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Ground Beef Soup

Ground Beef Soup

2 lbs lean ground beef
2 medium onions
1 tin tomato soup
2 tins beef broth
1 lg tin stewed tomatos
A couple tablespoons (or more) of pearl barley

Brown ground beef, drain and rinse with water and drain again.
Cut onions (julien to cook faster) and put in pot with beef
Add all liquids (beef broth, tomato soup)
Add stewed tomatoes
Salt and pepper to taste
Bring to a bold, then reduce and simmer for 20 minutes

Nice with fresh dinner rolls or portugese buns!

i was going to post to my blog, but then i didn't...

i was going to post here, about how i was thinking of my parents. it was something important about how their selfishness put me and my sister through so much hell when we were kids.

i was going to post here about how i felt like an alien growing up, separate from everyone else, and weird and sort of sad.

i was going to post about things from my past that still piss me off, or make me feel blue.

but by the time i logged in, it had worn off.

it is a beautiful cool summer evening, and i'm sitting next to my best friend, and i'm in a happy frame of mind.

so i decided not to post to my blog, and just enjoy the evening air.

The Return of That Mild Funk

I've felt a flatness, a malaise, a blandness in my days. That's what's been haunting my gut for the past couple of weeks. It's the feeling that things just aren't that great anymore, that I'm not able to deal with my job, or I might drop the ball.

Gradually, these feelings morph into the worry that maybe I've painted my life into a corner; that maybe the future will only look as good as it does today, and nothing better will come.

This is not how I think I should feel. I think I should be happier. It's not how I want to be. I want to be positive, capable, and confident, and I also want to be able to inspire those feelings in the people around me.

But, when you're in a funk like this, you just can't give a shit about that sort of idealism. When I get up in the morning, I check my face, and I take sensory inventory of stiffness or little creaks and pains. Some funks seem to be brought on by lack of adequate sleep, or a virus that's trying to burrow into my cells (and one tends to bring on the other).

Sometimes the funk is stress-related. Like a time years ago, when I worried about my job situation, my sister's worry about cancer, and a friend's addiction to crack. I had no control over any of those situations, and one night my mind responded by giving me a cold, black feeling, like I was teetering on the edge of an endless cliff. I felt all care and worry in me disappear, replaced with an icy emotionless void. I watched my thoughts and went to the fridge and got a beer, and then to my computer and tried to put into a google search what I had just felt. I came away with the words "mini nervous breakdown". I finished my beer, played with one of my cats, and laid on the floor for a while until I felt sleepy.

My Mother had been bi-polar, and I believe had at least one or two nervous breakdowns. There's some other mild and manageable mental illnesses in my family. Depression is the one that is closest to me, even if in my case, it is fairly mild. Physical health and natural environment can affect emotions too: rainy days can give me headaches (barometric pressure?), and being overweight or not getting enough exercise can reduce the endorphins I enjoy, making my brain a less happy place.

But this week has taken a positive turn: I'm reassured in my abilities and my future, I'm more rested, and I'm not feeling as isolated or stressed. I had an opportunity to counsel and console a friend who was suffering, and recent news from my beloved sister was also very positive and upbeat. It caused me to feel stronger and more optimistic. I truly believe that this is now my natural mode of being.

Emotional states really do rise and fall like the tides.

The joy and comfort of sitting at a table surrounded by family and friends

The joy and comfort of sitting at a table surrounded by family and friends. It might be a family meal, or a drink and some snacks. Feeling part of something - a fun moment, a joke, sharing stories. Being part. Feeling happy. It's like a reward.

If you can't explain to someone else why moments like those are so important to you personally, it's okay. Maybe you're a bit on the quiet side, or personal feelings just aren't the kind of thing you'd like to bring up. If some of your companions wouldn't understand, it might be because they've had lots more of those happy times than you, and it just feels normal to them, not extraordinary.

Be happy that they have their "normal happy" moments, and just enjoy your well-deserved "extraordinarily happy" moments whenever you can get them.

They're deserved.

Mother's Day, 2013

In my memory, the women who were mothers or mother figures when I was a kid were hard-working, long-suffering people who stood at the centre of their families and withstood the various storms of being a mom and managing kids.

If that seems to be a limited, stereotypical view, you've caught me. I didn't know too many Mums, and the ones I observed (belonging to my friends), fascinated me in their authority, attention, and sheer involvement with their kids. They were authorities, nurses, traffic cops, entertainers, teachers, and providers, each in their own fashion, and because my own mother was none of those things, I secretly envied each of my friends.

As a grownup, I saw my mother as an unfortunate adult, who never recovered from the challenges of her life. She lived chaotically, going from crisis to crisis, never developing her own strength or clarity of mind. She wasn't suited to being a Mum, I believe. She was meant to be a artist who created something other than kids, like singing in an opera, or banging out some lively boogie-woogie on the piano.

So, I guess my wish for mother's day is that my mother might have had more personal fulfillment in her life, and if that meant I might not have existed, that would be okay with me.

It's probably because of her that I can draw, and love art, movies, comic books, music and theatre. I'll honour by living my happiest life, and wishing all the mothers around me a happy mothers day.

Nobody asks to be born.

Nobody asks to be born. Although our parents may (hopefully) choose us and birth us, we don't ask to be born or have a say in who our parents are.

Parents determine the coordinates we start from: the places, the opportunities, the values, and the expectations of what the world has to offer. But those starting points and directions bring with them blinders - shutters, baffles and barriers - that are part of the finiteness of their lives.

If you have an open mind, eyes and ears, you might see through the cracks in those protective walls, peek through the edges of the blinders, and see your own journey - your own unexplored territory.

The value of unconditional love.

From time to time, maybe once per week, I remember something about Tiger or Sylvester. These were the brother cats whom Grace and I raised from kittens, and whom we considered like our sons for twenty years. In October 2011, Sylvester passed away after 19 years, and Tiger died at 20 years in June 2012.

I think that they lived the longest and lovingest lives possible. Their loss has continually crept back up on me. In quiet times, in the evening, or in the middle of the night, the tears still come, unannounced.

The boys, as we called them, were our constant sources of comfort and reassurance. They were the little ones who needed me to take care of them. They were the heartbeats of our home which kept on beating when we were out for the day. They were the someones who always welcomed us home, and who kept our home from feeling empty or lonely.

I'm absolutely a cat person, and I find that there's something solid, immediate and uncomplicated about the love of a dear pet. I'm almost of a mind to say that "pet" doesn't capture the relationship properly - companion is a much more accurate label for the relationship. Tiger and Sylvester were each other's closest companions, and each of them was an incredible companion to me and my wife.

I have often thought that I'd like to raise two more cats someday. Siblings, so that they can remain their own little tribal family. Nothing will replace our two boys, and maybe because of that, I might not have a cat again, but then again, considering how much happiness being a cat parent brought me, maybe one day I will.

I sometimes remember some gratitudes...

When I worry about money or the future, or the past, I sometimes remember some gratitudes:

I am healthy, not burdened with chronic illness. 

I am (relatively) sane, not struggling with paranoia, psychosis, anxiety or delusion. 

I am proud, not looking over my shoulder from unresolved guilt or shame. 

I am sober, not struggling with substance abuse or addiction. 

I am fortunate and grateful for my life.

Look at them, at their best...

Photos of my Dad and Mum sit on my dresser: I spend more time looking at them these days. Years since I've seen them alive. Hard to remember what it felt like to be their little boy. Easier to remember just visiting them in hospitals. Reading that sentence helps me see how narrow and skewed my memories can get. It sucked to be a kid or a teen or in your twenties and to know that they were never going to get better or be happier, and that at least you could focus your hope on your own survival. Maybe one day, even a little joy. I've found my bliss and a satisfying arc to my life since then.

So here's to who they were, or might have been, in sweeter days:

Angela, maybe 25 or more, wearing a mink coat and elegant in white gloves, standing like a model, on the airport runway before boarding a plane. A woman leaving Victoria, going somewhere - maybe flying off to a music conservatory back east to sing opera and play the piano. She could make music for herself or someone else...

Jim, the toughest man I knew, sitting shirtless at 40, sunburned after a day of driving tractor. Sometimes, as a technician, he worked way up in the high-tension radio transmission towers in Saskatchewan, free and above it all, damn-near in the clouds. He lived for hard work and a strong role to fill. Happy in the sun...

I'll make of them what I will to honour who they might have been.

They were articulate, especially.

Tonight, I was briefly remembering a scene from my first novel, Owe Nothing. It was a little girl, perhaps five or six, and her even younger brother. They had come to the front door of my main character's home, and were motioning for someone to come and help them. Each of them were capable of sign language. They'd had to learn early, because their mother was deaf, and it was the only way they could communicate with her.

The brief flash of this scene which I wrote years ago, reminded me of the real people who's inspired it. When my sister and I first came to Vancouver, we were living in a Motel on Kingsway, called the Mountain View. Not long after we moved in, we became familiar with a woman named Mrs. Johnston who had two little children, Roxanne and Jonathon. I don't remember the woman's first name, but my mother briefly befriended her, and through Mrs. Johnston's handwritten notes and her children's interpretation, we learned that she had had German Measles as a little girl, and that is how she lost her hearing.

Mum, bless her, wanted to communicate with Mrs. Johnston. The lady could speak a little, but it sounded all like vowels and no consonants. "Butter" came out as "Buh-errr". I recall Mum saying "Butter" over and over again, patiently, and hearing Mrs. Johnston's malformed replies. Mum had been a singer, musician and actress in her younger years, and I now think that she was fascinated by the sounds her new friend made. Mrs. Johnston didn't seem to mind having my Mum as her unofficial elocution coach for the afternoon either. It was all about communication that day. A healthy and friendly, supportive exchange built on curiosity and a desire to help, or at least meet somewhere in the middle.

I have written a lot of sad, sorry and unfortunate stories about my parents (all of it true), but I don't think I have given each of them enough credit for their displays of genuine intelligence and sensitivity, or their abilities to each be articulate and kind.

It's too easy to remember the drunken fights, and recall people at their worst, but it's fair to also show that the evidence that each of us also has a good side that will speak kindly to a puppy, or spend an hour trying to learn how to talk to a deaf woman.

Looking back, and moving forward...

On a grey, rainy day, I'm reminded of people and times from my past, and I wonder how I have let my past affect my choices about my future.

My parents each struggled with alcohol, and in varying degrees, with depression and anxiety. More than thirty years after going through the last of their fights, after "graduating" from a youth of stress and uncertainty, I still wonder how it's affected my ability to live and choose my life freely.

I think that the number one pattern in my approach to living now lies in freedom from guilt and debilitating psychological attachments. I still love things, and have sentimental attachments to my keepsakes, but little habitual behaviours like self-isolation, stubbornness, doing-it-myself, and not trusting other people's opinions have been harder to transform.

That's the big work of my life: knowing myself, and knowing how to improve myself.

In my past, I often felt awash in other people's pain, guilt or drama. As a pre-teen and a teen, I had little control over the fallout from my parents life decisions, and I had no clear idea of where I could go in my own life, or even if I would ever have my own life.

There was always a conflict of loyalties at hand for me. I could try to care for my family in my own way but it was an inherently selfless exercise. I wanted to be good, loyal and dutiful, but rarely did I feel acknowledged or recognized. Where was my reward in life? As a kid, I often thought in basic terms like that. Sacrifice and reward. Cause and effect.

I worried about things a lot when I was in my late teens. Worry was a major word in my vocabulary. One day, an instructor told me that I seemed to be worried about a lot of things. It just hit me, his words. I thought about how much I worried about my sister, my father, and my mother, and how helpless their situations made me feel. Over the years, as I got older and wiser, I became more confident in my role and my opinions, and less responsible for some of the things over which I had no control.

A little strategic detachment can be a good thing.

"Grieve not..." Part 2: The Life of Tiger...

In a previous post, I described the pain and sorrow of losing our little cat, Sylvester. Sylvester had a long life of over 19 years - for which my wife and I are grateful and proud, but all the same, little "Sly" was the first of our two cats to pass on. After Sly's passing, we took some comfort that his brother Tiger was still with us, and still relatively robust in his 20th year.

Well, the cycle has completed, and recently, our dear old Tiger reached the end of his days too. Thankfully, his final serious decline happened quickly, and his exit was painless and peaceful.

We'd had Tiger even longer than Sylvester. Tiger came to us as a tiny kitten of only six weeks. Just like after losing Sylvester, it has been the multitude of little changes caused by his absence which surprised us into tears. My body and senses had become so very acclimatized to the spaces he used, the sounds he made, the patterns of his behaviour, and the feel of his presence.

The difference with losing the second and last kitty, is that now there are simply no kitties left. When we lost the first one, a lot of our grief could be redirected into positive energy for the remaining one, who'd lost his brother and best friend. So, we lavished love and attention on Tiger, and he seemed to rebound and come back into his own during his last 6 months.

Now, life in our apartment is full of a thousand missing pieces. Emotionally, we need to tie those loose ends up into some new patterns, to turn loss into new forms and rituals. No more semi-senile meowing at three in the morning from Tiger, no more feeling of Sylvester's whiskers against my eyelids as he tries to gently wake me up, no more morning getting up, eating and insulin needles, no more sharing a moment cooling off by the living-room window sniffing the breeze, no more carrying Sylvester on my back so he can be the tallest guy, no more taking Tiger out into the garden to let him sit under his favourite bush and sniff the leaves.These were the sounds, sights, and feelings caused by two good little lives.

"Existence is suffering," as the Tibetan Buddhists say. Their physical work and suffering is now over, and I suppose that what I believe is that their energy is now released back into the world, to be recycled somewhere else, into something new.

Those small voices may be silent in the real world, but they will come alive for us even more in our inner, emotional worlds.

The Man and The Reptile...

There's a fragile edge between safety and sorrow...

This blog post was spurred by recent stories in the media about alleged child abuse on young boys by their scout leader, and the subsequent organizational denial and coverups that are now coming to light.

We want to believe that our parents, our caregivers, and the adults and guardians who look after us can each be trusted; that our young children, who are among the most vulnerable and impressionable members of our society, will be safe in their care.

When reflecting on news of a murderer, a rapist, or a child molester, people often remark that the person must be some sort of monster - inhuman. Perhaps (and I do want to believe this), most people are good, caring beings who are rightly shocked by such inconceivable acts of violence - acts which they themselves are certain they could never take. The perpetrator of those shocking acts becomes seen as or cast in the role of "the other" - someone who is alien and socially cast out from the majority of society.

Our reptilian brain core, that oldest part of our brains that drives us, below reason and morality, below concepts of compassion, empathy or duty. Perhaps it is what drives us to strike for self-preservation before thinking of the other, to attack first for the sake of survival, to fight or to flee, or to kill or be killed.

The reptilian brain is supported by the old mammalian brain, which is the ancient seat of our parenting and herding instincts - the need to live in a social group, for mutual protection, nurturing, and support. Reptiles don't stick around to care for their young, we might say to ourselves with pride or satisfaction. Mammals do.

Yet in cases where human beings do violence to their children, or commit psychological or physical or sexual abuse, the so-called highest, most-evolved aspects of the mind are brought into play to serve the abuser: complex rationale, imagination, pride, logical argument or denial are all brought into service to deflect or minimize personal responsibility, to try to justify a bad act, or to control or subjugate others.

This is where self-denial, lies, deceit, and delusions are built: family politics, internal group power structures, and misplaced loyalties and shame are formed here.

Internal family roles are defined through repetitive role play. The notion of "father" lives here as the authority figure: strong, stable, benevolent, or threatening, violent, and physical. The notion of "mother" as protector, confidant, or passive, depressed, non-communicative or non-existent. Young children learn what kinds of people parents are supposed to be from what they see in the world around them. They learn what their parents actually are from everything that happens at home. Those are just my personal archetypes...

The person who protects his daughter from danger and takes care of her when she is sick, who takes her to dance or music lessons and encourages her - that person is a man, a father and a caregiver.

The person who sexually abuses his daughter and makes her keep it their little secret, even after he's long dead, that person is subhuman - a reptile.

What does the daughter do when the man and the reptile are the same person?

Of Christmas Trees Past...

The Christmas Tree is supposed to symbolize something about Christmas, but I don't remember what I read about it. A Wikipedia article says people have been decorating trees and celebrating around them during this time of year since the 15th Century. That's a long history of sweeping up pine needles. Anyway, Christmas has always brought mixed emotions for me, and the tree and the ritual of setting it up has always been a big part of that.

My earliest memory of a Christmas tree was a natural one that my mother's father (whom my sister and I lovingly called "Poppy") had set up in his living room. I was not more than five, and my sister Kim, maybe three. We were the age when we still believed in magical things, and where every shadowy closet still held the possibility of exploration.

Poppy's tree probably stood seven feet high, in a big red and green steel base. It was covered in lots of lights, shimmering tinsel and beautiful blown glass ornaments. I still remember one of those ornaments. It was a deep, dark midnight blue piece of glass, and sat cool in my hand. It was round and tapered, and almost black at the ends - an elegant and mysterious little thing that fascinated me. It seemed expensive and precious, and here it was, just hanging off Poppy's tree some delicate, stained glass piece of fruit that anyone could just pluck off the branch.

With me, my sister and my folks all there, we had more people than we had beds, so I was tucked in on the chesterfield in the living room next to Poppy's big tree. I remember laying there, looking at the reflections and shadows of the tree's lights as they played across the walls of the living room. That night, the room seemed alive with little flickers of light and trembling shadows. I had my little Alvin the Chipmunk doll in bed with me, and I hung onto Alvin, as I watched car headlights streak across the room whenever someone passed down Cook Street outside Poppy's house. That Christmas tree and that room were very special to me.

The next year, we moved out of Poppy's house, and lived in a trailer in Langley, near the transmitters of the radio station where my Dad worked. We were out of the streetlights of Victoria, and out in the bush in Langley, in the middle of 77 acres of scrub brush and dirt. That year, it was our turn to host Poppy for Christmas. Whereas with Poppy, we'd celebrated Christmas in the city, with a thick natural tree and ornaments that were possibly as old as my mother, this year, we had a brand new home, decked out in the latest of 1970s decor, and a brand new fire retardant plastic tree with a trunk that resembled a green broomstick with a hundred little holes drilled into it, and mass-produced foil garlands. Everything about that tree and it's ornamentation was modern, punched, snipped and trimmed out of steel, plastic and tin. Instead of pine, our tree smelled of plastic. We loaded it down with way too many garlands, tinsel and doodads. It was new, and it was all ours.

One Christmas, when we lived in the Mountain View Motel, Mum and Dad had a loud drunken party with some of their new best friends from up the lane. One guy, who way too drunk to walk, lost his balance and fell right into the tree, breaking the trunk of it. Dad fixed it by putting a steel hose clamp around the stick, and our little faux scotch pine lived to stand for another year.

For a couple of Christmases, when I was between the ages of 11 and 13, I remember being the only one setting up that tree. Dad would "supervise" from his armchair (i.e. watch me, have a drink, and watch TV). More often than not, Dad would fall asleep in his chair, and I'd work away on my own to get the tree finished. I remember untangling a really old string of lights, which might have been from the 40s or 50s. The cord was thick and black, and the light sockets were bakelite (a precursor to modern plastics), and much of the colour had faded or flaked off of the bulbs. Many of the bulbs had funny little tin reflectors that clattered and got stuck on each other as I tried to string them up on the tree. I wondered if these particular lights had belonged to my Dad's family. I found some home-made decorations made from egg cartons, pipe cleaners and glitter. Somebody - kids from some other family - had gone to trouble to make these little home-made ornaments, and had put them proudly on their tree at one time.

I was good at working on my own, without much supervision, and it did feel like something creative to do. In my early years, setting up the Christmas tree felt like a big deal for the family. In later years, as they got sicker and sicker, Mum and Dad just didn't seem to give a shit about it. Putting that tree up by myself for a year or two gave me a sense of responsibility, like I was keeping something going, while they laid passed out on the couch or in the armchair.

Over the next twenty years, that little fake tree outlasted many drunken evening screaming fights, happy, hopeful Christmas mornings, and paper thin, anticlimactic New Years eves. It ultimately even outlasted my Dad. I hung onto that little fake Scotch Pine and set it up many many times, and each year, it seemed to come out a little differently. Eventually, my wife and I gave it to goodwill and bought a new faux tree that looked more natural and didn't have so many sharp memories hanging off it. It can still be difficult for me to set up our Christmas tree these days, but I do really enjoy sharing the process, and not doing it on my own.

I was pleased to learn from my sister, that she still had one or two of Poppy's beautiful glass tree ornaments. I think most of the foil garlands that we bought for Dad's little scotch pine were thrown out a long time ago. They were never meant to last. Christmas tree lights and ornaments seem to survive from generation to generation, handed up and handed down, as families and friends perch and balance their love and wishes on the branches of some overburdened tree. Your tree is your family and yourself, and whatever you make of it. Some of it is good stuff that can be tucked away carefully and brought out again next year.

Abuse and sufferring run in cycles.

If life has taught me anything, it's that abuse and family dysfunction is cyclical. Without some kind of conscious emotional intervention, it will so easily be passed on to others - a younger generation, a family member, a spouse.

It's almost like some kind of psychological virus. Someone abuses you, it affects you deep inside your core self, and (because it's too painful to confront openly) you swallow the pain and the bad lessons down deep. Over time, you can internalize them. They can become part of your psyche, practically steeped into your cells.

You get used to the way you've adapted to your early bad experiences. You tell yourself that it's "just who you are". In truth, you're changed in a fundamental way. Your experiences - all of them - affect who you become throughout your life. Nurturing, loving relationships and happy experiences teach you that you are worthy of love, so you will be more likely to give love to someone else. Negative, scary, violent experiences teach you to be afraid, to protect yourself, or to avoid taking risks.

Because you swallowed your reactions down and submerged the experience under your skin, you think they're gone. But they're not. One day, something traumatic happens, and you find yourself vividly reliving a past painful event - and you are unprepared for the emotions that arise in you. You are caught off-guard. You may even not be in control of your feelings and reactions.

Bottom line: Verbalize your traumas, bring them out (drag them out) into the light of day. See them for what they are, and have compassion for the you who was damaged. Forget about guilt, shame or self-pity. Just talk about the events, and the effects and results. Accept that you are a finite person who cannot control or resolve bad events.

Know thyself, and then the negative cycle will end with you, and a new positive cycle can begin in it's place.

"Grieve not nor speak of me with tears..."

We recently lost Sylvester, one of our beloved cats. He passed away on October 1st, 2011, after almost 20 years - a good, long life for a little kitty.

Losing him has been much more difficult to bear than I'd ever anticipated. I've lost both my parents, and the loss of our little cat hurts as much, but in a different way. I can honestly say that I've spent more time with him, and have been around him more often than almost anyone else in my life, except for my wife. It's the time spent doing little things around the house: every little walk to the kitchen, every trip to the bathroom, every hour at the computer: he was there with us, communicating in his own way. His was a constant, comforting presence.

The emotional connection to a pet seems more direct and less complicated than with people. There are no ego, material expectations or cultural conventions to get in the way. It just is what it is. (Or maybe it's just me.)

With each passing day, Sylvester's absence evokes a little less grief, and and a little more reflection on the basics of a happy life. He never earned a buck in his life, but I never once questioned his inherent worth. He was priceless to me.

I'm amazed at how much love his little heart seemed to generate and absorb. He gave a lot more love and companionship than one would expect from a little five pound cat. In his life, he knew about happiness, fear, hunger, pain, pride and excitement. He knew about love and loyalty, needing and being needed. He knew about feeling tired and maybe even bored sometimes. But I don't think he ever really knew about sorrow, and I'm fairly certain he had no regrets. He was happy almost every day.

In that spirit, I offer this little poem:

"Grieve not nor speak of me with tears, but laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you. I loved you so - 'twas Heaven here beside you." - Isla Paschal Richardson.

"Just like my Mamma and Daddy Did..."

(Used without permission. With apologies to the great Paul Westerberg.)

Decided not to have any part of
Wonderful lie of (live) love
Decided not to raise any children
Just like mamama and daddy did
Just like mamama daddy did

Decided not to have any part of
Wonderful lie of (live) love
Decided not to raise some goddamned kid

Yes that was their way
No it ain't mine
Guess they did okay
At least they tried

Decided not to have any regrets
Whoa that's as good as it gets
Decided not to raise some mixed-up kid
Just like mamama daddy did
Just like...

A Scientific Explanation for Government...

"A major research institution (MRI) has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest chemical element yet known to science. The new element has been tentatively named Governmentium.

Governmentium has 1 neutron, 12 assistant neutrons, 75 deputy neutrons, and 224 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons. Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert. However, it can be detected as it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium causes one reaction to take over four days to complete when it would normally take less than a second. Governmentium has a normal half-life of three years; it does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact, Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause some morons to become neutrons, forming Isodopes.

This characteristic of moron-promotion leads some scientists to speculate that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a certain quantity in concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as Critical Morass."

Finding Inspiration in Dickens: David Copperfield

For a few weeks now, I've been reading Dickens' classic, "David Copperfield". David and I have some things in common. At the moment, we're both looking for opportunities to use our skills and forge new paths in the world.

In my current search for jobs and interesting projects, I've been reminded of how I was back in 1991, when I was 25 and recently released from the protective shelter of my first contract at the Emily Carr College of Art (then ECCAD, and now known as Emily Carr University). The end of my contract forced to get out there, find work on my own, and make some new associations. I figured it was all on my shoulders, and didn't consider how my past and current associations might pay me forward.

The pressure was real, but the need was more than real, and I was a very determined young man. Not unlike, I think, David Copperfield.

David Copperfield: Social Networker of Victorian England.

After David finishes his schooling under Doctor Strong in Canterbury, he takes an unpaid apprenticeship as a Proctor (a kind of lawyer) in London. He sets his sights on marrying a lovely girl named Dora, and faces the prospect of needing to get money and to support himself and Dora. David possesses an intense motivation to succeed, for his own sake, for Dora, and for the sake of his Aunt Betsy Trotwood, who has recently lost all her money. David seems bold and focused in his resolve, and he describes his new mission to chopping and hacking his way through a forest of adversity, one tree at a time.

Throughout David's story (so far, since I'm still only about two-thirds of the way through), Dickens illustrates that life can be cyclical and repetitious, bringing old friends, family, adversaries and locales back into David's life, while he grows and gains perspective from his many experiences.

David makes friends, works and/or lives with them (or at least commiserates), leaves them, meets them again, and resumes his associations, out of friendship and mutual advantage. This cycle of association seems to me to be fairly organic, natural, and true to life. The character of David Copperfield is networking, socially.

Me, C. 1991: Portrait of a Hungry Young Man.

Throughout my first job (the contract at ECCAD), I was meeting other hungry young men who were looking for projects in software development, video, and graphics. I joined local graphics clubs, socialized, read, found out what local businesses were doing in software, graphics and media, and dreamed my dreams of a glorious future. I found part-time work as an instructor of evening computer graphics courses, along-side members of the local Amiga computer enthusiasts community. Some connections helped me find one part-time opportunity, another connection helped me find another opportunity, and so on and so on...

But, David Copperfield never had our Social Media...

Over the years, the friendships and professional acquaintances that I've made have come back into my life in different ways.

The relationships I made with staff at ECCAD benefited me with part-time contract work as a computer studio technical assistant. The friends I made when I was freelancing around and volunteering my skills at BNG Design Group led to TVI and the VanCity home banking development projects. TVI led to TranDirect, and a referral to Sentry Telecom, where I met friends who would bring me back to work with them again at AirPatrol Corporation.

Looking back on my career path so far, it's not hard to see the connection between the dots, and I'm grateful for each and every one of those hard-earned dots.

Getting job referrals from friends is a two-way street too. In the past 20 years, more than a few of the friends and associates I've made I have suggested for a position to my current employer. Many of these recommendations have worked out well too, bringing qualified friends back into my work and personal life to our mutual advantage.

Not unlike Mister David Copperfield, Esq.