Next, It's...

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Merry Christmas

With Love,
Hawke

"A taggin' we will go, a taggin' we will go, hi ho the dairy-o a taggin' we will go."

The following is Sylver's (One More Day) fault.

...'Tis The Season

Favorite seasonal movie? In keeping with tradition and in no particular order… A Christmas Carol (b&w w/Alastair Sim), White Christmas, Scrooged, A Christmas Story. And on New Year’s Eve, It’s A Wonderful Life.

Song you most enjoy this time of year? Jingle Bells, Walking In A Winter Wonderland.

"Holiday Greeting"? Merry Christmas.

Decorate, inside? outside? Both. But not in a “Las Vegas” sort of way.

Do you make a list? If so, how many people are on it? No, I don’t make a list.

How up to the last minute do you shop? When the stores throw me out and not one moment before! Seriously, it’s the 22nd today and I’m still not finished. I think that says it all.

When do you open your gifts? Christmas morning

Holiday food you most savor? My dad’s famous potato dressing which, unfortunately, he never wrote down. Though many have tried to duplicate it over the years, all have failed miserably, myself included.

Favorite holiday book? The Night Before Christmas. (?)

New Year Resolutions? I don’t make New Year resolutions. I just hope a lot. :)


If you have read this in whole or in part, consider yourself tagged.

How To Turn a Bed-In-A-Bag Into a Fruitcake

Remember the old fruitcake joke?--the one where everyone gets it, feigns being thrilled, then tosses it into the freezer only to give it back to the giver next Christmas? Well, the same can be said about anything, really. Even a bed-in-a-bag.

“Go into my closet, take out my never-used bed-in-a-bag and put it under the tree. It’s yours, with lots of love.”

That’s what my mother just finished telling me. And with it, I’m not at all sure if I should be concerned, miffed, or grateful. Not that my mom is having financial trouble (she isn’t). And not that I dislike the bed-in-a-bag (I do like it; I should - I was, after all, the one who gave it to her last year). I just can’t help thinking that this former-present-turned-present-again is likely going to make the proverbial fruitcake rounds for many years to come.

I wonder if it will fit in the freezer…

Too Sweet Not To Include...

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(The following is an oldy but a goody.)

Little Known Christmas Fact

Not long ago and far away, Santa was getting ready for his annual
trip...but there were problems everywhere.

Four of his elves were sick and the trainee elves did not produce the
toys as fast as the regular ones, so Santa was beginning to feel the
pressure of being behind schedule.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her mom was coming to visit. This
stressed Santa even more. When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where. More Stress. Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the boards cracked and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of coffee and a shot of whiskey. When he went to the cupboard, he found the elves had hidden the liquor and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he dropped the coffee pot and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the he kitchen floor.

He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw it was
made from.

Just then the doorbell rang and Santa cussed on his way to the door. He
opened the door and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas
tree. The angel said: "Where would you like to put this tree, Santa?"

And that, my friends, is how the little angel came to be on top of the
Christmas tree.

It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Panic Mode

One Week To Go!

(Here's another fun one. Just double click the little arrow to enjoy.)

What's In A Name?

And speaking of Christmas (weren't we?), this is kind cute, in a "Bah Humbug Pfffth!" sorta way. Try it out.

I’m just so gosh-darn Christmassy!



And for the skeptics, here’s proof! (?)



Lastly, my sister just sent this to me (thanks, Val). It's not Christmassy, but it's a hoot! Don't mind me. I'm just spreading the cheer, spreading the cheer...

Welcome to Tune Time!

On a serious note...



For the kid in all of us, there's...



Of course there‘s always...



And this one too...



Here’s a joyful one. And they are!



And finally, for the amount of time and effort it must have taken to create this, it had to be included.

Traditions (Or How To Avoid Buying Into The Commercial Christmas)

Can someone please tell me when we went from the true meaning and joy of Christmas, to commercialism and hype? When peace, love thy fellow man, “Merry Christmas” wishing, cease-firing (during wartime, no less), warm and fuzzy feelings and family and traditions were replaced with camping out in front of stores, fist fights in lineups, “Seasons Greetings” wishing (if we say anything at all) lest we offend someone, bitching each other out, paying double on e-bay, Christmas tree dismantling in airports, and walking over each other's dead bodies if necessary for a chance at that elusive, must-have-no-matter-what, whatever-the-hell-it-is piece of what’s-it at what-ever-the-hell price?

And after all that, after we've warmly and fuzzily beat some line-jumper nearly to death and/or drove ourselves into depression, the very kids we did it for (depending on their age, of course) will either play with said “must-have” once or twice and then play with the box or bow instead, or, if older, snub their noses at the (for example) $100 plus IPod as though you’ve just handed them slug guts in a box, utterly disgusted that you didn’t get them the $300 “black” number they only told you a bazillion times to get---the status symbol everyone has. Pul-ease.

And we do this...why?

The kids won’t remember everything they get (and from whom) this year, anymore than they remember everything they got (and from whom) last year.

Go ahead---ask them. I can wait.

What they will remember is the cat knocking over the Christmas tree. Or Grandpa taking out his dentures and making funny faces. Or Aunty Deb baking Nanaimo squares. Or the Christmas meal, in menu-like detail, including their first sip of wine. Or dad throwing everyone out of the kitchen to make his famous potato dressing. In other words, you can’t buy memories, but you can make them.

Gee, what a concept.

Spreading A Little Holiday Cheer

Here's a fun ditty. Just double click the tiny arrow and enjoy.

All I Want For Christmas Is...

So I'm sitting here, thinking about the movie "A Christmas Story" and getting all nostalgic, and the one present I remember wanting more than anything else was a Slinky.

I don't remember how old I was that Christmas. But I do remember seeing a Slinky commercial on TV, the happy faces of the kids playing with them, and the waaaay catchy jingle

("What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs, and makes a slinkity sound?
A spring, a spring, a marvelous thing! Everyone knows it's Slinky.
It's Slinky, it's Slinky, it's fun, it's a wonderful toy.
It's Slinky, it's Slinky, it's fun for a girl or a boy.
Everyone wants a Slinky.
You gotta to get a Sinky!")

and I was hooked.

Slinkys were cool. They were "it," they were "wonderful," and they were...not mine. Yet. But I wasn't alone because (like the jingle said) everyone wanted a Slinky, including me. Heck, you would've had to have been blind to not see the smiles on the 'commercial kids' faces and know it was the best thing ever made - the toy Holy Grail of all Holy Grails. And - and it even walked! Well, it walked down stairs in the commercial, anyway. And it made a way-cool shhha-shhha sound, too. Oh, I didn't just want one. I had to have one. In fact, I'd die without one.

To make a long story short, I got it, flew up the stairs, set it up exactly as the 'commercial kids' had, started it off, ran back down the stairs to catch it/save it/watch it...and it stopped less than half way. After that, my mom used it as a Christmas card holder. So it goes.

What was your favorite toy, toy-want, or shattered toy illusion? Just curious.

*

CHRISTMAS SONG QUIZ

1. The apartment of 2 psychiatrists.
2. The lad is a diminutive percussionist.
3. Decorate the entry-ways .
4. Sir Lancelot with laryngitis.
5. A B C D E F G H I J K M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z.
6. Present me naught but dual incisors for this festive Yuletide.
7. The smog-less bewitching hour arrived.
8. Exuberation to this orb.
9. 288 Yuletide hours.
10. Do you perceive the same longitudinal pressure which stimulates my auditory sense organs.
11. The red-suited pa is due in this burg.
12. Stepping on the pad cover.
13. Uncouth dolt has his beezer in the booze and thinks he is a Dark Cloud's boyfriend.
14. Far back in a hay bin.
15. Leave and do an elevated broadcast.
16. That exiguous hamlet south of the holy city.
17. Behold! I envisioned a trio of nautical vessels.
18. Listen, the winged heavenly messengers are proclaiming tunefully.
19. A joyful song relative to hollow metallic vessels which vibrate and bring forth a ringing sound when struck.
20. As the guardians of little woolly animal's protected their charges in the shadows of the earth.
21. Frozen precipitation commence
22. Monarchial triad
23. Oh, member of the round table with missing areas
24. Boulder of the tinkling metal spheres
25. Vehicular homicide was committed on Dad's mom by a precipitous darling
26. Wanted in December: top forward incisors
27. We are Kong, Lear, and Nat Cole
28. Cup-shaped instruments fashioned of a whitish metallic element
29. Oh small Israel urban center
30. Our fervent hope is that you thoroughly enjoy your yuletide season
31. Parent was observed osculating a red-coated unshaven teamster
32. May the Deity bestow an absence of fatigue to mild male humans
33. Natal celebration devoid of color, rather albino, as a hallucinatory phenomenon for me.
34. Obese personification fabricated of compressed mounds of minute crystals.
35. Tranquiltiy upon the terrestrial sphere.
36. Have hitherward the entire assembly of those who are loyal in their belief.




And lastly. Fortunately, some people's idea of Christmas Decorating isn't the same as the rest of us.

While I Think Of It...

I'm going to drop these links here in the hope they may help someone someday.


Self-Help:


Organized and Otherwise

http://www.selfharm.net/fself.html

*******

My Story
(by Dayna Augilar)

http://www.orgsites.com/ca/siaa/_pgg1.php3

*******

Self Injury Fact Sheet
source: Deb Martinson

http://www.m-a-h.net/library/selfinjury/article-si-facts.htm


*

Have I Mentioned How Much I Hate Winter?

You know it’s cold when the radio announcer says, “It’s freaking cold outside” and then goes on to read out the temps, leaving yours for last to prove that point. “And in ______, it’s -29 C, the wind chill making it feel more like -42. Bundle up, folks!”

Gee, ya think?

So out I go, waddling more than walking due to the many layers of clothing, all the while thinking how stupid this is, and that this must be how it would feel to gain fifty pounds overnight. The Jeep’s door groans as I open it, echoing my own groan. The Jeep’s engine groans even more as I start it, sounding too much like some torture victim from the good-ol’ Inquisition days. Let‘s Inquisition the weatherman, I think..

The snow is concrete and the clear patches are glass, and that’s only in the driveway. The roads are a different matter altogether. Here’s a question. Why is there always some jerk who believes they own the road (puddle-jumping, playing bumper tag and being a general pain in the ass) just because they have a 4X4?--a cell phone tucked between chin and ear, a Tim’s coffee in the free hand. I own a 4X4 and I’m not as ass. I know you can’t stop on a dime. I know you can have power out the yin-yang and still insert your front bumper in someone’s tail pipe. I know about the lady who died last year when her car took a nose-dive off the bridge. See, I know these things. But that’s not what I was thinking. What I was thinking was: What I wouldn’t give for a Tim’s coffee right about now. That, and: Hope you’re carrying a good picture so they have something nice to put in your obituary.

But Tim’s is not on my route and it’s way too cold to change it, even for a hot Tim’s coffee. Oddly enough, I can almost see myself walking into Tim’s and ordering a coffee, then pouring it down the front of myself to warm up. Ah, but I’ve been through worse - the month before moving here comes immediately to mind. April, it had been - the time of “The Big Snow” - when everything shut down for three days and I was out of cigarettes. But that’s another (ugly) story. In this one, I make it to work, get growled at (again) for being two minutes late (again) and make my way to the coffee machine. Wouldn’t you know it - we’re out of coffee. Well, not coffee, per se, just filters...which works out to being the same thing. Which means I should have stopped at Tim’s.

Have I mentioned how much I hate winter?

Is There Really Such A Thing As Writer’s Block?

That question came up in a friend’s blog (The Fiction Scribe, whose link can be found under My Reads). Rather than answering there, I decided to answer it here because, well, I tend to get a little long-winded.

Yes, Virginia...I mean, Jaime...there is a writer’s block. And I should know. I suffered from it for seven months. Trust me when I say it had nothing whatsoever to do with being lazy or uninspired, nor was it some a lame excuse not to write. I wanted to write. I needed to write. For some, myself included, writing is not the key to the future. It‘s me. Hmm. Maybe I’d better clarify that a little. Writing is a large part of who I am. Sometimes the only part. Certainly the best part, since I’m one of those oddballs for whom writing is akin to breathing.

So if it’s not laziness or some lame excuse, you think, then what is it? And more, is it catching?

I’m happy to report that one can’t catch it. It’s not the flu, you know. Unfortunately, most (if not all) writers will suffer from it at some point, which is why I caution those who have never experienced it to be careful when throwing around terms like “lazy” or “lame” lest others say the same about them when the affliction incapacitates. And yes, it does incapacitate. After all, what is a writer who can’t write?

I joked when it happened to me, saying, “My muse is vacationing in Tibet.” But (and trust me on this one) it was no joke. Now keep in mind that pervious to that I had worked very hard to find my voice and my style, literally tossing everything I‘d known out and starting over from scratch, which, I might add, also included my old pen name. And before you ask, no---it wasn’t for some lack of success or because I had lost the fascination. It was a way to keep the writing fresh and interesting, really---a huge experiment that could have easily blown up in my face. Of course, it did.

Call it lazy. Call it uninspired. Call it an overworked and underappreciated muse with a really bad attitude. Whatever you call it, just know that yes, there really is such a thing as writer’s block. Don’t believe me? Then I’ll call you a lucky not to have experienced it so far. Ah, but you will. Eventually.

Speaking of all that, I ran across an old and previously deleted post the other day called "The Country of Limbo." Since it goes with the whole writer’s block theme (and because tripping down memory lane can be so much fun), I thought I’d share it pretty much as it had been written back then, mainly because I’m too busy today to do more than copy/paste. Just to say, it was part of the earlier set of former posts written by yours truly when Hawke’s View was still young and I was a shade angry and feeling the need to vent (for lack of a better description). So anyway, just for kicks, here is:


The Country of Limbo

This is my eleventh entry to Hawke’s View---a name which has come to mean (in my mind, at least) a place to put a few scatterbrain musing written under my pen name. My first entry wasn’t very good; to me it barely made sense. But that’s not surprising. When it was started, Hawke’s View (me, in other words) wasn’t in what I’d call a good place; I was, in fact, in limbo. Hawke’s View was never created as a short-term band-aid; it was supposed to be my safe place, and when my muse had packed his bags and headed for parts unknown, I was surprised, hurt, and very frustrated. Limbo was not a country I’d ever visited before, nor was it in any way favorable to good writing. This time I may do a bit better.

Probably the most important thing I can say about Hawke’s View is that it became my good place---my controllable other world. Not entirely, of course; I don’t mean that it’s actually another world. Except...well...maybe it is. Another world is, after all, where writers try to take their readers, at least while they are reading, and writers are not immune from seeking...what should I call it? How does “conducive Nirvana” sound?

Anyway, Hawke’s View began its life not as another world but as a place to deal with certain aspects of my life. Then it began to change and become a catalyst in my attempt to depart the muse-less country of Limbo---my bad place, as everyone has. I began to see it as a sounding board of sorts, then an apple crate, and finally as a place to put a few of my early works which I hoped readers might like. But would it work? Would it be the key to breaking out of Limbo?

Someone once said that to blog was “cathartic.” In much the same way, my blog began to be cathartic. After all (and not after a short while, I might add), it did work. Now that it has---now that my muse is back and The Quill is up and running---it seems I’m faced with an even bigger question: How much is safe to share?

Good question. And I’ll answer by saying that (just like the feeling one gets when they’ve stayed a bit too long at a friend or family member’s home over the holidays) you’ll know. When those around you ask for more than you‘re capable of giving, trust me, you’ll know all too well. Unfortunately, that will most likely bring me full-circle---right back to the country of Limbo.

--Hawke

Even Though I'm Early, It's Still Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

...shopaholics dragging overly tired kids around malls in search of that most holy grail - the latest in "must haves" for the perfect commercialized Christmas. Oh what fun!

Ah, but Christmas is what you make it, isn't it? And sure it is. If you don't buy into the hype that bigger (and more expensive) is better, then you really can have a wonderful Christmas. Just remember the real meaning behind Christmas, and that it isn't the material things that mean the most, but the simple joys that do. After all, can you honestly say you remember every present you've ever received? I can't. But I do remember the little things. The mouth-watering smells of holiday baking. The hot chocolate. The bright colors. The beauty of the lights. The music. The laughter. The jokes, pranks, and dancing in the kitchen with my two sisters. The fear that Santa might see us if we happened to get up in the middle of the night. Or worse, the fear he'd miss our house altogether. I mean, my sisters and I were a handful.

So here's to Christmas. May it be filled with simple pleasures that make wonderful and lasting memories.






And an old favorite...

La BOO!

And in honour of Hallowe'en, here's a little Hocus Pocus for you. Double click the arrow and enjoy!

Excuse me, but…

…where did the summer go? Feels like yesterday that the sun went down at 10pm. Now it’s 8:37 pm, and it is already dark.

Seems like it was only last week when I was a kid and going full bore all summer. Now I’m an adult and I feel like I’m at a stand-still, missing my life much like I’ve missed the summer, while all around me futures are being planned and people are moving forward. Not that I’m jealous, nor would I ever begrudge them any happiness. I just sometimes wish that I were moving forward too. Maybe that’s why I write - to play God with time.

The sun was how I judged time as a kid. No need for a watch, or mom to call out the back door. All I needed was that big ol’ globe of fire and I was off and running, leaving mom to do her customary washing and waxing the kitchen floor with an old upright buffer noisy enough to scare the dog and cat senseless, then locking the doors so I wouldn’t track through her “put-Mrs.-Cleaver-to-shame” spotless house (at least until the blindingly-shiny floor dried) and tracking two townhouse doors down to Mrs. Devaney’s for their ritual chit-a-chat and coffee. But that was her thing and I had mine. And mine rarely included shoes. It would be morning, the sun shining and the day awaiting my arrival, and I (by God) wouldn’t keep it waiting long; dressing, flying down the stairs, stuffing an apple (or whatever mom had put in a bowl on the kitchen counter so I wouldn’t starve to death) into my pocket and hollering a quick goodbye on the way out. Then it was hours-long games, followed by an afternoon dip at the Lion’s Pool - the city-run swimming centre that was smaller than most Koko Platz residence’s backyard hot tubs. Rituals. Ah, but I didn’t care. I was a kid.

Writing is a funny animal (or should that be writers are funny animals?) in that though everyone wants to write, few are writers, and fewer still make a living at it. But as for writing itself - or rather, the operations of writing - everyone is different. One author I know has to let it “come” to him. Still another forces it out. I myself have a ritual that must be followed or it spoils the continuity. First, I talk myself into it, saying that today is the day and now is the time. (Okay, so it’s more like: “For God sake, get the hell going!” But close enough.) Then I get out my large mug - the one that has coffee written on it in six different languages - and fill ‘er up. Time’s-a-wasting.

When I was a kid, a nail in the foot was a definite waste of time. I’d hobble home; attached 2X4 in tow, while every neighbourhood boy would comment that the nail they had stepped on the day before was at least twice that long. Thankfully, one girl - usually Eleanor Millard - would run ahead and herald my approach with all the subtleness of an ambulance siren. After my dad’s initial shock wore off (which pretty much amounted to lowering his momentarily raised eyebrow), he’d lift me onto the counter, make some lame quip about calling a toe truck and, while I was sympathy-laughing, yank the board lose. Two Band-Aids and a cookie later, and I was racing again. That is indestructible. Although the cookie was worth the time wasted.

Nothing really hurts a kid until they take the time to look at it. The cut (or the nail, in my case) didn’t hurt - my foot as numb as the attached board - until I saw blood. Then it hurt. Then I cried. Like the time I ducked between barbed wire strands to get into the pasture to see my horse instead of going through the gate like a normal person. Making it through was no problem. Running through the field toward her was no problem either. The problem was my shoe. It felt wetter and stickier the more I ran. Glancing down, I was astonished to see that it was red, and from a three-inch gash on the front of my ankle. Man did it hurt then! Still, I might have slowed but I didn’t stop, mostly because kids have no time for pain. It’s either full speed or stop - no gears in-between. That scar has since faded, but I don’t mind. It’s a souvenir of the good old days; a reminder that not only does no kid get out of childhood without at least a few souvenirs, but that they have all the time in the world to get them.

Things - even the operations of writing - are done out of repetition and a need to save time, whether you want them to or not. At least, it is to me. Like starting a car and turning on the radio before you put it in gear. You get “the writing nudge” around a certain time of day, need certain things to do it so you don’t have to get up once you’ve sat down (unless it’s to go to the washroom), and as you stand there in front of the counter, the Sunbeam Hotshot plugged in and your mind already tuning out the day, the rituals come back to you: Black, please. Not the good stuff, either. I want to be wired for sound, baby. Next comes the bottle of ice water from the fridge, and finally (and while I’m in there anyway), carrot sticks or a Red Delicious apple. Smart, simple and reasonable, I figure. After all, while the muse must be kept happy, I don’t really need the dreaded "author’s ass" syndrome.

By the way, writing is now my “going full bore.” I say that because as a kid I was too busy running barefoot down gravel back lanes like an Olympic sprinter being chased by a serial killer to ever stop and write. Now, it seems writing is about all I really do. Maybe it has something to do with wanting to control the things around me via stories. Maybe it’s my way of hiding from the fact that an adult can’t run down gravel roads barefoot anymore. Maybe it’s because I’m no longer as indestructible as I once was. Maybe it’s because I no longer have the luxury of time.

I’ve missed the summer.





*

Review of The Bridge (aka The Money Song) by Christopher K. Miller

An entry last month titled “Dear Readers: A Remorseless Apology” didn’t mention the author or the title of the novel I was reading at the time because privacy and trust are precious things. Then along came this comment:

“Hi Hawke,

I just read your blog for the first time in a while. I can't remember when I sent you The Bridge, but I'm wondering if this isn't around the time. If this is an anonymous review of it, then I am most grateful. Of course you have my permission to use names, etc.

If you are referring to it, I'd be interested to know the parallels to your own life you refer to.

Thanks”

Since there is only one person who knew I was reading The Bridge - the author himself - I’ll take this as permission to chat about it (and I say chat because I don’t want to give the story away).

Before I start, and for those who don’t know me, a little background is in order. There is only one thing I’m always serious about, and that is (you guessed it) writing. That doesn’t mean I’m a miserable person. What I am is an extremely picky reader - picky in that if a work doesn’t grab me by the first page or so, it’s gone. I have a life, you know. Granted it’s not much...but what I do have is important to me and I don’t care to waste it on a work best suited to line the bottom of a birdcage. Sound mean? Perhaps. But at least I’m mean in the “equal opportunity” way - meaning that I’ll toss John Saul’s work as quickly as my own if it doesn’t grab me.

The Bridge (aka The Money Song) by Christopher K. Miller, grabbed me.

Actually, "Bridge" did more than grab me. I felt married to it. Some novels are like that. They grab you. They engross you. They are the last thing you think about at night and the first thing you reach for in the morning. Like "Bridge." But I should give a little of the beginning.

After several back-and-forth emails (and learning that Chris had written a novel), I dropped a hint. Okay, dropping a hint is lightweight and not exactly the truth. What I really did was closer to outright begging. But you see, I’d read some of Chris’ wonderful short stories and was more than curious about his novel. So I begged. And nice guy that he is, he sent it...probably so I’d leave him alone for a while. At any rate, it came in the mail - a signed copy no less - and I started reading. And yes, it passed my disgustingly tough first page test. And the second page. And before I knew it, I was at the end and as content as a fat lady after an all-you-can-eat buffet. Or an opera aficionado after meeting Pavarotti. Or a chocoholic after Halloween. You get the idea.

This is starting to sound like an Academy Awards nomination, but I really don’t care.

The finely crafted “Bridge” has yet to be published, though I sincerely doubt it will remain that way for long. Its characters are vivid and fully realized, the story emotional and genuine, the writing masterful. To read it was a great pleasure for me. I know it will be for you, as well. In other words, Dear Readers, when you run across The Bridge (aka The Money Song) on the shelf of your favourite bookstore, and I have no doubt that you will, do yourself a favour and buy it. It really is that good.

Bravo, Chris. And thank you.