On what is officially my last day as an unemployed lazy assed couch sitter who has watched every single episode of CSI Vegas (the ones with Lady Heather the dominatrix are my fave, because you know Grissom is in to some creepy shit and he seems to know a LOT about the domination/submissive culture) and they did do that episode about the furries, an issue I have a real problem with, but I didn't have much else to do.
It used to just be sports mascots that would send me screaming into the nearest bathroom stall when one was coming any where near me, but at least those people are doing a job, they're getting paid, paying taxes, etc. but plushies or furries or whatever they are called, these people get off by rubbing up against each other in giant raccoon or bunny or floppy eared beagle costumes headed costumes *shudders* and they fly all over the country to meet up with chickens and cats and...well you get the idea.
I know there is a name for this fetish, but I'm just to lazy to look it up, so you could go do it if you want.
They even have a bunch of made up words to describe what they do to each other at conventions, and the mental image I have now put in my own head of stuffed animals climbing all over each other has totally made me want to cry, or vomit, or both, I should move on to the real blog.
In April of last year I bought a camera. Just one of the higher end Canon point and shoots, and I started taking pictures. Some of the ones that I love the most (although they are tragic in nature) Usually, I would go downtown to the part of Vancouver where the walking dead get their dope, and I would give them a pack of smokes, or maybe a hot lunch, to let me take their pictures, and have them tell me their life stories. My whole idea was to contribute stories and photos to Sara's website on Myspace called "The Bum Chronicles."
I got some pretty good photos, and some really tragic life stories, stories that needed to be told even if it was just to remind all of us how much we have in comparison to others. To show that in spite of the fact that Canada has universal medical, and programmes to help people living on the streets, usually fleeing from situations far, far worse than sleeping in a doorway and pan handling for dope money, that just for a short time we should remind ourselves just how lucky we are, and just how poorly our social systems are being run, or even that a hot meal may be something that means far more to someone who hasn't eaten well in months that someone cared.
I took a lot of pictures, listened to a lot of stories (most of which would make even the hardest hearted person tear up) and I came home and started to write.
Then I hit a wall, big time.
It was the worst case of writer's block I've ever had since I learned to write "I love you Daddy" with my big box of 64 coloured Crayola crayons.
I couldn't make the words fit with the pictures, or vice versa. The words were there, but they were jammed in, stuck, and were not moving and no matter how I tried to get them out, the bigger the word log jam became.
And it sucked.
I kept all the notes and the pictures, figuring that when it was time, they would come together. Probably like a massive geyser, but they would come. And since I was sick, and not working, I was sure I would be able to write, I mean I had nothing but miles of empty days stretching out in front of me.
Still, 7, 8, 9 10 months passed and those stories and ideas and the ability to get them down, even on paper stayed stuck like the nasty gum that plastered the underside of my Grade 2 desk.

Until last night.

I sat down, and I started to write, and it was exactly as I thought it would be. Old faithful sputtered out some steam and then it felt like it was exploding. I couldn't type fast enough. I was up all night, and I managed to get out three separate blogs/articles.

The words and pictures came together like a 5,000 piece jigsaw puzzle.

They're raw, and need editing, but I feel like a huge part of my brain just cleared itself the way an early morning fog will suddenly disappear, revealing the bright blue sky, and the first warm Spring day when you need only a light sweater to keep the breeze off your shoulders.

And while I am a big fan of irony, especially the dripping, delicious irony of rain on your wedding day (that's for YOU, Char) it looks like after a whole year where I could have been writing every damn day, the words chose to come with one day left before I will have an entire free day to myself until at least April...the end of hockey season.

Stupid brain.