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.
11:7
10:7
Edward gazed up the staircase and paused. An entrance strategy, that’s what I need. A bunny can’t very well burst in on the scene without an invitation, can he. Might cause all sorts of complications. Edward recalled that unfortunate series events that spawned from the locked door and the survivalist family… no, no let us not repeat that shall we.
Still, he thought to himself as he slowly hopped up the stairs, one needs to be prepared for anything.
At the first landing Edward again paused on a remarkably clean brown carpet and looked up the remaining flight of rose marble stairs. Tiny flecks of gold and streaks of brown ran through the cream stone and the overriding tone of pink seemed to come from the play between the dim stairway lights and the cream and the brown stone rather from any actually rose coloured impurities.
Ah, look at me, thinking about staircases and marble varieties. I do believe I am procrastinating. Still, when considering what is apparent and discernible, it is important to remember that not everything is uniform. Edward recalled one of his first visits to the Met. He had been enjoying the Byzantine galleries immensely — that being a period and geographical area that he had very little experience with — when he had turned into the crypts in search of an old coptic manuscript. This unusual room was carved from the space under the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Great Stairs.
Unfinished red brick arches created a series of spans that supported the stunning staircase he had seen from the main entrance. The staircase, designed in the Beaux-Arts style by Richard Morris Hunt in the late 1800s, had been constructed as a part of the new entrance hall and facade. An interesting fact was that Richard died before construction started and the edifice was completed by his son…
Right. Procrastination. Well.
But still, the point was that, upon entering the crypts and turning towards the low wooden and glass case that held the ancient tome that was his goal, Edward had been faced with a series of descending roof blocks made from rough hewn stone. It had taken a moment, but then Edward realized he was staring at the underside of the stairs. While the tops had been meticulously, carved, levelled and polished to give visitors the impression the treads were marble slabs a mere two inches high, the stairs themselves were in fact giant blocks of marble that incorporated the tread, the riser and an uneven and unseen amount of unfinished stone that descended in varying amounts below the finished part of the staircase.
Remarkable and unforeseeably beautiful.
Edward had spent not a small amount of time staring at those man made, yet seemingly chaotic patterns of stone and contemplating their eerie beauty. So much time that he had in fact been herded out of the museum at closing time without completing his sojourn in the Byzantine era; a fact he had rectified in a later visit.
But the humbling sight of what lay beneath the grandness of the upper gallery had remained with Edward and he, forever after, had much less of a tendency to ignore what may lie beneath the surface.