11:16
11:16
When Caroline came out of the kitchen, balancing the tray of drinks she was still holding her breath. She knew it was ridiculous and likely to cause her to pass out, but the lingering odour of wet beaver was a bit overwhelming and, new leaf or not, it was going to take a while to get over years of disgust.
She stepped over the small slightly damp rabbit in the middle of the living room floor. He, very definitely a he from his posture and the rage-like quivering that seemed to emanate from his tiny body, was apparently already half way into winter and his fur was an odd motley of nutmeg and snow white.
After passing the beaver his new martini, she bent down and handed the mojito to the patchwork rabbit. “We don’t have any fresh mint, so I used an infusion of dried. I hope that’s ok.” Without waiting for his reply she passed the two longnecks to the kids on the couch, grabbed the last bottle herself and, tucking the now empty tray under her arm, took a long pull from the Corona, lime bouncing in the bottle as she tried her best to drain it.
Tilting the bottle back down, she took a long breath and turned to the last occupant of the room and asked again, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? There’s a pretty well-stocked bar in there,” gesturing back to the kitchen with her bottle.
Caroline had been here about 45 minutes, and most of that had been in the kitchen, puttering around. When she first arrived the beaver had asked her to wait before saying anything and then watched her fidget for about 5 minutes before he shooed her off to the kitchen to fix drinks and see if there was any food to rustle up. Between her twitchy need to escape and the guilt she felt every time the blood soaked bandage slid out from under the robe he was wrapped in, she was glad to take on the hostess role.
She’d just chopped up some fixings for natchos and was waiting for the oven to heat up when Rowan popped her head in and told her in that odd drawl that the beaver said there was another guest coming and see if she could find something to make a half decent mojito.
11:15
11:15
Edward couldn’t quite remember a time when he had been more astonished. There had been that affair with the Polynesians cannibals in the Egyptian ruins — well they hadn’t technically been cannibals, but they had tried to eat him — but he had already begun to suspect their presence before the unfortunate cookpot episode. ANd of course there was the time he had walked in on the peculiar mating rituals of the so-call Llama gods; that had been perhaps a bit less astonishing and a bit more disturbing, but nonetheless.
Still the sight of the beaver wrapped up in what looked suspiciously like a silk smoking jacket, sipping what could only be a martini and smirking pompously at him from a makeshift throne of cushions and blankets, could only be accurately described as astonishing.
Edward sat uncomfortably at the base of his “lordship’s” altar and looked around the room for the fifth time. It, in as much as Edward’s research had revealed, seemed that all the players of this little farce had gathered. He shook his ears vigorously with an audibly thwop and, for just a moment, imagined he saw that ridiculous beaver take a long suck from an equally ridiculous pipe. But as he quickly glanced back, the beaver’s hands held only what was most definitely a martini.
Seeing that he had Edwards attention, the beaver’s smirk broke into an open grin and he delicately drew the impaled olive out of his drink and plucked the briny fruit off the toothpick with his gleaming incisors and then downed the rest of the drink.
“Welcome old… friend.”
11:14
11:14
He checked his phone one more time. Still no call from that crazy bitch. No text, no email, no fucking little red number on any of these stupid fucking icons.
Christ it was getting cold. The wind had the edge that says: ‘winter is here, you just can’t see it yet you stupid bastards.’ His spies hadn’t reported any movement in at least 8 hours, but he knew the storm was gathering nonetheless. Too many things had slipped out of his fingers and too many interfering outside fucking agencies had dipped there noses in this stinking business.
Well they were about to find out what kind of shit this was and it s going to be well and truly smeared all over them. Teach the weaselly amateurs who to fuck with.
He lifted the phone and glanced an its screen for the tenth time in the last five minutes. Nothing.
I gotta move. Its gotta be now. I will deal with the bitch later. Lots of shit to be shared and she just earned herself a bucketful.
11:13
11:13
I was…
***********
Excuse
Definition
noun
?k?skju?s,?k-/
1. a reason or explanation given to justify a fault or offence.
2. (informal) a poor or inadequate example of.
Synonmys
alibi, justification, rationalization, substitute, defense, disguise, evasion, plea, stall, cop-out, song and dance
Famous Quotes
“Late with an excuse is still late.”
— Anonymous
“He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.”
— Benjamin Franklin
“Never make excuses. Your friends don’t need them and your foes won’t believe them.”
— John Wooden
“There is a lie in between a promise and many excuses.”
— Toba Beta
*************
Color Me Colourful
Ok I have a a new colour scheme that is just a child theme of the original. This mean instead of rewriting the whole css file I can use the original file (in this case ../MAcBlazeIII.style.css) and the just change the bits I want like colour or header size.
Still trying to figure out !important and heirarchy but so far so good…
Here is the complete child style.css file that changed this:
to this:
/*
Theme Name: MacBlaze III Child
Theme URI: http://macblaze.ca/
Description: MacBlaze III Child Theme
Author: B Timothy Keith
Author URI: http://macblaze.ca
Template: MacBlazeIII
Version: 1.0.0
*/
@import url('../MacBlazeIII/style.css');
/* =Theme customization starts here
-------------------------------------------------------------- */
.widget-area {
background: #384f69 !important ;
}
.site-footer {
background: #232942;
}
.site-main {
background: #688b9e;
}
/* CSS Button */
.sidebar-button {
font-family: droid-sans-mono;
color: #FFFFFF !important;
font-size: 14px;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px #000000;
box-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #4b6b3c;
padding: 10px 25px;
-moz-border-radius: 11px;
-webkit-border-radius: 11px;
border-radius: 11px;
border: 2px solid #688b9e;
background: #232942;
background: linear-gradient(top, #384f69, #232942);
background: -ms-linear-gradient(top, #384f69, #232942);
background: -webkit-gradient(linear, left top, left bottom, from(#384f69), to(#232942));
background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, #384f69, #232942);
}
.sidebar-button a {
color: #FFFFFF !important;
}
.sidebar-button:hover {
color: #CCCCCC !important;
background: #688b9e;
}
/* =Global
----------------------------------------------- */
/* Links */
h1.entry-title a, {
color: #ffffff;
}
.site-content a {
color: #ccb599 !important;
}
.site-content a:hover,
.site-content a:focus,
.site-content a:active {
color: #e6c6c6 !important;
}
.textwidget a {
color: #ccb599 !important;
}
/* Main */
body,
button,
input,
select,
textarea {
color: #ffffff;
font-family: proxima-nova, sans-serif;
font-size: 14px;
font-size: 1.4rem;
line-height: 1.5;
text-align: left;
}
.entry-title,
.page-title,
.entry-content,
.entry-summary,
.widget-title,
.comments-title,
.comment .reply,
.comment-meta,
.comment-author,
#reply-title {
font-family: bree, sans-serif;
}
h1.widget-title {
color:#ccb599;
}
.widget-area p {
color: #fff;
text-align: left;
font-family: ;
font-size: 12px;
font-size: 1.2rem !important;
line-height: 1.5;
}
/* =Site Header
----------------------------------------------- */
.site-header hgroup {
background: #232942 url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top;
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, linear-gradient(top, #232942, #384f69);
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, -ms-linear-gradient(top, #232942, #384f69);
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, -webkit-gradient(linear, left top, left bottom, from(#232942), to(#384f69));
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, -moz-linear-gradient(top, #232942, #384f69) ;
height: 250px;
}
.site-title {
font-size: 45px;
font-size: 4.5rem;
font-style: normal;
font-family: "bree",sans-serif;
}
.site-description {
font-size: 12px;
font-size: 1.2rem;
}
.site-title a,
.site-title a:visited,
.site-description {
color: #ffffff;
}
/* =Menu
----------------------------------------------- */
.main-navigation {
clear: both;
display: block;
padding: .5em 1em .5em 2em;
background: #ccb599;
}
.main-navigation a {
color: #fff;
}
.main-navigation a:hover {
color: #668b9e !important;
}
.main-navigation ul ul {
background: #ccb599;
/* =Content
----------------------------------------------- */
.site-main {
background: #688b9e;
border: 1px solid rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1);
border-width: 1px 1px;
}
/* =Widgets
----------------------------------------------- */
/* =Site Footer
----------------------------------------------- */
/* =Structure
----------------------------------------------- */
/* Graduated Screens
#div {
background: #232942 url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top;
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, linear-gradient(top, #232942, #384f69);
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, -ms-linear-gradient(top, #232942, #384f69);
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, -webkit-gradient(linear, left top, left bottom, from(#232942), to(#384f69));
background: url('img/bannertop.gif') no-repeat right top, -moz-linear-gradient(top, #232942, #384f69) ;
}
-------------------------------*/
11:12
11:12
Guilt is such a wondrous thing. It hold us frozen in unbreakable stasis, drives us over cliffs from unimaginable heights, spurs creativity and discovery like no other goad and can lay to rest the most towering confidence like it was but a new born child.
And no on exists without it. The legendary egos of history were often naught but massive festering tureens of guilt, bubbling and churning and spitting their contents at any that stood nearby. It is the first emotion a child learns, the guilt of bringing pain and sorrow to their caregivers.
Yet it is true that along side guilt is most often its near twin sibling: joy. One often causes the other and the two can happily coexist within even the same simple smile. To live without guilt is to live without joy, for no one can escape the price, however freely and happily paid, that joy exacts from its moments.
It is sad though, the cloak of fear and disdain that wraps and stifles the body of guilt. For guilt is engine behind many great things and can be the most powerful force for change that ever existed. Guilt, for all its cloying and smothering aspects can be sharper than any samurai’s legendary katana, slicing cleaning and without fraying the elaborate silk, lacquered wood or cleverly crafted ironmongery of the most heroic warriors defenses. And once the armour is stripped away, there is nothing left but to start again and the opportunity for rebirth will always bring the opportunity for joy.
Caroline stared at the sparking clean pane of glass. And suddenly, as she traced edges of the flaking wooden sash with her eyes, it disappeared, and for the first time since she had moved into this dirty oppressive city, she saw through glass and plaster walls that protected her from the outside. In fact, as she followed the path of the light that streamed in and danced across the shabby ochre carpet, for the first time for as long as her memory stretched back, she realized that here within her protective walls she was no safer or protected than she had ever been standing in the old corrals holding her father’s hand or walking along the edge of the lake with the morning’s dew soaking through her pant legs.
The walls that she needed to protect herself could not built built by any man’s hands no matter how skilled, yet they were there for her to erect any time she chose.
Any time she chose.
As a single scarlet leaf, curled and twisted by time and exposure to the elements of life floated by the near-invisible pane of glass that was her window to the outside world, Caroline decided it was indeed time for choices.
11:11 It is just a Symbol
On occasion of Remembrance Day and being pissed at white poppies
It is just a Symbol
I don’t remember
His quiet stories
Or the caress of his father’s hand
I don’t remember
Alphabet lessons
Or our playing in the sand
I don’t remember
The holidays
Or have memories of happy words
And I don’t remember
The uniform
Or the shriek of iron birds
I don’t remember
His touch, his smell,
The nature of his tones.
And I never knew his reasons why
or the lessons that he learned
But I remember that he once served
whatever his reasons why
And I’ve been taught that
he took flight
and flew across the sky
It’s true I’ve always known
He’d been there when I was oh so small
And whatever else that he may have missed
He must have smiled to see me crawl
But of the many skills
he had to share
moments and emotions
and souls to bare
There was no time,
no place, no song
His few moments were
too swiftly gone
In here and now, all that remains
Is history taught at nother’s knee
The images and old stories
passed down, just history
And yet they have now become,
And are my reasons why
As eleven eleven comes round again
I step aside from my conceits
and spare a glance for the sky
To take second to
Now that I’m grown
And think of things
That I have never known.
And wish that you Remember
Wherever your thoughts may dwell
That whether or not you knew them
They’re owed their silent, fare the well.
For the first time in history I find myself reluctant to share a poem or rhyme; indeed when I have ever been shy to share the nonsense that escapes my lips. I can see that the bones are there but it doesn’t do the idea, the raw purpose much justice. Still, as amateurish puling doggerel goes, it makes my heart move a bit so I guess, for me, that it is enough.
But do me a favour and sing your own song or scribble your poem or paint your own picture and remember always, that on the backs of others our lives rest.
11:10
11:10
9…
8…
7..
6…5…4…4…4…
3
2
1
Posted!
11:9
11:9
Caroline watched the strange but happy man drive away in his colorful van from her freshly cleaned window. Not that it would ever be clean again she knew inside her heart. But still that small moment of kindness was worth something.
“Thanks,” she mouthed silently as a fellow human being turned the corner and drove out of sight.
11:8
11:8
That really described this near debacle of an operation didn’t it. Look for what was under the surface before you get your leg bitten off by alligators, or crushed by rocks, or shot by snipers for that matter.
But for now, there was just one focus. He needed to find the beaver, remove him as a variable, and retrieve the documentation that had been his primary objective all along. And, it seemed probable, that this could be accomplished on the other side of this rather shabby door.
Edward shivered and took a moment to preen his fur. Presentation counts, he reminded himself.