The Glimmer and the Collie

Have I mentioned that we're not getting any sun here? Not much anyway. However, late on Friday afternoon, we found ourselves sitting in the car at the park. The sun peeked its face out for a few moments, and Cuppa asked me to take some pictures. I hadn't brought my camera, but she usually remembers hers. So, I smapped a few and then a few more.

It wasn't as dark as it seems in the following photo, but I used exposure compensation to make it seem that way. If you don't do that in these kinds of pictures, the sky will probably come out looking a lot less vivid that you would like it to. I certainly like the way that this one turned out. (You might like to click on this one for a better view. Sometimes, they look very over-sharpened on the compressed view.)

When we first arrived there was a human throwing balls to a border collie. After they left, another human and border collie came along. We've seen this one before; he's quite superior, and his workout is a sight to behold. Below are two composites in which I attempt to capture some of the flavour for you.

Above: the owner points north (in the blurry portion) to send the dog off in that direction. He then turns to throw the ball south, and the dog sprints eagerly in that direction. You can see the collie going by in a blur as he heads from north to south. The guy hasn't thrown the ball yet, but the dog knows that he will.

Below: in this composite, you can see the dog in the ready position before the throw. I have seen him crouch even lower and almost shake in anticipation. This is also a composite, and the dog will usually be quite a bit further away from the human than what he appears to be in this photo. Then, he'll bring his trophies back to lay at the master's feet. In this case, you see him carrying two or three Frisbees (I've seen up to five), and he will lay them down as instructed — in the correct spot and in the correct way. Sometimes, he has to neaten the pile before master will be satisfied. It's really quite amazing.

I am sure that Cuppa will post another photo or two before too long ... but she's asleep now.

Daily Doins

When you think of it, a lot of little things go in life. I guess they're the stuff of life. After all, how often do we get to do those big, exciting things? No, you'd better enjoy your daily doings because they are the stuff of life. So, here are things that we've been up to lately.

On Sunday, we went up to Almonte to see a performance ofCape Breton Live. For those south of the 49 th, Cape Breton is an island that is the northern part of Nova Scotia. Apparently, there are still a few people there who can speak Gaelic, and some groups still sings some traditional Gaelic tunes. It's rather famous for music, particularly fiddling. That's what these people brought to Almonte, and their performance was quite awesome. For $15/ticket, you can't beat it.

Then, on Wednesday night, we went to a local pub with some neighbours to hear the musicians of Celtic Jam. I've heard them before and blogged about them before, and like before, there were more musicians than audience. Fourteen of them sat around and jammed. This is the group that I would like to join if I ever get to their level with the fiddle. However, after hearing them the other night, I hae me douts that I'll ever get that far. They place pretty darn fast for this novice. However, I downloaded their tune book from their website for potential practice purposes.

Along those lines, I am so pumped that The Rankins are getting back together to produce another CD and go on tour. I was lucky enough to attend one of their final concerts in 1999 before they disbanded. Although the new album will have less of a Celtic sound than some of their others, I'm sure it will be very good. Their last album was beginning to ease into other areas too, and it was just fine thank you very much.

We got the latest pictures of Smudge yesterday; you can see can see them and read about it on Sha's blog. There is still some concern about Down Syndrome, but most indicators seem positive.

However, when scanning and printing the pictures for Sha, my printer decided to act out. I have a 6-tank printer, and one of the tanks (magenta) isn't printing, pictures come out with a decided green cast. Obviously, the printer head is clogged, and I've just spent about $75 on ink. I have contacted Canon about getting a new printer head. The printer is several years old, so if the new piece is very expensive, I might be forced to get a new one although this printer does (or did) a fine job.

Finally: after seeing the documentary, The Journey of Man, on PBS, I am reading the companion book by Spencer Wells. While I don't pretend to get the more scientific material, the subject of our origin and roots fascinates me. It seems that DNA and genetics pretty well concludes that we have our origin in Africa about 150 000 years BP. You can probably get the DVD at your library (we did); it's very interesting. I also have two Photoshop books that I wade through a bit of from time to time … when I'm not blogging or fiddling … or Christmas shopping which we began in earnest with a trip into Ottawa last Monday.

Peter, James and Me

I wasn't going to write any more about the sociability/reticence topic of the past few posts, but one more, short anecdote has popped into my consciousness.

While this isn't something that I remember first hand, I have been told that I wasn't exactly a verbose child – surprise, surprise. I didn't talk particularly early or a lot, but I have also been told that I soon moved on to phrases. Apparently, my father would piggy-back me around the house. There was a scripture calendar on the wall, and Dad you point to Peter, James and John. One day I said, "Peter, James and Me" (yes now you know my other name). If I've got the story right, it's one of the early things that I said.

So, I guess that, even early on, I internalized quite a lot before verbalizing it. Apparently, wherever personality types come from, they start way back in childhood. My hunch is that at least some of it comes from internal structure and wiring, but I haven't really come across anything that supports my intuition.

Now, I truly am finished with the topic. It's time to cast my nets elsewhere.

Body on the Grass

My past few blogs have been about personality and sociability, and I'd like to have one more kick at the cat before I move on to other fascinating topics — like what I had for breakfast this morning or how my corns are getting along with my cowboy boots.

First, let me say that sometimes I may over-emphasize something in an attempt to make a point, and I may have done so in the last two posts. While it is true that I am more reticent than verbose, it is also true that I'm not exactly a wilting wallflower. I can actually speak, sometimes intelligently; I did make a living at teaching for three decades, so I must be somewhat competent and confident in certain group situations. Mainly, however, I simply don't have the patience to happily endure situations such as the social function that I mentioned two posts ago, and life is too short to pretend.

Having got that clarification out of the way, I'd like to recount a recent episode that demonstrates how differently Cuppa and I tend to react to life's situations.

On Friday, Cuppa and I decided to walk downtown to the local bookstore that was celebrating its first anniversary. When it's non-cycling season we try to promenade on most days: certainly when it's not raining or we're not too busy doing errands and chores. Friday was a nice day without a lot of competing activities, so we walked.

Not too far along, just past our own subdivision as a matter of fact, I was rather startled to spy a body prone on the grass next to the sidewalk. In short order I determined that he was alive and resting from the laying of sod which the rest of the crew was still busy laying. My mind was already moving on to thinking that this might make an opening for Law and Order or some such program.

Just as I was beginning to ponder the possibilities, Cuppa interrupted my reverie with a semi-scream: "There's a body on the grass." Of course, she began to sort it out in the same way that I had, only verbally. You see, being an introvert (I don't like that somewhat pejorative term, but I'll use it), I had processed it all internally. I might have gotten to the point of actually mentioning the body, but Cuppa's shriek altered the process, so we'll never know. The point is that she, being much more of an extrovert, immediately began to verbalize what she was seeing and processing.

I think introversion and extroversion are determined by how our brains function. Supposed introverts probably process their thoughts internally quite a bit prior to verbalizing them; some extroverts actually process more as they speak. I'm sure there's a long continuum between deep introversion and total extroversion, but I think the general differences exist. The point here is that some people process their thoughts longer than others. For them it's instinctive to process internally; others vocalize much more readily.

Back to the narrative: we continued our stroll to the bookstore, entered and browsed. We sat for a while over coffee and first anniversary cake. It's a small place, so there was some conversation between us and the owners and the occasional other customer. However, come time to settle accounts and depart, the owner asked me if I was always so quiet.

That took me slightly aback because it's not as though I hadn't said anything; in point of fact, I thought I had carried my fair share of the talk. But I guess that everything's relative, and, apparently, I hadn't been particularly verbose compared to others.

You see, when your tendency is to process things quite a bit before you speak, you end up not saying as much as others. I actually noticed the body before Cuppa, but she verbalized it immediately and certainly beat me to it. Because she did [verbalize], there was some good humoured exchange between her/us and both the [resting] body and his comrades. It usually works like that: the introvert tends not to participate a lot in group conversations, for the extroverts are simply quicker to speak and jump in while the introvert is still cogitating. Consequently, he tends to sit back and just listen rather than try to force his way into the conversation. Actually, he's probably often quite happy to listen to what others are saying.

I'm not going to try to bring these ruminations to any grand conclusion, but I thought that the last two posts more or less begged for a little more reflection.

Mea Conflagration

I have admitted to being socially inept, but the problem is broader than what I let on in the previous post about those phoney social situations. The truth is that I am pretty well out of social sync at any time or place. I'm not much of a conversationalist, but, at times I try – only to fall inevitably and ineluctably in a smoky conflagration out of the bright, azure sky.

To wit: Cuppa and I rode with a seniors cycling club a few times this past summer. Being the magnificent physical specimens that we are — okay, the truth is that they were really old — we usually found ourselves out in front, often way out in front. On one occasion, I decided to make a determined effort to hang back, try to be sociable and engage in some converse.

I found myself pedalling beside Ron, and I made an effort to connect with him in chitchat. I found that we had both hailed from Montreal, me a lot longer ago, but it was a point of commonality … or so I thought. I showed or thought that I showed an interest in him by getting him to talk about himself. In fact, I was pretty pleased with my effort.

Apparently, however, he was unimpressed, for at the first opportunity he dropped back to chat with the guy behind us. I suppose that I could have followed suit and extended my attempts at conviviality, but I decided to cut my losses and moved up to the front of the pack (would you believe the peloton?) with Cuppa. As we pedalled along, I realized that I had done all of the carrying of the conversation attempt at conversation. He had replied to my probing but never asked me one flippin thing about me or tried to extend the conversation in any way.

It's certainly not the first time that's happened to me. At one of our local dances, we found ourselves sitting with neighbours, and I made similar attempts to talk to the guy when we found ourselves shoulder to shoulder at the table. While he didn't blow me off, the rest of the tale was similar. I made the attempts; he responded and was probably pleased to talk about himself and his work, but there was no reciprocation. He answered but never asked, and I'm not very good at the whole thing and can only go so far before I don't know what else to talk about and silence ensues.

So, there you have it. If you ever meet me, I'll likely be tongue-tied and awkward. Give me break though (will ya?), and talk to me. I'm really not such a bad guy. Really.

Ima Squarepeg

The other night, Cuppa dragged me and I went to a thank you reception for the volunteers at last August's Riverside Jam. You may recall that over three days the lady and I put in many hours as Security personnel at one of the entrance gates. Now, after a several month delay, the hundreds of volunteers were all invited to a little get-together as a gesture of appreciation. I appreciate the gesture, but, frankly, I'd rather receive a thank you note in the mail.

When Cuppa asked me if I wanted to go, of course I didn't, but I said yes anyway. Although I can pretty well predict the course of such events, I tend remain at least somewhat optimistic that this one will be different. It never is. In this event as in most, many people sat around many tables trying to have a good time (the people I mean, not the tables although the tables probably had a better time than most). Some folk did enjoy themselves, I suppose – no doubt those who, unlike us, went with and/or sat with friends.

We were to be served finger food. Sounds okay right: cheese balls, breaded zucchini sticks etc? But after we had sat around and stared at each other for about twenty minutes, we were told that the goodies would be served in an hour. Oh the pain of it all. So, Cuppa and I sat there for the allotted hour. Of course, the food was late, so we continued to sit. Eventually, it was ready: not tasty little hors d'oeuvres, however. No indeed: only *&^%$ carrot sticks and such. To make matters worse, you had to line up for these marvellous treats: one freaking table after another. Sorry, but sticking around in a contrived social event and eating carrot sticks that were late and that you then had to line up for is not this old boy's idea of fun. At that point, we beat a hasty retreat.

One the way home, I remarked to Cuppa that I continue to be a square peg in a round circle world. While I am generally comfortable in my own skin and with my life, I don't seem to fit in very well with society at large. Most social circumstances seem contrived and thin to me and not worth bothering about. Sometimes I force myself to go because hope springs eternal, but I can never seem to force myself to pretend to enjoy myself once I get there.

Oddly enough, I like people and like to be around folk but not usually very many at once. I like to exchange basic pleasantries and hear what people have to say about their lives, but I simply abhor sitting around in silly circles with people that I don't know or barely know who are all pretending (not very well, I might add) that they're overjoyed to be there. I can't seem to summon the hypocrisy required to enter into the vacuous banality of it all.

I'm not much of a drinker. Perhaps, if I were, it would help me to become the garrulous life of the party, but let's face it, I won't. The truth is that I'm a Square Peg in a round world. Just call me Ima for short.

Steamed

Frankly, I'm steamed. It's just after 7:00 a.m. here. I've been awake since about five o'clock and up since about six o'clock. Since I'm much more of an owl than a lark, I'm not exactly ecstatic over this development. You might ask why I was up so early (probably not because you no doubt don't give a fig), so let me 'splain, Lucy.

Remember me posting photos to the effect that I was feeling like the cat's ass (yes, same meaning as cat's whiskers or cat's pyjamas)? Well, as it turns out that I was being prematurely optimistic. Oh, I'm no longer as sick as the proverbial flee-bitten hound in the bayou, but I have never completely recovered from whatever it was that was ailing me a few weeks ago. During one recent night, for example, I sweat through four shirts (actually three as I managed to keep the fourth one dry). Last night, I only went through three shirts, but my nocturnal woes didn't end there, for my next episode involved heat without sweating. I discovered that to be even a less appealing state of being because it doesn't quit. When I sweat, I wake up, change shirts and go back to sleep, but, when I was simply steamin' last night, I tossed, turned, roamed, and changed beds before eventually giving up and getting up.

This kind of nonsense has been going on for weeks now, ever since the plague struck me down. Night sweats are not unfamiliar to me, but they usually have their way with me for just a few nights before returning to wherever it is that they came from. Not this time; it's been going on for weeks.

The Redoubtable Cupster and I thought we might go out dancing last night. We haven't done that for quite some time, but after uncharacteristically drenching my shirt at line dancing the other night and not feeling generally peppy anyway, I begged off. I mean to say, what pretty lady yearns to cling to a sweat-drenched dotard on the dance floor? Note: if you think of one, please email me.

So, we stayed home and I learned some good news. I checked Amazon to track my recent order and discovered that it had been sitting in my mail box since noon. Said order included a CD. New music; how nice. But you see, I normally rip CDs and listen to them on my iPod. But wouldn't you know it: this one is copy protected and won't let me do that. I understand why artists desire to protect their work, but frankly, I'm steamed – both figuratively and literally it seems.