Makes Me Barf

5 Oct

I read how a judge has determined that a convicted mass murder’s rights were violated when 200 plus telephone conversations he made from prison were recorded and that he is due financial compensation.
What kind of lunacy is this? What about the rights of his victims and their families? Now there is a real violation. I certainly hope some semblance of sanity is applied and, at the very least, any finances granted are immediately given to the families who have suffered a real violation.
In the meantime, I invite this judge to step off the planet.
Those who choose to live outside the law should not be protected by the law.

My New Blog

23 Jan

Due to technical challenges at this site I have set up a new blog at http://www.terrygroves.com. I have transferred all my existing entries there including some you have not seen (the technical difficulties). I look forward to hosting you there.

Terry

Tomatoes

22 Jan

I recall coming across a plant growing in a dumping ground. When I was in grade seven one of our science projects had been germinating tomatoes. I was astounded a year later to recognize the same jaggedy leaves growing from the soil of what was essentially a dump.

It wasn’t really a dump as the area where the plant was was generally used as extra parking for a nearby school but it bordered on a gully where all sorts of interesting crap had been tossed over the years…interesting to a 12 year old boy anyway.

I pondered the plant to be certain my recognition was correct and i remained certain. I  wondered how it might have gotten there, doubting very much that someone deliberately planted it. Who plants vegetables in a dump, and who plants just one plant. More likely it started as a seed in someone’s kitchen waste or was dropped by a bird after feeding on someone’s kitchen waste. Regardless, the tomatoe was growing in a very odd location.

I thought about digging it out and taking it home to our garden. But then I thought ‘who wants to eat a tomatoe born in a dump?’

Finally i decided to just leave it where it was and see what would  happen to it.

Laying in my bed that night I thought about that tomatoe plant and what sort of fruit it would bear, considering the environment it was feeding on. I pictured cutting a tomatoe open and it being full of worms; blind worms writhing and gnashing sharp teeth at the sky. I don’t know why I pictured them being blind; who knows why twelve year old boys think most of the things they do?

Keep in mind, at the time I discovered the unexpected plant it was nothing more than a seedling…still a long way away from bearing fruit.

I checked on my plant most days, often detouring on my paper route to see if it was still growing, half expecting it to get squished by a car, picked by another kid or eaten by a critter that might live in the dump; I had seen rats in a culvert pipe in the bottom of the gully. The tomatoe survived the summer.

I watched a small yellow bud turn into little green bulb. That green bulb continued to grow despite the hot summer sun, minimal rain, and total lack of shade. I never watered it, just watched it struggle to survive. I didn’t want to touch anything that was probably full of maggoty worms with gnashing teeth.

Finally the bulb began to look like a real tomatoe and then the day came when it showed a bit of orange in the green. I knew the plant wasn’t going to remain unnoticed by everyone forever and I did not want anyone else getting to check out my tomatoe. So I picked the fruit.

I remember being both excited and a bit grossed out carrying that thing home. I had watched it grow from a tiny plant into real food but it was full of worms and I didn’t want any of those against my skin.

I put the tomatoe, it was a bit smaller than my fist,  onto our kitchen window ledge to let it ripen. I had often seen my mom do that. I don’t know why I wanted a junkyard tomatoe to ripen more…it’s that 12 year old kid thing again.

After a little more time, days or weeks I no longer remember but then it was all red. It was fully ripe.

I took it out on the back step with a paring knife. It was time to free the worms.

When I sliced it open I stepped back not knowing if the worms would pop out or suddenly attack me but I was not taking any chances.

Inside was just tomatoe. The same as any tomatoe you buy at the store. Juice, seeds, fleshy pulp; no writhing blind worms gnashing sharp teeth at the sky. How could a tomatoe grown in dump soil be so ordinary?

Up The Volume 2017

1 Jan

​Listening to the Underdogs as part of a New Years evening out I hope it isn’t a foreshadow of 2017 otherwise we are in for a year where the flats and sharps are all in the wrong places. I hate to be too critical but i don’t think they have ever listened to themselves.

Now, I did find the music itself not bad, really dug the druming actually, but the vocals should be left in 2016.

Their songs seem to be homegrown, I have never heard any of them before and that might be part of the problem except for the screeching. 

Why is it that so many bands think louder is better? It makes conversation difficult, distorts the music and smothers the finer nuances of the talent. I think they mostly use the volume to hide their lack of talent.

I think it is time to find another pub.

Glad we didn’t leave too soon. Lenin came on and performed ‘Into the Misty’, it was worth the entire evening. The man can sing…and then he ripped the rap as shorty…self proclaimed subterranean.

Next came Kevin’s Bacon. They may have been talented but they were so busy blasting the wax out of my ears i couldn’t tell. Defiantly time to see dawdle. 

Next pub boasts quite a talented band but I didn’t get their name. They played some great songs and did a nice job but again, they were just too loud.

Headed home where we have full control over the volume and brought in the New Year our way.

Happy you New Year.

First Kiss

8 Dec

 

I knelt in the darkness hoping she would find me. We were playing tag but I really wasn’t into the game. The smell of oil and ancient dust reminded me of my grandfather’s barn. Dirt floor, old orange rusted tractor, dry straw, the feeling was the same but this was my uncle’s garage. Dirt floor, but in the city. I pictured pigeon nests in the rafters giving that straw feel, spider webs, thick with dust and old dry fly corpses. I moved my hand, picturing spider legs feeling for my fingers. My elbow bumped something. It was soft and moved closer, warm against my side.

She said my name and her breath tickled my ear, she was so close her whisper tickled my stomach and I felt a sensation in my balls that was entirely pleasant. Coolness climbed my spine as a rush stole up my neck and charged my brain.

“Yes,” I whispered. I didn’t want any of the others to come and spoil this. A flutter scurried in my chest.

“Who’s It?” The soft puff of air on my ear almost made me cry out. A stir in my pants and a burn in my cheeks, I was glad it was dark. What would she think if she knew I had a stiffy. But it felt so good.  Why was she asking me this? We all knew who was It. She stirred a bit. I liked the touch. Right then I could have cared less who was hunting to tag someone else, make them It. I could have cared less if the sky suddenly burst into flames or if the sun swelled in a sudden super nova and engulfed us all. That would leave me taking these wonderful feelings into eternity.

“Dean,” I managed to say and hoped I didn’t gasp.

“Where is he?” She was driving me crazy. How could I walk out into the yard? Everyone would see the  tent in my pants, and laugh.

“Not here.” I turned my face toward her so I wouldn’t have to speak too loud and that’s when she kissed me.

It was gentle and warm and soft and totally unexpected. Her lips pressed to mine. I almost pulled back as my face exploded with sensations. She had surprised me at first but it didn’t take me long to realize she was kissing me and that it was a very nice thing for her to be doing. If I had known that kissing girls would send such feelings through me, I would have done this a long time ago. I had to grip the fin of Uncle’s car to keep from collapsing to the floor. My legs seemed to have lost all ability to hold me up. Rockets of pleasure tore through me, igniting tingles in my chest, stomach, balls, an eruption of pleasure.

And then her hand found mine. Electricity shot up my arm and joined the lava in my lips. I wanted to stay in this wonderful place forever.

I turned more toward her and reached my free hand around her, pulling her closer. The movement was awkward, crowded as we were and scared as I was, but she turned too and that helped me steady myself. I felt her small breasts press into my rib cage. Her tongue touched my teeth. It felt a bit strange but nice too. I opened my mouth a bit more and she darted her tongue between my incisors.

Now, I had touched tongues with people before, did it on dares from my brothers, with them, and that had been pretty gross. Their tongues had felt slimy, like licking a garden slug. THIS was not like THAT. At first I tried to tuck my tongue into the back of my mouth and pulled away a bit but she moved her hand up my back and held my head. At the same time she pushed herself a little closer and before I could do anything else, our tongues were touching. This wasn’t any brother’s tongue or garden slug, this was marvelous. A bubble of intense pressure grew in my belly and rushed up my throat and down my legs at the same time. It blasted down my arms and into my head. I felt myself trembling. A stitch of pain grew under my ribs from the twist of my body but I didn’t want to move and maybe spoil the moment.

Then she pulled back and I was free to breathe. Air rushed out of my mouth then I drew it back in in quick gasps. I struggled to understand and sort out all the feelings that were ricocheting inside me.

“How was that?” she asked.

I wanted to tell it was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to me, because it was. I wanted to say that my life had forever been changed now that I knew what it was like to kiss a girl. I wanted to smile and laugh and tell her how incredibly excited she had made me feel but I didn’t want her to know it was my first kiss, that no one had ever done that to me before so I simply said, “It was nice.”

“Would you like to do it again?” How could she ask that question? Of course I wanted to do it again. I wanted to do only that and do it forever. In that brief moment between her question and my response I wondered why people did anything else when they could be doing this. Why would people do things that make it difficult to do that? Why do they start wars that might kill them when they could be somewhere else, like a nice dark garage, kissing a girl. Nothing in the world made sense for me right then except that I wanted to have her lips pressed to mine.

“Yes, I guess so.” I tried to put the right amount of casualness into my response so she wouldn’t think the things going on inside me were happening. I wanted her to think this was every day for me, that I was so cool that I did this sort of thing all the time. And so she pressed her lips to mine again.

It was wonderful that second time too, but not quite as intense. I still had so much to learn about girls and sex and love that would bring me similar sensations of pleasure as I explored these topics but I never again experienced the intensity of that very first kiss. As I reflect back now I can understand the undeniable desire of an addict to recapture the thrill of the first high and the perpetual disappointment, when, no matter how much or what type of chemical they put into their body after that, they are unable to recapture the same feeling.

I have kissed a lot of girls, a lot of times since then but the memory of my first kiss remains unmatched.

Painting With Words

22 Nov

The fog slow dances over the still surface of the marsh. Thin tendrils hang above the gray-green water, reluctant to leave their birth place. Slow tides of air nudge the ethereal threads into a calm, silent minuet; up, down, around, sliding apart around razor edge reeds then rejoining in a perpetual rebirth of form, magic, dreams.

Pointing Fingers

10 Apr

I remember helping to torment my brothers by conspiring with the others, there were five of them so we were a gang, and then collectively pointing at the chosen ‘one’. It no doubt resulted in that one feeling persecuted but also secure in the knowledge that the next time a ‘pointing’ was carried out, they would probably be one of the pointers. Was this mean? Probably. Was it malicious? Perhaps. Was it life-scarring? Judging by the laughter of everyone, including the target, probably not. We were kids doing kids things.

Now I read about similar behaviour being carried out in Parliament. An NDP whines “the Trade Minister pointed at me.”

Minister responds, “no I didn’t.”

And now it’s news.

These people are supposed to running our country and they are acting like children. Who voted for them and why isn’t the PM making them stand in the corner?

Grow up or take a walk off the planet. Can you see my finger pointing the way?

Need Some Balls

9 Apr

Our illustrious political leaders show their true colours again. National Defense sends letters to the families of our Afghanistan fallen, announcing a ceremony to honour their lost sons, and daughters, wives and husbands, but if they want to attend, they have to pay their own way.

Once the news gets out, the Defence Minister quickly waffles, stating his staff released the letter too soon and of course the government will pick up the travel tab. Obviously they think we are so stupid that we will believe this.

Any leader worth anything does not hide behind their staff, their staff action is their action. If the letter was sent early and it was never intended that the invitees would have to travel at their own expense, why was that even in the draft? Why didn’t it say, ‘of course you will be well hosted’? Because it was never their intention to pay for family travel. His tune only changed when the news service picked up on it. He should be ashamed. I know I am ashamed that these families have been so dishonoured for their sacrifice.

What really pisses me off is all the politicians who will attend will do so on the taxpayers dime and they will take their families on the taxpayers dime and none of them has a relative who died in service to their country. Would they attend if they had to pay their own way, use vacation time from work, cover their own family expenses?

The defence minister should be bitch-slapped for releasing that letter and insulting the memory of our fallen comrades. He should be bitch-slapped again for not owning up to this debacle.

When will our politicians realize they should be kissing the asses of our veterans, not cheaping out on their memory? My heart remains with the families of our war heroes, fallen, walking wounded and those who returned relatively unscathed and I am pleased if some of my tax dollars are used to help them see the appreciation of our country for all that they have given.