#Winnipeg live in care

[mariacallous]

(JTA) — Vivian Silver, a Canadian-Israeli peace activist who had been presumed kidnapped by Hamas, was declared dead after her remains were found at her home.

Her death was confirmed to JTA by multiple activists who said they were in touch with Silver’s family. Shifra Bronznick, a prominent Jewish social justice activist and lifelong friend of Silver’s, learned from Silver’s son that her remains were identified via her DNA. 

“Vivian was always persistent in the pursuit of peace and justice,” Bronznick told JTA on Monday evening. “She was a lifelong feminist, a committed activist, a fearless leader, an exceptional friend and a loving mother, wife and grandmother.”

Until Monday, Silver, 74, was assumed to be among the more than 200 people held captive by Hamas. She is now among the approximately 1,200 people murdered by the terror group in its Oct. 7 attack. Hamas terrorists killed more than 100 people at Silver’s home community, Kibbutz Be’eri, in one of the day’s worst massacres. 

She is one of several peace activists to have been killed or captured by Hamas on Oct. 7. Hayim Katsman, 32, who worked with Palestinians in the southern West Bank, was killed in his home in another community on the Gaza border. Yocheved Lifschitz, who helped ferry Palestinians from Gaza to medical care in Israel, was taken captive by Hamas and released in late October; her husband Oded, also involved in peace work, remains missing.

“A woman of infinite, deep, ongoing compassion, humanity and dedication to Arab-Jewish partnership and peace. Yes. Peace,” Anat Saragusti, an Israeli writer and feminist activist, wrote on social media in a post announcing Silver’s death. John Lyndon, the executive director of the Alliance for Middle East Peace, wrote that “she wanted to be free & at peace. Rest in power, Vivian.”

Silver’s sons, like the family members of many of those presumed hostage, lobbied extensively for her release, traveling the country and speaking to journalists around the world to call attention to her story. One son, Yonatan Zeigen, stood out for his calls for a ceasefire, an unusual position in Israel. He said he had learned from his mother to seek peace above all else.

“I would tell her, ‘Israel is dead. It’s hopeless,’ and she would say, ‘Peace could come tomorrow,’” Yonatan, a social worker in Tel Aviv told the Washington Post in a story published last week.

Chen Zeigen, her other son, is a doctoral student in archaeology at the University of Connecticut. She is also survived by four grandchildren.

On the day of the massacre, according to the Washington Post story, Silver took a call with a radio station where she pushed back against the idea that the Palestinians were “insane.” In messages with Yonatan, she expressed fear, frustration and love. “I’m with you,” he wrote to her. Her last message back to him was, “I feel you.”

Born in Winnipeg, Canada, she was the longtime director of  the Arab Jewish Center For Empowerment, Equality, and Cooperation, which organized projects joining communities in Israel, the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. In 2014, after the last major war between Israel and Hamas, she helped found Women Wage Peace, which promotes peace-building actions among women from all communities and across the political spectrum.

Speaking to Forbes in 2021 for a series on women who assist the vulnerable, Silver said she remembered feeling relief after the government built bomb shelters in Kibbutz Be’eri, which had been subject to rocket fire from Gaza for more than a decade.

“In 2009, the [Israeli] government only built shelters for communities that were four kilometers from the border. The community I live in is four and a half kilometers from the border, so we didn’t have shelters then,” Silver told Forbes. “Now we do, so psychologically we feel better, and we feel safer, and in fact, we are safer, we’re a lot safer than the people in Gaza.”

At a 2018 Women Wage Peace event on the Gaza border in 2018, she said that the Israeli government needed to change its approach in order to bring peace to the area. “Show the required courage that will bring changes of policy that will bring us quiet and security,” she said then, addressing the government. “Returning to the routine is not an option.”

Appealing to women across the border, she said, “Terror does not make anything better for anyone, you too deserve quiet and peace.”

Bronznick first met Silver in the early 1970s when both were involved in organizing a national conference of Jewish women. They remained friends and, for a period of six years, took an annual trip together — the last one was to Santa Fe, New Mexico. When Silver would stay at Bronznick’s home, she would prepare an Israeli breakfast, Bronznick recalled. 

“She would be passionately advocating for peace right now,” Bronznick said, referring to Israel’s war against Hamas, launched following the Oct. 7 attack. “She never gave up on bridge-building. She never gave up on making change. She never gave up on people… She always focused on people, children, what motivated them, what meant something to them.”

Before Oct. 7, Silver was due for another stay at Bronznick’s home in New York City in early December. On top of each of the days in Bronznick’s calendar, she had written “Viv.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Twinkfrump Linkdump

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in CHICAGO (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Welcome to the seventeenth Pluralistic linkdump, a collection of all the miscellany that didn't make it into the week's newsletter, cunningly wrought together in a single edition that ranges from the first ISP to AI nonsense to labor organizing victories to the obituary of a brilliant scientist you should know a lot more about! Here's the other 16 dumps:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

If you're reading this (and you are!), it was delivered to you by an internet service provider. Today, the ISP industry is calcified, controlled by a handful of telcos and cable companies. But the idea of an "ISP" didn't come out of a giant telecommunications firm – it was created, in living memory, by excellent nerds who are still around.

Depending on how you reckon, The Little Garden was either the first or the second ISP in America. It was named after a Palo Alto Chinese restaurant frequented by its founders. To get a sense of that founding, read these excellent recollections by Tom Jennings, whose contributions include the seminal zine Homocore, the seminal networking protocol Fidonet, and the seminal third-party PC ROM, whence came Dell, Gateway, Compaq, and every other "PC clone" company.

The first installment describes how an informal co-op to network a few friends turned into a business almost by accident, with thousands of dollars flowing in and out of Jennings' bank account:

https://www.sensitiveresearch.com/Archive/TLG/TLG.html

And it describes how that ISP set a standard for neutrality, boldly declaring that "TLGnet exercises no control whatsoever over the content of the information." They introduced an idea of radical transparency, documenting their router configurations and other technical details and making them available to the public. They hired unskilled punk and queer kids from their communities and trained them to operate the network equipment they'd invented, customized or improvised.

In part two, Jennings talks about the evolution of TLG's radical business-plan: to offer unrestricted service, encouraging their customers to resell that service to people in their communities, having no lock-in, unbundling extra services including installation charges – the whole anti-enshittification enchilada:

https://www.sensitiveresearch.com/Archive/TLG/

I love Jennings and his work. I even gave him a little cameo in Picks and Shovels, the third Martin Hench novel, which will be out next winter. He's as lyrical a writer about technology as you could ask for, and he's also a brilliant engineer and thinker.

The Little Garden's founders and early power-users have all fleshed out Jennings' account of the birth of ISPs. Writing on his blog, David "DSHR" Rosenthal rounds up other histories from the likes of EFF co-founder John Gilmore and Tim Pozar:

https://blog.dshr.org/2024/04/the-little-garden.html

Rosenthal describes some of the more exotic shenanigans TLG got up to in order to do end-runs around the Bell system's onerous policies, hacking in the purest sense of the word, for example, by daisy-chaining together modems in regions with free local calling and then making "permanent local calls," with the modems staying online 24/7.

Enshittification came to the ISP business early and hit it hard. The cartel that controls your access to the internet today is a billion light-years away from the principled technologists who invented the industry with an ethos of care, access and fairness. Today's ISPs are bitterly opposed to Net Neutrality, the straightforward proposition that if you request some data, your ISP should send it to you as quickly and reliably as it can.

Instead, ISPs want to offer "slow-lanes" where they will relegate the whole internet, except for those companies that bribe the ISP to be delivered at normal speed. ISPs have a laughably transparent way of describing this: they say that they're allowing services to pay for "fast lanes" with priority access. This is the same as the giant grocery store that charges you extra unless you surrender your privacy with a "loyalty card" – and then says that they're offering a "discount" for loyal customers, rather than charging a premium to customers who don't want to be spied on.

The American business lobby loves this arrangement, and hates Net Neutrality. Having monopolized every sector of our economy, they are extremely fond of "winner take all" dynamics, and that's what a non-neutral ISP delivers: the biggest services with the deepest pockets get the most reliable delivery, which means that smaller services don't just have to be better than the big guys, they also have to be able to outbid them for "priority carriage."

If everything you get from your ISP is slow and janky, except for the dominant services, then the dominant services can skimp on quality and pocket the difference. That's the goal of every monopolist – not just to be too big to fail, but also too big to care.

Under the Trump administration, FCC chair Ajit Pai dismantled the Net Neutrality rule, colluding with American big business to rig the process. They accepted millions of obviously fake anti-Net Neutrality comments (one million identical comments from @pornhub.com addresses, comments from dead people, comments from sitting US Senators who support Net Neutrality) and declared open season on American internet users:

https://ag.ny.gov/press-release/2021/attorney-general-james-issues-report-detailing-millions-fake-comments-revealing

Now, Biden's FCC is set to reinstate Net Neutrality – but with a "compromise" that will make mobile internet (which nearly all of use sometimes, and the poorest of us are reliant on) a swamp of anticompetitive practices:

https://cyberlaw.stanford.edu/blog/2024/04/harmful-5g-fast-lanes-are-coming-fcc-needs-stop-them

Under the proposed rule, mobile carriers will be able to put traffic to and from apps in the slow lane, and then extort bribes from preferred apps for normal speed and delivery. They'll rely on parts of the 5G standard to pull off this trick.

The ISP cartel and the FCC insist that this is fine because web traffic won't be degraded, but of course, every service is hellbent on pushing you into using apps instead of the web. That's because the web is an open platform, which means you can install ad- and privacy-blockers. More than half of web users have installed a blocker, making it the largest boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But reverse-engineering and modding an app is a legal minefield. Just removing the encryption from an app can trigger criminal penalties under Section 1201 of the DMCA, carrying a five-year prison sentence and a $500k fine. An app is just a web-page skinned in enough IP that it's a felony to mod it.

Apps are enshittification's vanguard, and the fact that the FCC has found a way to make them even worse is perversely impressive. They're voting on this on April 25, and they have until April 24 to fix this. They should. They really should:

https://docs.fcc.gov/public/attachments/DOC-401676A1.pdf

In a just world, cheating ripoff ISPs would the top tech policy story. The operational practices of ISPs effect every single one us. We literally can't talk about tech policy without ISPs in the middle. But Net Neutrality is an also-ran in tech policy discourse, while AI – ugh ugh ugh – is the thing none of us can shut up about.

This, despite the fact that the most consequential AI applications sum up to serving as a kind of moral crumple-zone for shitty business practices. The point of AI isn't to replace customer service and other low-paid workers who have taken to demanding higher wages and better conditions – it's to fire those workers and replace them with chatbots that can't do their jobs. An AI salesdroid can't sell your boss a bot that can replace you, but they don't need to. They only have to convince your boss that the bot can do your job, even if it can't.

SF writer Karl Schroeder is one of the rare sf practitioners who grapples seriously with the future, a "strategic foresight" guy who somehow skirts the bullshit that is the field's hallmark:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/07/the-gernsback-continuum/#wheres-my-jetpack

Writing on his blog, Schroeder describes the AI debates roiling the Association of Professional Futurists, and how it's sucking him into being an unwilling participant in the AI hype cycle:

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/dragged-into-the-ai-hype-cycle

Schroeder's piece is a thoughtful meditation on the relationship of SF's thought-experiments and parables about AI to the promises of AI hucksters, who promise that a) "general artificial intelligence" is just around the corner and that b) it will be worth trillions of dollars.

Schroeder – like other sf writers including Ted Chiang and Charlie Stross (and me) – comes to the conclusion that AI panic isn't about AI, it's about power. The artificial life-form devouring the planet and murdering our species is the limited liability corporation, and its substrate isn't silicon, it's us, human bodies:

What’s lying underneath all our anxieties about AGI is an anxiety that has nothing to do with Artificial Intelligence. Instead, it’s a manifestation of our growing awareness that our world is being stolen from under us. Last year’s estimate put the amount of wealth currently being transferred from the people who made it to an idle billionaire class at $5.2 trillion. Artificial General Intelligence whose environment is the server farms and sweatshops of this class is frightening only because of its capacity to accelerate this greatest of all heists.

After all, the business-case for AI is so very thin that the industry can only survive on a torrent of hype and nonsense – like claims that Amazon's "Grab and Go" stores used "AI" to monitor shoppers and automatically bill them for their purchases. In reality, the stores used thousands of low-paid Indian workers to monitor cameras and manually charge your card. This happens so often that Indian technologists joke that "AI" stands for "absent Indians":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

Isn't it funny how all the really promising AI applications are in domains that most of us aren't qualified to assess? Like the claim that Google's AI was producing millions of novel materials that will shortly revolutionize all forms of production, from construction to electronics to medical implants:

https://deepmind.google/discover/blog/millions-of-new-materials-discovered-with-deep-learning/

That's what Google's press-release claimed, anyway. But when two groups of experts actually pulled a representative sample of these "new materials" from the Deep Mind database, they found that none of these materials qualified as "credible, useful and novel":

https://pubs.acs.org/doi/10.1021/acs.chemmater.4c00643

Writing about the researchers' findings for 404 Media, Jason Koebler cites Berkeley researchers who concluded that "no new materials have been discovered":

https://www.404media.co/google-says-it-discovered-millions-of-new-materials-with-ai-human-researchers/

The researchers say that AI data-mining for new materials is promising, but falls well short of Google's claim to be so transformative that it constitutes the "equivalent to nearly 800 years’ worth of knowledge" and "an order-of-magnitude expansion in stable materials known to humanity."

AI hype keeps the bubble inflating, and for so long as it keeps blowing up, all those investors who've sunk their money into AI can tell themselves that they're rich. This is the essence of "a bezzle": "The magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

Among the best debezzlers of AI are the Princeton Center for Information Technology Policy's Arvind Narayanan and Sayash Kapoor, who edit the "AI Snake Oil" blog. Now, they've sold a book with the same title:

https://www.aisnakeoil.com/p/ai-snake-oil-is-now-available-to

Obviously, books move a lot more slowly than blogs, and so Narayanan and Kapoor say their book will focus on the timeless elements of identifying and understanding AI snake oil:

In the book, we explain the crucial differences between types of AI, why people, companies, and governments are falling for AI snake oil, why AI can’t fix social media, and why we should be far more worried about what people will do with AI than about anything AI will do on its own. While generative AI is what drives press, predictive AI used in criminal justice, finance, healthcare, and other domains remains far more consequential in people’s lives. We discuss in depth how predictive AI can go wrong. We also warn of the dangers of a world where AI continues to be controlled by largely unaccountable big tech companies.

The book's out in September and it's up for pre-order now:

https://bookshop.org/p/books/ai-snake-oil-what-artificial-intelligence-can-do-what-it-can-t-and-how-to-tell-the-difference-arvind-narayanan/21324674

One of the weirder and worst side-effects of the AI hype bubble is that it has revived the belief that it's somehow possible for giant platforms to monitor all their users' speech and remove "harmful" speech. We've tried this for years, and when humans do it, it always ends with disfavored groups being censored, while dedicated trolls, harassers and monsters evade punishment:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/como-is-infosec/

AI hype has led policy-makers to believe that we can deputize online services to spy on all their customers and block the bad ones without falling into this trap. Canada is on the verge of adopting Bill C-63, a "harmful content" regulation modeled on examples from the UK and Australia.

Writing on his blog, Canadian lawyer/activist/journalist Dimitri Lascaris describes the dire speech implications for C-63:

https://dimitrilascaris.org/2024/04/08/trudeaus-online-harms-bill-threatens-free-speech/

It's an excellent legal breakdown of the bill's provisions, but also a excellent analysis of how those provisions are likely to play out in the lives of Canadians, especially those advocating against genocide and taking other positions the that oppose the agenda of the government of the day.

Even if you like the Trudeau government and its policies, these powers will accrue to every Canadian government, including the presumptive (and inevitably, totally unhinged) near-future Conservative majority government of Pierre Poilievre.

It's been ten years since Martin Gilens and Benjamin I Page published their paper that concluded that governments make policies that are popular among elites, no matter how unpopular they are among the public:

https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/perspectives-on-politics/article/testing-theories-of-american-politics-elites-interest-groups-and-average-citizens/62327F513959D0A304D4893B382B992B

Now, this is obviously depressing, but when you see it in action, it's kind of wild. The Biden administration has declared war on junk fees, from "resort fees" charged by hotels to the dozens of line-items added to your plane ticket, rental car, or even your rent check. In response, Republican politicians are climbing to their rear haunches and, using their actual human mouths, defending junk fees:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-04-12-republicans-objectively-pro-junk-fee/

Congressional Republicans are hell-bent on destroying the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau's $8 cap on credit-card late-fees. Trump's presumptive running-mate Tim Scott is making this a campaign plank: "Vote for me and I will protect your credit-card company's right to screw you on fees!" He boasts about the lobbyists who asked him to take this position: champions of the public interest from the Consumer Bankers Association to the US Chamber of Commerce.

Banks stand to lose $10b/year from this rule (which means Americans stand to gain $10b/year from this rule). What's more, Scott's attempt to kill the rule is doomed to fail – there's just no procedural way it will fly. As David Dayen writes, "Not only does this vote put Republicans on the spot over junk fees, it’s a doomed vote, completely initiated by their own possible VP nominee."

This is an hilarious own-goal, one that only brings attention to a largely ignored – but extremely good – aspect of the Biden administration. As Adam Green of Bold Progressives told Dayen, "What’s been missing is opponents smoking themselves out and raising the volume of this fight so the public knows who is on their side."

The CFPB is a major bright spot in the Biden administration's record. They're doing all kind of innovative things, like making it easy for you to figure out which bank will give you the best deal and then letting you transfer your account and all its associated data, records and payments with a single click:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

And now, CFPB chair Rohit Chopra has given a speech laying out the agency's plan to outlaw data-brokers:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/prepared-remarks-of-cfpb-director-rohit-chopra-at-the-white-house-on-data-protection-and-national-security/

Yes, this is some good news! There is, in fact, good news in the world, bright spots amidst all the misery and terror. One of those bright spots? Labor.

Unions are back, baby. Not only do the vast majority of Americans favor unions, not only are new shops being unionized at rates not seen in generations, but also the largest unions are undergoing revolutions, with control being wrestled away from corrupt union bosses and given to the rank-and-file.

Many of us have heard about the high-profile victories to take back the UAW and Teamsters, but I hadn't heard about the internal struggles at the United Food and Commercial Workers, not until I read Hamilton Nolan's gripping account for In These Times:

https://inthesetimes.com/article/revolt-aisle-5-ufcw-grocery-workers-union

Nolan profiles Faye Guenther, president of UFCW Local 3000 and her successful and effective fight to bring a militant spirit back to the union, which represents a million grocery workers. Nolan describes the fight as "every bit as dramatic as any episode of Game of Thrones," and he's not wrong. This is an inspiring tale of working people taking power away from scumbag monopoly bosses and sellout fatcat leaders – and, in so doing, creating a institution that gets better wages, better working conditions, and a better economy, by helping to block giant grocery mergers like Kroger/Albertsons.

I like to end these linkdumps on an up note, so it feels weird to be closing out with an obituary, but I'd argue that any celebration of the long life and many accomplishments of my friend and mentor Anne Innis Dagg is an "up note."

I last wrote about Anne in 2020, on the release of a documentary about her work, "The Woman Who Loved Giraffes":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/19/pluralist-19-feb-2020/#annedagg

As you might have guessed from the title of that doc, Anne was a biologist. She was the first woman scientist to do field-work on giraffes, and that work was so brilliant and fascinating that it kicked off the modern field of giraffology, which remains a woman-dominated specialty thanks to her tireless mentoring and support for the scientists that followed her.

Anne was also the world's most fearsome slayer of junk-science "evolutionary psychology," in which "scientists" invent unfalsifiable just-so stories that prove that some odious human characteristic is actually "natural" because it can be found somewhere in the animal kingdom (i.e., "Darling, please, it's not my fault that I'm fucking my grad students, it's the bonobos!").

Anne wrote a classic – and sadly out of print – book about this that I absolutely adore, not least for having one of the best titles I've ever encountered: "Love of Shopping" Is Not a Gene:

https://memex.craphound.com/2009/11/04/love-of-shopping-is-not-a-gene-exposing-junk-science-and-ideology-in-darwinian-psychology/

Anne was my advisor at the University of Waterloo, an institution that denied her tenure for fifty years, despite a brilliant academic career that rivaled that of her storied father, Harold Innis ("the thinking person's Marshall McLuhan"). The fact that Waterloo never recognized Anne is doubly shameful when you consider that she was awarded the Order of Canada:

https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/queen-of-giraffes-among-new-order-of-canada-recipients-with-global-influence

Anne lived a brilliant live, struggling through adversity, never compromising on her principles, inspiring a vast number of students and colleagues. She lived to ninety one, and died earlier this month. Her ashes will be spread "on the breeding grounds of her beloved giraffes" in South Africa this summer:

https://obituaries.therecord.com/obituary/anne-innis-dagg-1089534658

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/13/goulash/#material-misstatement

Image: Valeva1010 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hungarian_Goulash_Recipe.png

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[cupidbedsy]

SABRINA LEANNE PORTER ☾

THE BASICS ☾

➪ her birthday is november 17, 1999 ; she's 25

➪ she's from regina, saskatchewan, canada

➪ she has four younger brothers; grant - 22, marshall - 19, will - 17, and ryan - 16

➪ she plays in the pwhl, played for toronto in the 23-24 season and then got traded to new york in the offseason

➪ she lives with her roommate, paetyn levis, in new york

➪ her nicknames: sab, rina, ray, bree

ABOUT HER ☾

➪ she's one of the biggest hockey fans you will ever meet, loves to talk about it every chance she gets

➪ she went to the ohio state university where she played hockey there

➪ she constantly gets told that she has the personality of jack huhges which she loves because she is a huge jack fan

➪ she's got a little bit of the 'i don't care, i'm just here to play hockey' attitude

➪ she tries to act mature most of the time but when she's around the right people she can't and it is pure chaos

➪ loves to do random ass shit and is there to have a good time when she goes out with friends

➪ she does have a huge extended family because her dad has three brothers and one sister and her mom has two sisters, they combined probably have around 15 kids

➪ her favorite team is winnipeg

➪ her and her dad are really close, he played hockey and coached it as well so he's always the first one she goes to when she has a shitty game or is just pissed about how the other team was playing

➪ not much of a vulnerable person since she's the oldest of five. she prides herself on making sure her brothers are taken care of first before herself

➪ she has a bunch of hockey things back at her parents' house

➪ her and her dad facetime at least once a week

➪ she loves to wear pantsuits, they're her favorite thing to wear

➪ she also just likes to get dressed up for things, but she will never wear dresses

➪ it's not because she doesn't like them, she just prefers to wear pants

➪ her brothers are the top four most important people in her life besides her parents

➪ her brothers are super supportive of her and love going and watching her games when they can

➪ marshall and ryan are the only ones of her brothers that play hockey but they don't love it as much as sabrina (it's a very hard thing to accomplish)

[howdyplunderer]

Intro of the sorts [I have been meaning to make one of these]

Greetings and salutations, it is I, howdyplunderer. Many call me Jake, but I do in fact have nicknames, I honestly do not give a darn.

I have many interests, and lots about me, I am THE INTERNATIONAL MAN OF MYSTERY you could call it.

My MAIN INTERESTS, oh yes I only have two SPECIAL, SPECIAL interests, I am about to whip them out for you in this post, two prized most beloved interests that I love ever so dearly, nobody could ever understand, the years me and the interests have been through, oh the years. Ok, HERE WE GO! The BEST OF THE BEST: TOMB RAIDER. And....drum roll please........HOMESTUCK!

**Airhorn sounds!!!** Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

Now onto my OTHER interests, still utmost amazing!

I am quite the fan of SUBJECTS, subjects of many, I am heavily interested in archaeology, anthropology, religion, philosophy and history in general if you could tell, theres a sort of theme there. I REALLY like the past and all to do with it, all media that could ever exist in the past, movies, history, games, music....all the good stuff [especially movies]. Along with other things, I am a fan of the dead, everything to do with the dead, I love the dead, in a lovely wholesome way. Mostly findings of the dead. The fun dead, not THE EDGY dead. I am a great fan of MYSTERY, mysterious people, mystery in life, mystery in death, all that comes with mystery. I love how the world is, and it is my mission to discover so much of it as soon as I can, it is the most beautiful thing to ever exist, why are so many people scared to discover it? I love all of it I am trying not to explode as i write about it actually.

Ok, I feel I should get deep and personal here, well, not THAT deep, just random things I see in intros that I should maybe put? I am a dude, I go by he, or whatever takes your fancy. I am also straight, and greyromantic, if you dont know what that is search it up. What are some other things you people need to know...oh yeah, if you would care to be my pal you should add me on Discord if you want, I like meeting new people, but be warned I do not always reply to people, you arent alone I do it with everyone...I do eventually reply though..busy man, busy things... Also, sometimes I do not shut up, I blabber on for ages, which everyone finds annoying [be warned]. ALSO if I somehow make you feel bad. Tell me. Many thanks. Theres lots more to talk about in THE PERSONAL area but to be quite honest, a lot of it id rather not spread publicly [this is why you should be my buddy].

I bet you are wondering, "Where does this guy even come from?"

Well, GOOD NEWS, im aboutta tell you. I am BRITISH I do live in the land of CYMRU, I lived in IL-GŻIRA TA’ MALTA for quite some time, I mostly see that as my favourite space to be. All three of these places I happen to be part all of them, I am the most British-Welsh-Maltese guy ever. Awww ivaaaa!

If you didnt know, I have a great music taste, and I absolutely should drop some songs over here, trust me. I am a big fan of Venetian Snares, little do we know. The genres I mostly dabble into are jungle and DnB, lots of electronica. And old shite.

A lot of these songs explain me to a key, a key that makes no sense but in my head it does.

I think that this may be the end of my intro post....for now anyway, hopefully you have learnt something! I would love to be asked questions if anyone actually sees this. I should tag this one.

[winnipegwinterpeg]

Access For All. Period.

Free pads and tampons are now available throughout Manitoba as part of the Access for All Period program, led by the Manitoba government. This program is focused on ending period poverty by providing equal access to menstrual products for all.

What is period poverty?

Period poverty is the inability to access or afford menstrual products, preventing youth and adults who menstruate from participating in their everyday lives.

Why is this important?

Removing barriers to access menstrual products is crucial to the physical and mental health of all who menstruate. A lack of proper access can result in dangerous situations, leading to both short and long term physical harm, as well as mental health issues including anxiety, depression and self-isolation. For students, it can negatively impact attendance and participation, affecting long-term achievement and resulting in missed educational and employment opportunities.

How does the program work?

The Manitoba government, in partnership with Shoppers Drug Mart, is providing readily available pads and tampons free to those in need. Products are available to all Manitobans in schools and community organizations as listed below. Free menstrual products are also available at participating shelters throughout the province through the Access for All Period program.

Where can I go?

You can access free menstrual products at the following locations (38 total, 26 in Winnipeg) under the cut:

* Andrews Street Family Centre, 220 Andrews Street, Winnipeg

* Blue Thunderbird Family Care, 998 Sargent Avenue, Winnipeg

* Acorn Family Place, 222 Furby Street #202, Winnipeg

* Canadian Muslim Women's Institute, 61 Juno Street #201, Winnipeg

* Community Ambition, 266A Linwood Street, Winnipeg

* Elmwood Community Resource Centre, 545 Watt Street, Winnipeg

* Family Dynamics, 393 Portage Avenue #401, Winnipeg

* First Nations Family Advocate, 286 Smith Street #200, Winnipeg

* The Food Vault and Community Resource Centre, 24 Hampton East, P.O. Box 881, MacGregor

* Fort Garry Women's Resource Centre, 1150A Waverly Street, Winnipeg

* Holy Names House of Peace, 211 Edmonton Street, Winnipeg

* Interlake Women's Resource Centre, 87 - 5th Avenue, Gimli

* Lakeshore Family Resource Centre, 9 Main Street, Ashern

* Madeline's Closet, 40 Main Street, Inwood

* Ma Mawi Wi Chi Itata Centre, 445 King Street, Winnipeg

* Marlene Street Resource Centre, 27 Marlene Street #6, Winnipeg

* Men are Part of the Solution (MAPS), 117B Commercial Place, Thompson

* N'Dinawemak, 190 Disraeli Freeway, Winnipeg

* Ndinawe, 472 Selkirk Avenue, Winnipeg

* North End Women's Centre, 394 Selkirk Avenue, Winnipeg

* North Point Douglas Women's Centre, 221 Austin Street North, Winnipeg

* NorWest - A Woman's Place, 945 Notre Dame Avenue, Winnipeg

* NorWest - Community Health, 785 Keewatin Street, Winnipeg

* Pluri-elles, 114-l420 Des Meurons Street, Winnipeg

* Samaritan House, 1610 Pacific Avenue, Brandon

* South Winnipeg Family Information Centre, 800 Point Road, Winnipeg

* Steinbach Family Resource Centre, 101 North Front Drive, Steinbach

* Swan Valley Crisis Centre, 119 9th Avenue North, Swan River

* The Counselling Centre, 335 9th Street, Brandon

* The Pas Family Resource Centre, 103 Edwards Avenue, The Pas

* Thrive Community Support Circle, 3-406 Edmonton Street, Winnipeg

* Wahbung Abinoonjiiag, 225 Dufferin Street, Winnipeg

* Winnipeg Central Park Women's Resource Centre, 400 Edmonton Avenue, Winnipeg

* Women's Safe Haven, 228-35 Main Street, Flin Flon

* West Central Women's Resource Centre, 640 Ellice Avenue, Winnipeg

* Western MB Women's Regional Resource Centre, 729 Princess Avenue, Brandon

* YMCA Winnipeg (Downtown Branch) 301 Vaughan Street, Winnipeg, (West Portage Branch) 3550 Portage Avenue, Winnipeg

[sparrow-flight]

Here Now

[3715 words, 20 minutes]

1 January 2017 Winnipeg, Canada

The father walks the long way to the house that is not his own. He could’ve told the taxi to drop him at the door. Instead, he stops it at an intersection and it drives on without him.

In the 4am winter night, the father has no reason to fear anyone seeing him. The streets of this dingy neighbourhood are empty except for wet, brown snow that collects the deep footprints of strangers. The father has no reason to fear anyone robbing him. His pockets are light. They only hold an empty wallet, an expired driver’s licence, and a dead cell phone. And yet, the absence of life leaves room for imaginary danger. The father’s blue eyes stare down pockets of darkness, his tense legs ever ready to sprint.

He avoids the straight path that leads to his destination. Instead, he circles the housing block like a frantic bird, riding his own wings of instinct governed by survival, anxiety, and death. His metronome heart sets his quick pace, and when he makes the final turn that brings his destination into view, his heart drums to the swell of fear and excitement.

His eyes now squint in the dying light of sparse streetlamps, and he whispers to himself house numbers he passes in the language of a stranger. He stops at a small house. Its front has a door, a window with blinds, and a broken bulb with frozen cobwebs. Before the door is a wooden deck with stairs. Rusted nails barely hold the planks in place.

He walks up the stairs to the door and raises a fist to knock.

Fuck. No one’s going to be awake. God, I’m a fool. Got too excited—

Movement, through the crack beneath the door. It sparks the warm memory of the padded pit-pat of small, socked feet on hardwood floor. The father trembles. He doesn’t know if it’s from cold, excitement, or fear. He knocks before he decides.

The pit-pats are real now. He can hear them: larger, heavier, but undoubtedly theirs. The window blinds fold to form a peephole. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and the father stares down at an almost mirror image of himself. The same messy black hair, the same weary eyes: his eldest child, better than him in every way.

They speak in the language of family. “Daa?”

The eldest child throws themselves at their father, nearly knocking him off the stairs. He can’t help but laugh as he picks them off the snow, warmth bubbling out of him into his tight embrace. His child is taller and stronger now — an adult by all definitions. But to him, as they bury their face into their father’s chest, they’re still so small, so light, so easy to tear away from him like before.

—

It has been a year since the siblings have lived in this house together. The eldest, Hrodwyn, left Auntie Elmira’s care at the orphanage when they turned eighteen. They had saved up enough from their two jobs, and the two jobs continued to be enough for rent. Their two siblings followed them: their sixteen-year-old brother Merethel who always kept his long, black hair swept over his right eye, and their twelve-year-old sister Hygd who always kept a smile on her face. Auntie Elmira let them leave. She knew they were inseparable, and their father was relieved that they were.

It has been ten years since their father was wrongly sent to prison. On the red-blue night of his arrest at their doorstep, Hygd was three and wailing, Merethel was seven and scared, and Hrodwyn was ten and bold. Hrodwyn heard the officers yell “Gavrill Vorobyev” over and over, watched them slam their pleading father against a car, and felt their siblings shatter in their arms. As the officers drove their father away, Hrodwyn knew it was now their responsibility to protect their family. They knew it was now their responsibility to fix all the broken pieces their father left behind, even if it meant pricking their own fingers.

In the mornings following their father Gavrill’s return, Hrodwyn made sure every piece of the siblings’ lives were meticulously organised like glass figurines on display. Nervously, they presented their father their handiwork within the cabinet of cutleries and Tupperwares, the closet of detergent and cleaning supplies, the fridge door of schedules and chores. All this order balanced on a rickety shelf Hrodwyn had built; all this order came crashing down in days to make room for Gavrill.

At first, Gavrill did not see this as a problem. He saw no problem at all — he was finally free, and his senses flared with life. He relished the touch of warm skin instead of thin paper, savoured the sound of rich voices instead of broken static. And with every chip and crack he felt between him and his children, an echo of his wife’s voice would comfort him:

—You’re here now, she would say, and that’s all that matters.

But it did not take long for reality to slip through the cracks of his ignorance. That was what he got for dancing around “How did you get out of prison?” — that was how he began stepping on his children’s broken pieces.

—

4 February 2017

“Daa, daa.”

Gavrill jolts awake on the couch. Foreign babble plays to colourful cartoon ponies running across the television screen.

“Ah, sorry daa,” Hrodwyn whispers in the language of family, Ingush — Gavrill ensured Auntie Elmira taught them when he was in prison. “Do you want lunch? I was going to heat up the stew you brought home last night.”

Gavrill rubs his eyes. Yesterday, his new job called him to an orientation in Rio de Janeiro. He bought the stew before he flew back. “Sounds good. We should finish that soon. It smelled great! I think you will all like it.”

Hrodwyn smiles politely. “I’m sure we will.”

Gavrill stands up. He sees Hygd at the foot of the couch, knees tucked to her chest as she watches the cartoon. He looks around for Merethel and doesn’t find him — he’s probably studying in Gavrill’s bedroom, the only other room with a table. Hrodwyn is already in front of the fridge: a Tetris map of new groceries, wilting vegetables, and takeout boxes. They move the stew containers from the fridge to the microwave, then drift from the kitchen to Gavrill’s bedroom. A minute later, they return with Merethel grumbling behind them.

The microwave beeps. Gavrill opens it, but Hrodwyn beats him in removing the containers, slipping past him with an “it’s okay”. They place the containers on the bar table that divides the kitchen and the living room. Merethel catches a sniff of it and speaks in English.

“Wow, this smells good,” he dips his pinky into the side to taste it. “And it’s not spoiled!”

“Of course not,” Gavrill responds in Ingush. He brings one container to Hygd and sits next to her. “I wouldn’t feed you spoiled food.”

Merethel raises an eyebrow.. He takes a spoon from the drawer and the container of stew.

“Hey,” Hrodwyn says in Ingush. They sit across Gavrill. “Don’t go back to daa's room. Eat here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re always there,” Hygd says, also in English.

Merethel curls his lip. “And?”

“Hey, no English,” Hrodwyn reminds their siblings, who comply.

Hygd tries drinking the stew straight from the container and burns her tongue. “daa's been asking you to eat together with us, like, every day. Don’t you hear him?” 

“Well, I’m sorry, but are you studying for a scholarship?” Merethel sets his stew down with a huff and sits across her. “I thought so.”

“Hey, come on,” Gavrill says. “Be nice to your sister. Can you get a spoon for her, please?”

“She can get it herself.”

Hygd frowns. “But you’re closer! They’re on your side!”

“Come on,” Gavrill sighs.

Merethel grumbles. “Why do you want me to give her a spoon so bad—OW!”

Hygd had kicked him underneath the bar table. He retorts by trying to kick her back, but she tucks her legs out of reach. Merethel kicks her chair instead. It screeches against the floor. Hygd grins at her fuming brother. He growls and tries again.

“Hey-hey! Enough!” Gavrill yells then bites his tongue. Shit, too harsh? He lightens up. "Don’t be like that. Just pass her a spoon, please. And one for myself as well."

The two ignore him and continue scrabbling. With a sigh, Hrodwyn clears their throat and glares. Only then do their siblings stop. A second glare makes Merethel pass a spoon to his father and sister. A third isn’t needed to make Hygd smile sweetly and thank him.

Fragile silence falls on the table. Gavrill tries to tread across it carefully towards his children.

“Well, this is nice. Um,” he smiles and looks at Hrodwyn. “I’m glad you got off your shifts today. I think this is the first time we’ve had lunch together!”

“Yeah! It took, like, a month,” Hygd tilts her head to Gavrill. “And you still haven’t told us what your new job is!” 

Merethel scoffs. “Or what kind of company can hire a man out of jail.”

“Hey, I—” Gavrill opens his hands. “Those questions can wait until later. Why don’t you guys tell me about school?”

“Ugh, it’s boring stuff compared to what you’re doing! I think,” Hygd mixes her stew. “Why don’t you wanna tell us?”

“Yeah, daa,” Merethel says. “Why don’t you? You’ve had your orientation. You should know enough about your job to tell us about it now, right?”

“How was Rio? Did you see any birds?” Hygd swings her feet.

“It was very nice,” Gavrill smiles at her and folds his arms. “Very hot. But uh, the food was good! And there were little birds on the street. Oh! I forgot I got the three of you keychains—”

A loud slam and screech interrupts the conversation. Merethel had pushed his chair back. He stands up. “I’m going to my room.”

Hrodwyn tugs his sleeve. “Hey—”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits in English and yanks his arm away. “If he doesn't even want to talk about something normal like a job, what the hell else can we talk about?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk about it!” Gavrill shocks himself with his tone. He offsets it with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Come, sit, sit. You want to know what kind of company got me home, right?”

He gestures towards the empty chair. Merethel narrows his eyes and remains standing. The two other siblings also look at Gavrill in anticipation. His open mouth runs dry.

Helvetia Ltd. A private military contractor working for an R&D consultation firm funded by the G20. A company of hounds with global reach and infinite pay. A company that operates in the dark, hidden between the lines of conspiracy theories.

“A big company,” Gavrill finally decides. “Powerful, obviously, and they know I’m innocent, so they got me out. In exchange, I get a job right out of prison. And I get to be with all of you again!”

Merethel switches to Ingush, making sure his father understands him. “Very descriptive, daa.”

He storms off to the siblings’ shared bedroom. Hrodwyn reaches for him. Gavrill sighs and waves for them to stop. The bedroom door slams shut, and the two remaining siblings are left to contemplate their father’s response. They swallow it with lunch.

Soon, Hygd’s eyes creep to Merethel’s half-eaten stew, then to the hallway he vanished off to. She slides off her seat and picks up his stew with both hands.

“He still needs to eat.”

Her small feet shuffle down the hallway. Once she disappears around the corner, Gavrill deflates, burying his head in his hands. Hrodwyn stirs their stew.

“Are you not going to tell them anything?

Gavrill sighs as he picks himself back up. “I’m not going to tell any of you anything you don’t need to know.”

Hrodwyn leans towards him. “Daa, you can tell me. I’m an adult now. I can take it.”

He looks at his child, the bags beneath their eyes, and shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. It’s a good job with good pay. Contract-based, so I’ll be home most days. Don’t worry about it.”

Hrodwyn’s voice is quiet, fraught. “Then at least tell me you know who framed you. Were they caught?”

“No. And I don’t know who or where they are.”

“What? Then how does the company know you’re innocent? Did they reopen the case?”

“I don’t know.”

Gavrill continues eating his stew with downcast eyes. Hrodwyn stares at him. “Why aren’t you worried? That guy is still out there. What if you get framed again?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

“Did the company tell you something?”

Gavrill closes his eyes and sighs. “Look. When I got arrested, the court said that they were going to lock me up until they found the real culprit. Ten years passed. No one figured it out. They’ve all moved on from that and I’ve moved on from that, too. I’m just glad I got out in the first place. That’s all.”

Hrodwyn is quiet for some time. “Will you tell me why you got hired? Is it because of something you did in Ingushetia?”

Gavrill stops eating. “What makes you think that?”

“I remember how you fought against Russians. I remember how mama died. It’s why we moved here, isn’t it? And now you have this strange job you don’t want to tell us about—”

A rap on the door interrupts them. Gavrill, relieved, quickly leaves the table. He peeks through the blinds, frowns, and cracks the door open. Wind cuts into his face. He looks down. A large package sits atop fresh snow. Its only identification is a tag taped onto it: “HROTHGAR”. The name his wife once gave him. The name he now gave Helvetia. Footprints trail away from the package to the road where it meets fresh tire tracks. No vehicle is in sight.

He scowls. He grabs the package, dusts snow off, slams the door shut, and locks it. Before Hrodwyn can see it, he rips off the tag and shreds it, pocketing the strips.

“Do you need help with it?” Hrodwyn tilts their head. “It looks big.”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s from work. Do you have a cutter?” 

Hrodwyn hands him a pair of scissors. He carries the package and the scissors into his bedroom and closes the door. Large luggages and old boxes are spread across the floor. Their contents, the salvaged pieces of a happier life once lived, have yet to be organised into wardrobes, sorted into shelves, or fitted into photo frames. Gavrill has no time or energy to. They’re not his children’s — they aren’t as important.

Gavrill pushes the luggages and boxes aside with his foot. He drops the package in the space he made. He sits on the floor, raises his hand, and plunges the scissors into cardboard.

—

The package contains Gavrill’s uniform: a three-piece navy suit with a golden tie and a pair of black oxfords, and a durable coat designed for urban environments. The suit feels too expensive to bend his arms in. He tries wearing it without creasing the fabric. It takes a long time — long enough for his two children to knock on his door: Hrodwyn who stared in confusion, and Hygd who brimmed in awe.

By then, Gavrill still had not worn the entire uniform — he had forgotten how to tie a tie. He could count the number of times he has done it in his life on his hands, with all but one count being for court hearings. So Hygd gets to work. She pulls her father out into the living room and opens a YouTube tutorial. Time passes. Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s fussing grows louder without them coming any closer to their goal. Their commotion annoys Merethel enough for him to bring out his own tie for a snarky demonstration. Soon, all three siblings end up circling their father for final touches: fitting the golden tie, tightening the vest, and smoothening the suit as Gavrill stands stiff like a Christmas tree.

When they’ve finished, Hygd steps back to look at her father like a panel judge. She watches Hrodwyn attach the final piece: Helvetia’ lapel pin bearing a cross in a shield. Hrodwyn steps back to join their sister. Gavrill remains frozen in place.

“I feel so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Hygd grins. “You look cool!”

“Do I?” he looks at his other two children with an uncertain but small smile. My daughter called me cool.

"You look… expensive. Very expensive," Hrodwyn gazes at the suit's double vents, the trousers cut to the curve of Gavrill’s legs, and the hand-stitched buttons. "How much did this cost, daa?"

"More than the suit I rented for my own wedding, that's for sure,” he grumbles. In a clearer tone, "I don't know. The company covered it. But what looks wrong?"

"You don't look comfortable in it. It shows.”

"When was the last time you combed your hair?” Merethel adds. “Or got a haircut?"

Gavrill grimaces. "I didn’t need to touch a comb or cut my hair back there. I only trimmed it now and then. Is it that bad?”

Merethel is quick. “Yes.”

Hygd punches his arm.

“It’s not that bad,” Hrodwyn taps their chin, “but if you did something to your hair, you can look more professional.”

"Oh! Wait, daa, sit, sit," Hygd drags her father to the couch and forces him to sit. She crawls behind him, kneels, and gently combs through his lightly greying hair with her fingers. A spare yellow hair tie comes off her wrist. She bunches his hair together. "Too tight?"

He shakes his head. "What are you doing?"

"Tying a bun," she does so expertly with a quick twist, then jumps off the couch to look at him. She grins at the team effort. “Daa! You look like a thousand bucks! Here, here.”

She grabs her father’s hand, which squeezes hers in return, and leads him into the siblings’ bedroom. Hrodwyn and Merethel follow behind. She turns on the lights and pulls him in front of the chipped mirror mounted on the wardrobe door. “What do you think, daa?”

Gavrill stares at his reflection. His smile dissolves. He doesn’t recognise himself. He only recognises Agent Hrothgar, Helvetia’s newly hired murderer, wrapped in a gallant lie of navy blue as he stands in the bedroom of children. 

Hygd smiles brightly. “So..?”

Hrodwyn notices his stare. “What’s wrong, daa?”

If he doesn’t recognise himself, will his children recognise him? After a job that hails bullets and shrapnels at his body and his mind, after he returns too splintered to shield them from the truth, will they recognise him as their father? He can try to convince them. He can try to be the best father he can be to erase the decade when he wasn’t. He can try to pretend that he’ll never leave them again, that he’ll always be there for them, that he’ll cut himself wrapping his splinters to hold them tight and never let them shatter into pieces again—

—Our children are smart. You can only do so much to protect them, Gav. How would you rather them find out? Her smile would sadden. With a voice full of conviction, she would say: —Don’t you have enough regrets?

Gavrill looks away from his reflection. His eyes drift to his children.

“You need to know about my job. Can we talk?”

Gavrill sits on Merethel’s bed, next to Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s bunk bed. He pats his side. The siblings, surprised by his directness, move to sit next to him.

He twiddles his thumbs. "This job I have, it's... dangerous.  The company is even more dangerous. They have a lot of power, a lot of money,” he tugs at his three-piece suit. “They were able to pay my bail and hire me out of, well, you know, in exchange for my… skills. And I—” he hesitates, “I can’t leave unless…"

“You die,” Hrodwyn states.

Gavrill pauses, then nods. Their delivery stings. 

The room falls silent. Hygd curls into a ball. Merethel tries masking his nerves.

"Ah, well, it's like, uh, working for the military then, right? There's always a high chance of death, and it's a risk some people with families take."

Gavrill’s voice is soft, defeated. "I'm sorry."

“It’s fine. It’s… whatever,” Merethel looks away. “It’s not like you’ve never been gone before.”

Gavrill winces and opens his mouth. Hrodwyn interrupts him. “Don’t apologise. You had no choice and you did what you had to do. They were never going to reopen your case. There will never be another option for you besides this one.”

Gavrill hates how he sees himself in his child’s placid eyes.

"What should we know about the job?” Hrodwyn continues. “What do we have to do?"

"I'll be here until the company calls me. Whatever they tell me to do, no matter how dangerous, I must follow. The company also has enemies. Keep the blinds closed, don’t let strangers in, never enter the house when someone’s watching, and always tell each other where you are, hmm?" he raises his phone. "If something’s wrong, call me or Auntie. Don't let anyone in the house. You still have Auntie’s phone number, yes?"

The children nod.

“Good. And lastly,” he voice softens and he wraps his arms around his children, "don't worry about me. I will always do my best to come home to you. I may get hurt, but I will always come home. Okay? My fight is to go back home to you, no matter what."

He pulls them in closer. The cracks between them remain but in this moment, the family is whole.

"I am here now. And I swear by my last dying breath, I will never, ever, let anything take us apart again."

Hygd picks her head up from her tucked knees. “Promise?”

Gavrill hooks his pinky with all his children’s and smiles. He cuts himself with his words and hopes it never heals.

“I promise.”

---

First | Next About the Flight | List of Stories

[prairietrashdotcom]

eee i got tagged to do a tag game by @mrcrepsley thank you :)

im tagging: @stitchedgrave @laceandgore @r0ttdweller @cherubgore @cannibaldotcom @unfading-scrutiny but if you've already been tagged in this one or dont feel like it its cool. n if i didnt tag u please do it if you want to also.

Do you make your bed? if by make you mean pull down the duvet so it can air out, then yes. dont worry about why that is.

What's your favorite number? 3, 9, 13, 27

What is your job? i have been a sporadically employed hermit for the last four years :( i am starting college again next week though (media focused program) and theres a lot of production-like activity where i live so hopefully in the future that works out.

If you could go back to school, would you? See above, but i do sometimes wish i could go back to my uni in canada, but only if i was single so i could at least try n fuck my history prof at least once

Can you parallel park? no :(

A job you had that would surprise people? i have no idea how i am perceived on here so i dont know if it would surprise people that i've ghostwritten a book and worked as an actor in a haunted house. those were probably the least surprising answers but other than that its just bartending and baking.

Do you think aliens are real? duh.

Can you drive a manual car? i cannot drive any car but im working on it, although public transport here is just decent enough that it isnt, like, urgent.

What's your guilty pleasure? i honestly feel less ashamed of my various sexual proclivities than i do about living for TLC's Sister Wives. watching that chode get left in the dust not once, not twice, but thrice was especially delicious.

Tattoos? i have four. both of the ones on my right arm are bird themed but that was unintentional. theres a little bird on my forearm from The Garden of Earthly Delights' middle panel, and then a lawn flamingo on my right shoulder. the lawn flamingo is heavily associated in Winnipeg culture with the Transcona neighbourhood, where my mom's from and where i lived for a few years. everyone else in Winnipeg clowns on Transcona for being white trash, which is not technically incorrect but its my favourite place. On my left wrist ive got a hand with an eye in it, and then a crescent moon surrounded by clouds on my left shoulder.

Favorite color? pink, black, light blues, ive been really into brown this year.

Favorite type of music? i love music in general, any type can be good as long as the people making it care about it but 80s alternative/new wave/punk will always hit so so good for me. and vintage or alternative country. and 90s alt.

Do you like puzzles? i love doing the nyt puzzles stoned every night but i will die before i give them any money to play them.

Any phobias? someone with prior knowledge of my phobias using them to torture me

Favorite childhood sport? i did kickboxing in my teens for a lil bit n it was really fun :)

Do you talk to yourself? chronically, but only out loud if im home alone or out in public alone.

What movies do you adore? to the surprise of no one; horror, especially trashy b-horror/horror comedy. also whatever The Butcher Boy (1997) dir. Neil Jordan (i will never stop evangelizing this movie please watch it sinead o'connor plays the virgin mary) is.

Coffee or Tea? coffee 100%. i live in tea country however. sometimes its nice but objectively the 'tea' people are talking about here (Barrys vs Lyons) tastes like a hot wet paper bag unless you put 3 teaspoons of sugar in it.

First thing you wanted to be when you grew up? either a palaeontologist or a goth, its hard to tell which came first. ironically my mom was much more supportive of my desire to be goth. this is the cognitive dissonance that came with being an early 2000s evangelical christian who listens to Rob Zombie and Evanescence. she eventually relaxed about jesus.

[1988hc]

Jonny is 36 and officially retired. They say you grow up fast when you first come into the league, that the NHL makes men out of boys. It's true. But Jonny likes to think he's done most of his growing in the past few years. The tough ones, when the glory of their cup wins started to slowly fade into memories of a different time, just as Crosby was celebrating his renaissance, as Tampa started making a name for themselves.

"You cannot coast on past achievements," his coach once told Jonny when he first made it into the Canada U17 team, uninterested to hear of Jonny's junior days. Who cares if you're a big deal in your precious little prep school league, that means nothing once you make it to the international stage. Back then he had a head full of dreams and a body that could get him there. Now all he's got is that ache in his knee when it rains and boxes of old trophies gathering dust in his parent's basement, the future stretching out before him like a fresh page without any pre-penciled in goal posts, terrifying in its blankness.

How do you know who you are when you could be anything?

"Just be happy," his mom said, watching him across the rim of her tea cup, as if life really is just that simple.

He goes to Arizona, to Costa Rica, to Salzburg. Travels the world, meeting up with old friends, guys he hasn't seen since he still lived in Winnipeg more than a lifetime ago. He surfs, he golfs, goes hiking and sightseeing, deletes Twitter off his phone and barely opens insta unless he gets a DM.

There's still a Hawks groupchat from 2010, even if it's grown quiet, short bursts of activities followed by months of radio silence. Pat only writes in there to chirp Hoss for getting excited over his ride-on lawn mower, or congratulate Sharpy for his new Flyers front office job. Every time he sees that name on his screen the same question keeps hammering in his mind, a nagging itch that won't go away.

Jonny spends nights awake staring at an endless black sky full of tiny pinpricks of light, wondering how much he's willing to risk, if it's worth it. It was easy to push away while he was still wearing four feathers on his chest, keep his head and down and focus on the game. But he's done a lot of soul searching in the last few years, finally admitting a couple hard truths to himself. It's not something he can shy away from anymore.

Anyone can cook, but only the fearless can be great.

He swipes back over to his text thread with Pat, heart in his throat, his finger trembling.

He's done this a million times already, hovering at the precipice like that, unable to push himself the last few inches past the point of no return.

Somewhere a tiny voice in the back of his mind from his media training days pipes up about never putting anything in writing that he wouldn't be comfortable seeing splashed across the cover of a magazine, but he doesn't think he can do this on the phone, doesn't trust his voice to hold up. So it's gonna have to be text.

Five months ago he stood in a tiny little souvenir shop in Bora Bora, wondering if he should just write it on a postcard and throw his phone in the ocean, but it had felt too much like a coward's move. How can he live his truth if he can't even stomach to see the reactions of the people he cares most about?

It's not what he really wants to say, the much bigger truth still held back behind his teeth. But it's a step, a first test of the waters.

I'm gay. Figured you deserved to know. Sorry it took me 16 years to say.

Too many words and yet still too few, not quite the right ones.

He stares at the text until it goes blurry.

Breathes in, breathes out.

And hits send.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

New Rule: Whoa, Canada | Real Time with Bill Maher

And finally, New Rule. If we want to save our country, we should follow the advice good liberals have given for decades and learn from other countries.

Especially those beacons of progressivism like Canada, England, and Scandinavia, and I agree we should, as long as we're honest about the lessons we're learning. And as long as we're up to date on the current data. Such as, the unemployment rate in the US is 3.8 percent. And in Canada, it's 6.1. And of the 15 North American cities with the worst air pollution, 14 are in Canada.

I'm not citing these stats because I have it out for Canada. I love Canada, and its people, and always have, but I hate zombie lies. Zombie lies. That's when things change but what people say about them doesn't. Yes, for decades, places like Vancouver, and Amsterdam, and Stockholm seemed idyllic, because everything was free and all the energy we needed was produced by riding a bike to your job at the windmill. Canada was where all the treasured goals of liberalism worked perfectly. It was like NPR come to life but with poutine.

Canada was the Statue of Liberty with a low-maintenance haircut and cross-country skis. A giant idealized blue state with single-payer health care, gun control, and abortion on polite demand. Canada was where every woke White college kid, wearing pajama pants outdoors who'd had it up to here with America's racist patriarchy, dreamt of living someday. I mean, besides Gaza.

There's only one problem with thinking everything's better in Canada. It's not. Not anymore anyway. Last year, Canada added 1.3 million people, which is a lot in one year. The equivalent of the US adding 11 million migrants in one year. And now, they are experiencing a housing crisis even worse than ours. And we're sleeping in tents. The median price of a home here is 346 grand, in Canada, converted to US dollars, it's 487. If Barbie moved to Winnipeg, she wouldn't be able to afford her dream house and Ken would be working at Tim Hortons. And because of mortgage debt, Canada has the highest debt to GDP ratio of any G7 nation. I don't know what that means, but it sounds bad.

So does their vaunted health care system, which ranks dead last among high income countries in access to primary health care and ability to see a doctor in a day or two. And it's not for lack of spending. Of the 30 countries with universal coverage, Canada spends over 13 percent of its economy on it, which is a lot of money for free health care.

Look, I'm not saying Canada still isn't a great country. It is, but those aren't paradise numbers. If Canada was an apartment, the lead feature might be "America adjacent." And if America was a rental car, Canada would be "America or similar."

And again, honestly, Canada, I'm not saying any of this 'cause I enjoy it. I don't, 'cause I've always enjoyed you. But I need to cite you as a cautionary tale to help my country. And the moral of that tale is, "Yes, you can move too far left." And when you do, you wind up pushing the people in the middle to the right. At its worst, Canada is what American voters think happens when there's no one putting a check on extreme wokeness.

Like the saga of Canadian shop teacher, Kayla Lemieux, whose pronouns are she/her and those. Kayla is now back to being a guy named Kerry, but two years ago when "they" showed up to teach children, the progressive high school "they" taught at said that they-- They, the school, not the person. Really? You couldn't have found another word? We were using that one. Anyway, okay. They were committed to a safe environment for gender expression. Safe for who? What about the children? What about the equipment in that shop class?

You know, there was once a weirdo D-list movie producer in the '60s named Russ Meyer who made low-budget B movies like Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! And Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. Always featuring women who look like this. His movies played in porn houses and were featured in Hustler and Playboy. Okay, fine, but who says, "No, when it comes to huge, ridiculous tits, let's save that for the kids."

And this is why people vote for Trump. They say in politics, liberals are the gas pedal and conservatives are the brakes, and I'm generally with the gas pedal, but not if we're driving off a cliff.

On the trans issue, America is no ands, ifs, or buts about it, absolutely alone in the world now. An outlier country. Last month, England's National Health Service announced that there's "not enough evidence to support the safety or clinical effectiveness" of puberty blockers for third graders, and that they were going to stop fumbling around with children's privates, because that's Prince Andrew's job.

So too with all the other good place countries in direct opposition to America's choice to affirm children's wishes on switching gender, no matter the age or psychiatric history. The Far Left, which always like to use, "Well, Europe does it." Yeah, no, that doesn't work on this one anymore.

Or on immigration. Sweden opened its borders to over a million and a half immigrants since 2010. And now 20 percent of its citizens are foreign-born and its education system is tanking, and it has Europe's highest rate of gangland killings. And one result is that the far-right parties are in the government now there for the first time.

To which liberals say, "Blaming immigrants for the rising crime rate is racist." Yeah, but is it true? Of course, it's true. It's not a coincidence. The quality of life went down after the Somali gangs started a drug turf war using hand grenades.

Calling it "racist" doesn't solve the problem. It hands future elections to someone who will solve the problem, and who, I promise, you're not going to like.

==

For the record, I've said literally all of this, including making the comparison of flying off a cliff if you rely entirely on the gas pedal. Just saying.

When Trump takes office again, and he will, people will act stunned and ask, "how could this have ever happened?"

[danifesting]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. 🩷

Oh my god Katie this is SUCH a hard question. I have published 70 works on ao3.

Here's what I narrowed it down to:

Pegging and other adventures (Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen, VERY explicit) I think I found something cool and funny to say in a way a lot of my other fics aren't (I am generally a deeply sentimental person and that shows in my writing)

Live in five (Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen, nondriver twitch streamer Max, nonbinary Max) I think this captures something really special in writing the process of falling in love online

Regret (Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick, regency A/B/O au) I had a lot of fun with the world building of and logistics of inheritance in this and I am also just very proud of the writing in it. I think I did well capturing the vibes of the regency era. I spent a lot of time doing research for this one.

Where the light went (Nico Hischier/Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick, soulmate au, nontraditional soulmates) I didn't write this one by myself but part of what I am so proud of about this fic is how my co-author and I managed to build a cohesive writing style throughout. This is another where I love the world building I did.

And now, for my favorite fic I have ever written or will ever write

Unchained melody (Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick, rule 63, f/f, 1950s au) I wish I had more eloquent things to say about this fic but I think this is my magnum opus. I loved the story telling. It's deeply personal and I poured my whole heart and soul into this Google doc. I think I really captured something of the desperate loneliness of being in a marriage you don't really want to be in even if you don't know that at the time that it's happening. I spent hours and hours researching for this fic from 1950s fashion and recipes to crop planting schedules to the history of swimming pools in Winnipeg. I just put a lot of love and care into this one and I think it shows. Please, even if you have never cared about hockey, read this fic. It's deeply important to me.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Unionized workers and other labour supporters marched through downtown Winnipeg on Monday morning to call for more sick days, equal rights for gig workers, access to health care regardless of immigration status and more.

Hundreds marched from Union Centre on Broadway to the Manitoba Legislature where union leaders made those demands of the provincial government at a rally for May Day, or International Workers' Day.

The day is used to celebrate gains made for workers around the world and to underscore areas of work that still need improvement, said Winnipeg Labour Council president Melissa Dvorak.

Dvorak thinks inflationary pressures and the current cost of living challenges are influencing more workers to consider joining unions. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[ryanscottcormierz]

Holy fuck I'm suck of having prive I'm alive every fucking day. I'm 47 and look awesome for my age, please and thank you, sorry polite, doesn't matter anymore

Smiling and laughing not allowed

What your problem

What you so happy about etc

Fml

All education and work history prior covid restrictions bo longer valid or usable

44 blood panels done 6 years. No drugs or alcohol once. Accused being drug addict

Never drank or did aby drugs till momth before college age 20. So all bodily organs could fully develop

Vaxinattiom/shots since 1997 under name Rysn Cormier. I'm immune to like 40 diseases flus worldwide. I'm unkillable for some sick job from whooping cough, polio all way to covid 19. No one cares.

Bad roomate choices used against me as reasoning I should be robbed thrown in psychiatrist. More people in Winnioeg have got to enjoy, have sex with men ,do criminal activity, sell drugs , make drugs, make noise,have people over, use my logged in devices and laptops, steal, confess, then I have. And I'm name on lease. No onevyet fells guilty Aug 2002 to July 20230. All men, woman, pretend friends, acquaintances, employers, co workers, boyfriend or roommates friends all through away a big city experience that I chose Winnipeg to be the chosen city and with a big fuck you 22 years later to think I might be bated as a libra, pushover, no criminal record, gay bashed in ontario slow or punishment demise ahead of time. All pictures gone to have no proof lived there. No references for apartments or employers usable. Fuck you canada and United states helping you gay bash me without me even able to get fucked I'm the ass. 22 years strong. Still no guy or gay experiences count and no new ones allowed. Too late to change punishment for actual gay man. Let's keep punishment by telling others new reason I need to die. Too chicken to kill me. Fuck u canada

[crosbyism]

Next Generation’s Best | One

An essay on generational talents, gender, and the NHL in six parts.

Masterpost | Next>

I think most everyone’s had this happen to them: you’re a kid, and there’s something pink in the room.

It might be you who says it. It might be another kid. It might actually be an adult. You might be playing or drawing or just talking. But the pink thing is in the room, and it has a presence. You don’t know that yet until whoever’s going to say it says it, but once it’s been said, pink will forever mean something; be somehow tangible one way or another. Nothing, and then:

“Ew, but it’s pink.”

Part One: Canada and Russia

1978

The plane lands in Edmonton, in the end.

The negotiations were so up-in-the-air they didn’t even know where they were being sent. Later, they’ll hear the whole wild story: a bluff over a bet, hinging on a game of backgammon; something right out of pulp fiction. So the plane, previously heading towards Schrödinger’s destination of Winnipeg-or-Edmonton depending on which airport they see when they step off the plane, lands in Edmonton.

The year is 1978. Ice hockey, in North America, is a men’s sport full of violence. There’s no use in skating fast or handling the puck skillfully if you can lay out the other guy: a man lying face down on the ice isn’t going to score. So you shouldn’t bother playing hockey if you aren’t big, mean, and maybe spoiling for a fight. You lay a guy out, you pass to the best guy on your line if the puck comes your way, and you let him do the scoring. In the NHL, it’s really only nominally a team sport. No one’s really passing much or using their teammates to their full potential or thinking about things like positioning.

Beyond that, it’s a turbulent time to be playing ice hockey for a living: teams are folding.

In November, three players get off the plane in Edmonton as part of a last-ditch Hail-Mary deal to save the Indianapolis Racers of the WHA. It won’t work: the Racers will fold a month later, and by the end of the season the WHA will have strong-armed the NHL into merging together, saving three of its six teams— including the Edmonton Oilers.

None of this really matters much to the little blond guy walking into the rink, the smallest and youngest of the three.

He’s a stick of a kid; a 17-year-old pretty boy whose hands are softer than his body, and that’s saying something. Blue eyes, grown-out blond hair. He looks like a girl from the back, actually. He’s just about six foot tall and 160 pounds soaking wet with his gear on; barely big enough for anyone to let him onto the ice.

The kid’s bright-eyed and he loves hockey; learned everything he knows from his father, who got the love of it from hisfather; a man who saw the signs coming for the Russian Revolution and fled so far from the Bolsheviks he ended up on the opposite end of the ocean from his homeland. But he couldn’t shake his love for the cold biting winter air or for a sport that connected his old home and the new. So: two generations and sixty years later, somewhere in Canada, the blond little skinny guy walks into the rink.

He doesn’t care about the looks; he’s gotten those since he was a kid, playing against children twice his age and size. He’s not going to care about what the reporters are going to say at the end of the season either, the way they’ll call him too frailfor the NHL. He’ll stick to what his dad taught him: don’t go where the puck is, but where it will be.

He’s not the fastest on the team, and possibly the smallest. There’s almost nothing physically exceptional about him. None of that matters; everyone in that rink in Edmonton knows that it doesn’t matter if he looks like the goddamn princess of England.

That Gretzky kid is better than anyone else on the team.

1967

But this story, for once, doesn’t actually start with Wayne Gretzky. That’s just an easy entry point. It actually starts, as many things in ice hockey do, smack-dab in the middle of the Cold War.

About ten years before Wayne Gretzky walks into a rink in Edmonton, there’s a little guy in Moscow. Even smaller— he barely cracks 168cm. They call him the Spaniard because his mother is Basque and you can tell in his face and his body; he’s got thick, dark Mediterranean brows and a big, plump mouth. He’s been on the Red Army team since age 12, working his way up. Everyone knows he deserves to be there: the Red Army sports teams may be the pride of the Soviet Union, but it’s a gruelling regimen that they put you on. Sure, everyone wants to be on that team; the privileges for your family are tremendous, but they don’t take just anyone. And you don’t just earn it; it’s a deal with the devil.

At least he’s got a real Russian name, and real Russian skills too. He racks up points you wouldn’t believe, and for a decade he’s the driving force behind a literal score of gold medals that proves to the rest of the world that Soviet hockey is better than any other hockey, as it will stay for almost two decades. His skill is unparalleled. He’s fast, his hands are soft, and he stickhandles in a way no one else has ever even thought about, let alone tried. He sees the ice; sees opportunities, thinks not of where the puck is but where it will be.

Especially not those North American brutes. What they don’t understand is that hockey is art and takes skill. No one embodies this level of Soviet excellence better than Valeri Khalamov. He is not just the best Russian player, or the best player in a generation. He’s the best player of all time. Every child will know this for next thirty years— until right after a blond, thin Canadian retires in the year prophesized on the back of his jersey.

—

Here’s a secret: the little blond Canadian never makes it that far without Valeri Kharlamov taking the hockey world by storm.

Kharlamov was the envy of every hockey player, coach and GM on the entire North American continent and some outside of it. North American hockey started out stubborn in the face of that much skill: first convinced it could bulldoze its way through with brutish violence, then trying to deny and belittle what it couldn’t emulate, and then barely accepting jealous defeat before it got hungry for their own answer to Kharlamov and Soviet Hockey.

Joke’s on them: Wayne Gretzky was home grown in a Slavic migratory background, steeped more in the mentality of Russian hockey than North American hockey. Gretzky also loved the Soviets and their hockey; so much so that he engineered a secret dinner with Igor Larionov in 1984 (before Larionov defected to become one of the infamous Russian Five) and stole the Green Unit away from their KGB handlers into his parent’s basement to shoot the shit over a couple of beers in 1987. Something every single one of their contemporaries will tell you about Gretzky and Kharlamov is this: no one saw the ice like them. The eyes and brain were what made the skill. Physicality didn’t matter a lick.

A sorrowful note: Wayne Gretzky and Valeri Kharlamov missed each other in international competition by a hair. Kharlamov died in a car crash in 1981, two weeks after the announcement that he would be left off the Soviet roster for the ‘81 Canada Cup, which was the first tournament Gretzky competed in on the Adult Men’s team for international competitions. If I had to guess, I’d wager there’s almost no one as sad about that as Wayne Gretzky himself.

Despite the attitude in the NHL at the time, Gretzky wasn’t all that much of a brawler either. Here’s a stat that doesn’t get trotted out very often: along with his ten Hart trophies, Wayne Gretzky won the Lady Byng five times. He was outspokenly against the type of violence in hockey that led to debilitating injuries, and he’s been outspoken against headshots in the NHL for decades.

It makes him a curious type of outlier, but what, are you gonna call the Best Player in the World soft for not liking physical play?

— Maybe if it’s still the middle of the Cold War and the guy’s a Red fuckin’ Commie.

Masterpost | Next>

[dogwittaablog]

You know what’s surprising to me this dude is basically been retired for years now and he still just lives in Winnipeg. He had a couple million and he’s single he could relocate to anywhere in the world heck go on vacations start a new life in a cool city. But he just stays in Winnipeg. I think he’s not a very adventurous person and just likes what he knows. Cause if I had that much money and nothing tying me down I would be travelling the world or living somewhere like North Carolina close to the beach and mountains

Relocating to live elsewhere permanently doesn't seem like a big him thing, I think he'd actually get way too lonely not being close to people he knows and family, which is understandable. But I do agree with him and the whole vacationing! He definitely has the money and time to kick it in some random places across Europe for a few months if wanted to for instance, like literally could just book a next day flight and fuck off from WPG. I kind of get surprised he hasn't done that kind of shit with Mr. T.Kaspick when he's in his off season. Regardless he seems like a confident and independent person to do solo travels and I am sure he has before but maybe not to a completely foreign place. I guess he just doesn't really care for it + maybe he would like to travel with someone but everyone he knows has there own things going on and isn't in the same position he is to just take off and go places.

[ellieoes]

Light a candle

I can’t remember the first time I ever heard of this thing called a blog. I know it was many many moons ago.  I never thought it was for me.  I mean, I lived an entirely ordinary life and always seemed to say what I always thought were the wrong words and even if they were the right words, I didn’t have much to say and was always worried that I would say something that might offend someone or just plain old sound stupid. So, go easy on me ok?

I sit here this morning writing this because I just read my dear friend’s final entry in his own blog. He started his blog ‘oldbutnotyetwise’ 9 years ago. And I just learned of it last year when I reconnected with him. I've read every one of his posts including his last... his self-authored obituary. His last piece of advice - "Don't keep putting things off until tomorrow, because sometimes tomorrow doesn't come." Advice well taken my friend, wish me luck (I can see you smiling with that smirky smirk ;-)

Life is a funny and wondrous thing and often very challenging thing. It takes you on little side trips that seemingly don’t make sense and move you in different directions that you never thought you’d move in. And then, all of a sudden, all of the tumblers fall into place and it makes sense. Sometimes painfully so.

My friend Suzanne suggested I meet David. My marriage was in its final throes and I needed a male perspective. So we met. I liked him. Instantly. We talked as if we’d know eachother for many years. And he was delightful. He was a gentle giant who listened so intently and then asked you the most thought provoking and revealing questions to help you better understand and come to your own conclusions about whatever you were uncertain about.

Not long after we met, we were chatting one night about Sue’s birthday coming up and were trying to figure out something special we could do for her. Well, a visit to Winnipeg in December with -40 celsuis degree temps (well maybe it was -20 but it sure felt like -40!) with an almost stranger wasn’t what I was thinking but somehow, he convinced me that it was a great idea and before you knew it, we were off! We became great friends and, for reasons I won’t explain here and certainly not through any fault of his, we communicated only once a year (when he’d sent me a birthday text or email). He did so every year for almost 8.  

Fast forward to June 2023.  I read a facebook post of David’s that had me concerned.  Robin (his beautiful wife) and he were leaving their dream property in Nipissing and moving to Cambridge. When I asked him why, he told me something that took my breath away much like a gut punch would.  He had been diagnosed with ALS.

ALS.

At that time, I was enveloped in taking care of my 93 year old mom. She had Alzheimer’s, couldn’t speak or walk or later even eat. It was a terrible time and a horrible death.  Still, she was surrounded with love and our family did all that we could to let her know how much she was loved. But more on that maybe in another post.

I suppose I tell you this because I’m trying to find a reason why I didn’t fully enter back into David’s life until about October/November.

My friend Dana had once brought me a meal when I lost either my brother or my sister (sorry, can’t remember which) and then my friend Karen did the same when I lost my mom. I can’t tell you how much their thoughtfulness meant to me and how grateful I am to this day for their kindness. So, I was determined that this is what I would do for David and his wife.

He suggested I watch Tuesdays with Morrie - a movie about a man with ALS. I did and promptly asked David if we could be Tuesday people.  Well, it wasn’t every Tuesday and it wasn’t always Tuesdays but as much as his schedule and mine permitted, I would bring a meal for the three of us to share. It was a very special time for which I would be eternally grateful. We would eat and talk and enjoy eachother’s company. Often times David and I would take their ever-so-sweet Australian Shepherd named Kiwi for a walk around the neighborhood. David in his $30,000 wheelchair that seemingly did everything but make you dinner ;-)

It was on these walks that we had our deepest talks. Sometimes about what was to come and the inevitable outcome of ALS; sometimes about love and relationships; sometimes about favourite books and movies.  His favourite author was Robert James Waller.  One of his favourite movies was based on his book, The Bridges of Madison County. Other movies he loved were Life Itself and Boyhood. I’ve watched them all now and thoroughly enjoyed every one of them. I felt that by watching them, I would know David better.

He loved the natural world. He loved the paradise that Robin and he called home in Nipissing. He loved his dogs, every one of them. He loved his friends. He loved Chicken Parmigiana, Lasagna, Butter Tarts (without coconut), Boston Cream pie and, given he had a second helping, he at least liked my Goulash.

But most of all, he loved Robin. Oh how my heart aches at the thought of the beautiful, deep and pure love that they shared. It was the stuff of books and movies. It was the real deal. Even with thoughts of all the challenges of ALS and his imminent death, the one thing that brought him to tears and made him hurt the most was the thought of having to leave his beloved Robin. He didn't want to. If he could, he would have moved heaven and earth just to be able to stay by her side. And I know Robin would have as well.

Robin is an unexpected gift in all of this. She is incredibly kind and funny and sweet and truly beautiful. She is strong and courageous and so loyally and steadfastly took care of David until his last day. Though she had done so much - had given everything to David so that his dignity would be protected, his spirit supported and his heart filled with her love - she was still worried that she hadn't done enough and that she made a few mistakes. Robin, you don't know how incredible you are and what a gift you gave him. You are a hero in every sense of the word. I love you for everything you did for David and for how much you loved and protected and helped him. You were his everything and it's so clear why. I'm so grateful we connected and look forward to many more years of friendship if you'll have me.

The most heartwrenching text I've ever received from anyone was from David. It was his final text.

At 9:38pm on Thursday, May 23rd, 2024 he wrote:

"Light a candle at 10:00 tonight, I love you."

His time had come. I wrote him back. I didn't know if he'd read my text until the 25th. Robin told me he had. She also told me that he wanted his celebration of life to be on June 2nd so I could attend. These final gifts of his are indescribably important to me and have touched me so deeply.

He meant so much to me. And he gave me so much. Winnipeg, Justin Hines (especially "Say what you will"), little surprises like dessert from Bread Bar, an Ethopian restaurant, a little mom-and-pop italian restaurant, sushi, a beautiful hand-turned pen that he made himself, a book by Jann Arden. He gave me permission and encouragement to try things; to get out of my comfort zone; to believe in myself and even to love myself (because there was a time when I couldn't do either because of who I'd become and the ones that I'd hurt); to forgive myself; to accept things as they were and not to worry about things you cannot change; and to always see the good even in the worst - because, as he said, there is always good. Even ALS, he said, brought him gifts. The gifts of the love of friends and especially the deepening of the love Robin and he shared.

On May 8th at 10:45 am he sent me this and said that this was what he was pondering that morning and he thought that I might also appreciate it:

"You can't skip chapters, that's not how life works. You have to read every line, meet every character. You won't enjoy all of it. Hell, some chapters will make you cry for weeks. You will read things you don't want to read, you will have moments when you don't want the pages to end. But you have to keep going. Stories keep the world revolving. Live yours, don't miss out."

-Pillow Thoughts

I'll leave you with that for now but in David's tradition, I will also leave you with a few questions to ponder...

Who do you miss and wish you had back in your life? I encourage you to connect with them now not later if you can.

Do the people you love know you love them? Have you communicated how much they mean to you?

What's your story and are you really living it?

Whatever your answers are to those, I wish you a love like David and Robin's, an appreciation of the natural world and all the animals in it, good health, peace in your heart, courage and wonderful adventures!

[msmargaretmurry]

Please elaborate about the border patrol incident

okay so, the border patrol incident is not really that dramatic, but it is very funny to me. when i was a young 20-something, one summer a friend and i decided to go on a month-long roadtrip across the continent and back. we had a lease on an apartment that didn't start until september, shitty little service industry jobs that didn't care if we disappeared for four weeks, and absolutely no standards for like, sleeping conditions or whatever. we got a hotel or motel room every 4-5 days to shower and stuff but mostly we were living out of my 2001 toyota camry, which ran just fine but was not in the best shape aesthetically due to being pretty old and also due to young me having sub-par depth perception and occasionally backing it ungently into things. also, because we were between apartments, the vast majority of our earthly belongings were packed into the backseat and trunk of this car.

the route of the trip was pretty meandering, but some stretches of it were based on the summer tour dates of bands we liked -- one of my favorites things to experience in a new city is its small/medium music venues, so this was a great excuse for doing that. anyway, we'd started the trip by driving north to montreal and then cutting west, but instead of going over the great lakes through western ontario we headed south, crossed back into the us at sarnia and went up through michigan's upper peninsula, wisconsin, minnesota. the night before we crossed the border again, we parked the car in the massive parking lot of the walmart supercenter in bemidji to sleep, which i remember distinctly because of the paul bunyan and babe the blue ox statues looming suddenly upon us in the middle of the night as we drove into town. that's not important to the story, but i am setting the scene here, which is that leading up to this encounter my traveling companion and i had just spent several days driving through a lot of deeply rural lake country with very little human contact except each other. the plan that day was to hit a concert in winnipeg and so we awoke with the sun, availed ourselves of the bemidji walmart supercenter facilities, and headed north.

the border crossing our google maps directions took us to was the one on route 59, which is a very small and not very busy crossing. i think the border guards were quite bored. in retrospect i can see how a couple of young women in this old, stuffed-to-the-gills car with virginia plates seemed pretty strange, but also in retrospect i still maintain they didn't have to be dicks about it. they checked our passports, asked where we were from and where we were headed -- to a concert in winnipeg -- and then decided that they needed to unpack the entire car to make sure we weren't carrying anything illegal, because, they said, groupies like to bring drugs to concerts.

please recall that we had so much stuff in this car. clothes and books and food and small furniture. the tetris of packing it was both an art and a science. i was NOT happy to have it dismantled by these border men. at one point they were like, ohhh see ALCOHOL and i was like, yeah, it's in the trunk so obviously no one is getting at it while driving so who cares?? and also it's not enough to have to declare so truly who cares. by the end of this process our cache of earthly belongings was scattered around the car in the road on the canadian border, and they begrudgingly allowed us into the country, but a single other vehicle had arrived at the crossing so they told us we needed to hurry up and get out of the way.

now i was already stewing in anger over a) the characterization of us as female fans traveling to a concert as "groupies" and b) the characterization of groupies as ~obviously~ carrying drugs. no disrespect to actual groupies or to drug users, live ur lives!! but we were neither if those things in that moment and i found the generalizations very gross, so i snapped at the border guards that the car takes a lot longer to re-pack then unpack and also maybe they should consider being less sexist. they did not like this very much. i also do not think they liked my lecture about their assumptions about female music fans, but imo they deserved it. afterward when we were finally driving into the grand prairies of manitoba, my friend was like, becky...... maybe in the future consider not picking fights with the border guards considering they get to decide if we cross the border. and i was like. well. we got in didn't we lmao.

in conclusion we did make it to the show in winnipeg, where we failed to read the fine print on the parking signs and also i sliced my foot open on something in the mosh pit, turning me into a person who now will tell literally anyone at any given opportunity, "yeah, i've been to winnipeg, and all i got was a parking ticket and a flesh wound."