home, a four-legged family, amazing friends
I know: not enough, but more than I should
I think: people need to embrace the strange more, and realise that others don't think exactly the way they do
I don’t think: the above will happen in my lifetime
I want: my MadCat to be free of the monster that has invaded his head and holds his brain
I like: technology, old-fashioned courtesy, the way old people touch each other to convey their love, smiling dogs, fresh, colourful food, the smell of a new car
I dislike: social norms, conformity, lace, beige, trends
I hate: rigid thinking, organised religion, being told what to do
I dream: of adventures beyond belief, and sharing them with my children
I fear: losing MadCat, losing Moosquared, losing Deafboy; the death of my pets; living on the street; teeth and jaws
I am annoyed: by hypocrisy, including my own; wilful ignorance
I crave: love, lust, books and sushi
I usually: make up scenarios in my head
I search: for my lost clothes in the maw of my cupboard; for a way to bring my spending under control; for a sense of purpose in my corporate job
I hide: my truest feelings, except from MadCat
I wonder: if I'll ever escape this corporate rut
I know: there's more to life than 9-5
I just can’t help: singing out loud
I regret: the missed opportunities to make someone happy, and the thoughtless things I said or did that hurt or saddened them
I love: loving others
I can’t live without: MadCat, my friends, books, my pets, music, the Internet
I try to: be a good person and not shout at Mojo
I enjoy: going out to restaurants and sampling new types of food
I don’t care: if I never watch TV again
I always: SMS MadCat to let him know I'm at work or home, because of the Wombles on the road
I never want to: be cast adrift in the open sea
I rely on: MadCat and my own strength
I believe: that everyone has the right to their own belief system, as long as they don't try to impose it on others
I dance: to the driving guitar rythms in my head
I sing: badly, but enthusiastically
I argue: heatedly, but not well
I write: decently, with an eye for grammar and spelling, but not as creatively as I would like
I win: at Scrabble
I lose: at Risk
I wish: money didn't exist
I listen: with half an ear
I don’t understand: finances and figures
I’m scared of: loud-mouthed politicians and citizen apathy
I forget: appointments
I am happy: now that I have my MadCat

What's in a name?

Names! Ah, names. Mine are not geeky at all, but are still special to me.

First, there's ysabelkid. This is the name of a character from a Western series written by JT Edson. It's nothing like Louis L'Amour's books; for one thing, JT wrote in a far more Boys Own style and was quite the lech (although not a misogynist; he loved writing about catfights and big bosoms, but firmly believed that women could outdo men on virtually every level. His books were an adventure series, focused on a quartet of young Texans, of which Loncey Dalton Ysabel, the Ysabel Kid, was by far my favourite. Born to a Black Irish father and a French Creole mother, he was raised among the Comanche and became a Dog Soldier, 'the finest mounted warriors in the West'.

I'm not sure why I feel drawn to him; perhaps it's that his looks didn't place him into one camp or the other, but allowed him to move with ease between the various racial categories to which he belonged, sort of like me (although I don't do it with as much ease as he did); perhaps it's a longing for that kind of training, skill and freedom; perhaps it's just that he sounded like the cockiest and the one with simplest morals: i.e., a complete lack of regard for human life, but a code that would not lead him to hurt those weaker than himself. Anyway, I have been ysabelkid since I was 12 and writing in a journal, so he's really a part of me now.

Then there's wacodancer - Waco being the orphaned youngster who was "adopted" by the original trio. His influence on me was more of the upright, law-abiding but rebellious, questioning type. He always wanted to know more than was obvious and hunted for the whys and hows of any situation, which stood him in good stead when he turned into a Texas Ranger. In the beginning he was an angry, hateful teenager who killed without compunction, but was turned away from the outlaw path before truly going down that road to hell. Dancer is a character I made up to fit him, one of the Space Cowboys I invented. They're a bunch of kick-ass women who travel through various times and worlds to right wrongs ... cliched, but something that keeps me occupied when I don't have a book for distraction. I'm still researching all the possibilities so it's a work in progress.

Souldancer and Soulreaver are fairly self-explanatory, and tie in to the darker side of myself. I may not have mentioned this, but I have a fairly quick temper and, with more testosterone than I should have (said a doc), a fairly violent one too. It does take a lot to anger me - unless you're, say, in the unfortunate position of being married to me - but when I lose it, I do so in fairly spectacular fashion. Soulreaver is a destroyer who inflicts pain and suffering on all she meets; Souldancer removes life in far gentler fashion, but removes it nonetheless. I suppose she's a prettier name for Death. I didn't get either of those names from anywhere specific, but read enough fantasy and they'll pop up somewhere - usually as the name of a weapon.

Try not to trip over anything as you head for the hills ...

A memory

Back when my brother broke his leg - I think he was about 9 or 10, so I'd have been 19 or 20 - we went to fetch him from the hospital and bring him home. I must have been back in Cape Town for a short while between my in-service training and completing my studies, so I wasn't entirely clear on what had happened - I just went along for the ride.

When we got to the Red Cross Children's Hospital, we went through some pretty gardens round the side to get to my brother. While we were waiting for him to be discharged, I wandered into the rest of the children's wards. One little tot, who couldn't have been more than a year and a half, started screaming and holding out her tiny arms to me. The nurse said I looked like her mother, who hadn't been to see her yet. The baby had pulled a TV down on herself and was one big mass of bruises.

I lifted her out of her cot - carefully, as she was connected to so many wires and cables and tubes it was scary - and sat with her in my lap for 20 minutes, stroking her soft black hair and feeling her little body cuddling itself to me. It was one of the hardest things ever, putting her back in that crib, listening to her scream and feeling her try to hang on to me.

I hope her mother finally came to visit. I hope someone else brought her the love she needed.

A red-filled glare

I've been having rage-induced moments lately. Well, I've had them several times, but of late - say the past year - they've become more frequent. Once or twice a week, in fact, instead of every couple of months.

I remember the attack, and I think about what I could have done. I am triggered by stories about crime, about home invasion, about dignity stripped from helpless victims as they are subjected to torture, abuse and death by callous monsters. And I see myself on the attack, using my body as a weapon, biting flesh from those monsters, gouging out their eyes, breaking their ribs, filled with inhuman strength and throwing them through windows. I think about the ubiquitous home invasion happening to Moosquared and I about go insane. A red film covers my eyes, a roaring fills my ears, my jaw clenches and I go rigid. My foot presses down on the accelerator.

I have to physically pull myself back from the brink. I have to think about something else, slow down, turn on the aircon, open the window, put on calmer music. I have to stop.

I told MadCat yesterday. I know I've mentioned this to him before, in passing. This time I gave him details. And he says these sound like TLE seizures to him.

I think he's right.

I go into a fugue state, I think. I blank out, and only my subconscious is pulling me back and warning me to snap out of it. My aggression knows know bounds. I take pleasure in the thought of using my teeth to rip out the throat or bite off the cheek of someone who dares threaten me and mine.

I've been there, I've been in that life-threatening situation, and I didn't react this way. I made a decision to sit back and wait out the situation until the time came when I could make a difference, or die. I chose to live, but even as I fought for my life I didn't go to extremes; I was afraid to damage too much.

This time - next time - some time ... it will be different. My aggression has heightened over the years; I am far less tolerant, less patient, less willing to abide by society's norms. At the same time, I have become physically weaker.

But I will fight. And maybe that attitude is not the safest to have when my life and the lives of those I love are being threatened.

I don't know if that's a good thing. I don't know if I should be at their side. I don't know how they would look at me afterward.

Odd dreams

1. A journalist receiving a briefing from President Obama somewhere in what I assume was the White House; suddenly skylights smash and armed men drop into the room (been watching too many bad action movies lately?). Lots of shouting, lots of shooting, although thankfully none of ours die. Aftermath: sitting on a couch, discussing events and what to keep out of the media. "For better or worse, you're part of our team now," he says gravely.

2. An argument with MadCat (masquerading as Deafboy in a particularly irritating phase) for no reason other than he asked me to replace the town portal, while being snarky about me taking too long to get ready for work. (Being woken by Mojo at 3am might have had this effect.) Lots of door slamming, lots of anger.

3. In some sort of casina / house / mall, with what I can only assume are Bad Guys and Girls, who look like wrestlers and drag each other around the room with chains around necks for fun. Not sure what was going on here, but MadCat and I were not happy about being here and tried to find ways to escape.

4. We escaped, but suddenly I ended up on a plane that was going to crash. Fortunately it didn't end up in the Hudson, but landed sedately alongside the Riverside Cafe. Chaos and screaming; MadCat wasn't there, but he found me later.

5. Finally, driving off to the wedding, frantic because I'm late. Look up in time to see that I'm about to drive off the highway overpass, which is hundreds of metres up in the air. Fortunately the barrier seems to be elastic and as I turn the wheel, it keeps the car's right-side tyres on the road so that I don't fall into the chasm looming at my left. As I get back onto the road, discover that the brakes don't work and I'm careening through crowds of schoolkids. Fortunately I don't hit anyone, but this was the scariest component of my multiple dreams.

Jaffar! Kri!

I had quite a nice dream this morning ... odd (as usual), but enjoyable. Except for the part where I was being held hostage. But it was okay, 'cos I'd managed to spirit my cellphone out of my jeans pocket and had slipped it behind my back, in dialling mode, so MadCat could find his way to me and hear what was going on. Sneaky! Of course, being tied down didn't help, but at least I was ready for a rescue. Odd, though, since generally I'm the one doing the rescuing ...

Anyway, MadCat and Teal'c showed up in good time and vanquished the hostage-takers (especially that highly irritating blonde woman who kept pestering me with questions). Then when we got outside the - shop? house? warehouse? I couldn't really tell, except that there were racks of clothes inside - Teal'c turned into a dragon and flew us out of range of the mortars. Well, not a dragon per se - a black snakelike creature that breathed fire and had wings.

Then, a dream I've had before (I think) showed up, and MadCat had to "sell" items from a car on a highway somewhere, but then he changed into a dragon. That's when things went a little wonky and he started trying to eat me (at least, I assume that's what he was doing, chasing me all over the house and through passages and stuff). I wasn't really scared though, just startled; not everyday one's MadCat turns into a devouring monster!

In any event ... lots of side-details, but ones I can't articulate (I'm no descriptive Dean Koontz). It was still a lot of fun, though.

Family Tree conversations, Part I

Chatting with Mama Jo this morning (she finally had the radio turned off so she could actually hear me)

Mama Jo's father was a British citizen, having been born on St Helena Island on 9 August 1874 - Edward Alfred Thomas. He met Hannah Maria Goner (born in Matroosfontein on 23 February 1874) in Namaqualand and they were married in Port Nolloth on 1 January 1894. They lived in Port Nolloth until 1935. Mama Jo was born in Port Nolloth on 21 September 1918. She left at the age of 15, to study teaching at Zonnebloem college in Hanover Street, District Six, Cape Town, finishing her studies in 1936 and starting teaching the following year, earning the princely sum of 8 pounds 6 & 8 (about 16c in Rand terms).

Mama first met Papa Les when she was seven years old - when her family visited Cape Town by boat. The two families used to pray together. Papa attended Mama's 21st birthday and gave her a set of beautiful, embroidered, lawn handkerchiefs. He used to stand at the top of the road when Mama's various boyfriends brought her home, until one day he walked down to meet her and they started talking. They courted for many years, and one of Mama's favourite memories is of Papa being best man at Uncle Charlie's wedding, but dancing only with her the entire night - not one dance with the bridesmaids.

They got engaged at the age of 24, and married just after Papa turned 26 - on 23 December, 1944. Papa wanted to get married before Christmas, and he didn't want to share his wedding date (Mama wanted to marry on her parents' 50th anniversary, on 1 January, 1944). They were married 57-and-a-half years when Papa died.

Mama's most-cherished memory of Papa is the way he used to rub her back every night as they fell asleep - it was the best ending to her day.

Chucky comes to visit

I'd been dreaming of being at a conference, meeting several lovely young women with whom I found instant rapport and immediately added to my circle of friends. During the course of the conference, I'd occasionally find myself in a room with some of my real friends, handing out gifts, chatting or carrying out mundane activities such as washing dishes together.

Heading back to the room I shared with my fellow delegates, however, brought feelings of sheer terror and helplessness.

My roommates were being picked off, one by one, and I knew I was in the firing line too. The culprit? A killer Walking Susan doll.

I'd see her everywhere; being carried around by a man for his daughter, pulled along by one arm by a little girl and, strangest of all, being tugged along on wheeled feet by a woman shorter than the doll itself, which presumably was being used as luggage.

Finally, there were three of us left. I was harrying one to finish packing and come with us, while the other rang for the lift. I entered the room to help my last roommate carry the last of her belongings. When we got to the lift, it took the form of stairs. Maisie, the blonde roommate, wasn't there.

As I pressed the button, the stairs sank. I ran down, calling her name, knowing we'd passed her floor. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, all I could find was a spreading bloodstain. I ran back up to the last roommate, only to find the same thing. And in the distance, a fading, childish giggle.

Something creaked behind me - and then my alarm buzzed. I woke up with a gasp. Thank god for alarm clocks. I think mine saved my life.