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April 18, 2023 at 11:46 pm (This post was last modified: April 18, 2023 at 11:48 pm by Silver.)
Related to work.
I swear, I'm usually the only one who uses common sense.
So, I was next in line to be canceled at work, been wanting it for a week, and two of us were being canceled tonight.
We're supposed to wait around for everyone else to show up before we can leave. Fine, I understand that. But when the next to last person showed, I told them I was clocking out because there's no sense in two people waiting around for one person. And I was next in line to be canceled anyway.
This other aide thought I was supposed to wait around instead, because the person who has permission to be late to work is working on the other side of the building. So what the aide was basically telling me is that I have to give up my cancelation if the person doesn't show up because they don't want to work on the other hallway. Sorry, you'll work where you're needed if the other person doesn't show, because I'm taking this cancelation.
Then in typical fashion of thinking it's all about them, the aide says I shouldn't be getting an attitude with them.
Well, I quickly explained the frustration is with the cancelation process. Which it is. I already left one facility in the past due to the process, and I have no qualms repeating the action.
Anywho, time to unwind and rest.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
Years ago I was repairing a floor, had the whole section quardend off, where you had to literally crawl through the tape to gain access to the area. To my surprise, I turn around yon find not one, but two employees standing on my newly repaired floor, asking, "Oh, should we not be here?"
(April 18, 2023 at 11:46 pm)Tomato Wrote: Related to work.
I swear, I'm usually the only one who uses common sense.
So, I was next in line to be canceled at work, been wanting it for a week, and two of us were being canceled tonight.
We're supposed to wait around for everyone else to show up before we can leave. Fine, I understand that. But when the next to last person showed, I told them I was clocking out because there's no sense in two people waiting around for one person. And I was next in line to be canceled anyway.
This other aide thought I was supposed to wait around instead, because the person who has permission to be late to work is working on the other side of the building. So what the aide was basically telling me is that I have to give up my cancelation if the person doesn't show up because they don't want to work on the other hallway. Sorry, you'll work where you're needed if the other person doesn't show, because I'm taking this cancelation.
Then in typical fashion of thinking it's all about them, the aide says I shouldn't be getting an attitude with them.
Well, I quickly explained the frustration is with the cancelation process. Which it is. I already left one facility in the past due to the process, and I have no qualms repeating the action.
Anywho, time to unwind and rest.
Damned cancel culture is affecting everyone.
Boru
‘I can’t be having with this.’ - Esmeralda Weatherwax
April 23, 2023 at 12:54 am (This post was last modified: April 23, 2023 at 12:56 am by Silver.)
Let's see where this leads. (Chapter One)
"When the first wild dog bit the first hand that tried to feed it, the legend of the werewolf was born."
"Not this again, shizhé’é," says my mom with a heavy sigh from the kitchen behind me. "He'll have nightmares again tonight."
"He's the last of our kind," says shinálí as a comical wink beneath bushy white eyebrows presents itself amidst a wise old face. "He deserves to know our history."
"The only accurate part of this story is how a foolish man contracted rabies."
"I remember a time when you would beg me to tell it to you."
"Yeah, when I was a little girl who didn't know better. And it gave me nightmares, too. With all the stories our people have told, can't you pick something less frightening?"
"But I like this story," I say as I spin around on the floor and look at my mother. "Werewolves are cool."
Shimá looks up from the mutton she is preparing for a soup. But she does not have a serious or disapproving facial expression. Intense concentration on everything tends to be her default. Taking care of two people on opposite ends of the age spectrum seems to afford her no time to relax.
"Okay," she says with a nod as she lowers her gaze back to the counter and the sharp knife in her hand. "But don't come running into my bed tonight after you have a nightmare."
I almost say, That only happened once, but I keep the thought to myself and spin around on the floor to give grandpa my full attention.
"We have always been brave people, but one man in particular was perhaps braver than most."
"Stupider than most," whispers my mother under her breath.
Being hard of hearing, he continues as though there was no interruption. "After a vision quest where he was approached by a wild dog, the visitation was interpreted by an elder. Distrustful of the interpretation, he spent the final years of his adolescence in quiet contemplation while tribal life continued.
"The night before he was to be taken on his first hunt," he pauses, but something is wrong.
There is a sudden, unnerving silence. Not even a sound from the kitchen. Even more unsettling is how grandpa now looks as though he is a lifeless, flat representation of a person.
"Error, error," begins a computer generated voice as my surroundings break apart via pixelations to reveal a white void. "Program no longer available. Error, extensive power malfunctions spreading to all systems. Irreparable failure is imminent. Resorting to…"
The voice crackles as I feel myself losing consciousness. Or, if this is a simulation, perhaps I am returning to consciousness.
The computer makes a final attempt to relay its message as a word in repetition attempts to break free. "to…to…to…Helmuga Protocol."
A jolt precedes the oncoming darkness, but unlike a hypnic jerk that keeps one awake I am instead sent spiraling away from awareness.
When my eyes snap open my upper body reflexively rises. A hard knock on the head disorients me. Reaching up with an arm results in another contact with something hard. It is as though I am in a confined space. The first logical concept is that of a coffin.
Reopening my eyes after the pain in my head subsides somewhat, I look around. The panels are too technical to belong to a burial casket. By the minimal artificial light that remains, I see mostly inactive mechanical panels that have no meaning to me. There being some light must mean there is residual power. Which also means I might not be trapped.
The lights flicker and the same computerized voice from before echoes through the small chamber. "...not much time left. Know that you aren't alone. Above all, survive."
Multiple loud clicks in succession follow the message, and the lid of the compartment pops open. A gush of outside air brushes against my face, but the lack of natural light has me thinking it might be nighttime.
Before I sit up, even though it is safe now, I wonder for how long I was engaged by the simulation. There is no immediate memory of the sleep pod or its intended purpose. Was I a willing participant or was the occupancy forced upon me for some reason?
Having the distinct notion that answers are buried with the computer's recent power failure, I hope my memory returns soon. All I currently have is what the simulation showed prior to whatever led to its ultimate demise.
Rolling over onto my side, using my elbow to prop myself up, I peek over the side of the container. Nothing out of the ordinary here, which I suppose is a relief. An ordinary seeming environment with breathable air. Mine does seem to be the only pod in the vicinity, though I cannot see too far with the poor starlight from above.
Risking a shout out that might alert any predators to my location, I yell, "Hello?"
The only answer is my own echo amidst the evening harmony of insects. What little I can see of the landscape, it is not familiar. Yet neither are the stars. A memory comes to mind of grandpa teaching me the constellations. What I see above is somewhat alarming, because these are not the same stars observable from earth.
Since I can no longer remain in this pod, I exit with the determination to discover where I am. Other things grandpa taught me come to mind. Planting a knee on the ground, I place a hand in the dirt and scan the immediate area. It is as though the pod was carefully placed here, because an impact into the ground would have created a crater. Unless the pod is advanced enough to have controlled its journey and landing.
The dirt beneath my hand and between my fingers feels like dirt. Having just woken up from a realistic simulation, I am a little distrustful of my senses. Yet I cannot be in a state of permanent paranoia.
One breath at a time, one footstep in front of another, and moment by moment I will learn what I can.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
(April 24, 2023 at 9:00 am)Tomato Wrote: Beginning to have trouble seeing things close up with my glasses, but can still see far away with them on.
Might finally have to go the bifocal route or get separate glasses for reading.
Don't go bifocal - go with progressive lenses. They have improved so much in the years since I started wearing them. Used to be that the area for reading was so small that you had to learn to use them. Now that area has widened and using the different strengths in the lenses has become something I don't even think about.
"The night is eccentric," I begin as I address my classmates. "Much like the author, Loristar, who presented himself to society one way during the day and then completely different at night. Described by others as slow in his movements to a graceful fault, they were nonetheless impressed by how his mind operated. It was the kind of brilliance reflected in a writing style none have been able to imitate to this day.
"The central theme of his writing is the darkness, both literal and metaphorical. How it provides cover for certain bohemian activities. How its more unsavory influence can be discovered hiding in broad daylight, within the unlikeliest of people."
Pausing to scan their empty eyes, I can see that I have lost them. But it is not just me. They will stare vacantly at anyone who has to provide an oral report. As they do the same throughout the year when the teachers lecture. Wanting to be engaged by their phones instead, they are experts at resembling mindless zombies.
We are screwed if they are our future. Aware that I am imitating sentiments of my elders, I also understand that these thoughts are not entirely wrong.
Returning to my report, I continue, "Loristar lends existence to the night in a way that dares the reader to defy becoming infatuated with it. Being the single recurring character in his books, the darkness always shows more depth than the people who never manage to rise above mundanity.
"Some critics focus solely on what they describe as unsatisfactory human personalities. They become so wrapped up in thinking all novels must adhere to a similar formula that they entirely miss Loristar's unique genius.
"To possess the kind of talent that resists conventional order is, from my perspective, the ultimate attribute of style as well as artistic license."
Even the teacher is not paying attention. Shaking my head, I return to my seat. After a prolonged silence, she looks at the spot where a student should be orating. Then she looks toward us and inquires as to who is next. Certain that no one has bothered to do a report on a worthy author, I lower my eyes to a book I have read numerous times.
Partially listening while I read Loristar's final book before his untimely death, the spoken words moon and wolf gain my attention. Two important aspects of my culture are naturally going to pique my interest, yet a part of me seems to know the book and author being spoken of will most likely be the latest supernatural content.
There is a new writer on the young adult scene. It is not my favorite genre, because I prefer adult literature, but a writer is still a writer and writing is an art form. However a writer chooses to reach his or her audience is not for me to judge. Even if I personally find no interest in the content, respect for the art takes priority over opinion.
Most of my fellow students get their book reports from online cheat sites. A fact that either goes unnoticed or is ignored by the teachers. The current speaker possesses a tone of passion in his voice. It is obvious he truly cares about the book. Each time he refers to the word werewolf, there is an emphasis of endearment in accompaniment.
He looks at me as he progresses with the report, and he says, "Unlike the modern interpretation of lycanthropy being a gift, Slade takes us back to its origins as a pure curse. In the book, humanity is reserved for the human population while the werewolves are the traditional monsters."
Having misconstrued the intent behind his tone, I see the truth in his eyes. The passion is not for the supernatural creature, but rather for its slaying by the hunter. His is the kind of abhorrence for that which is different, yet he perceives himself as the hero. Slade's protagonist resonates with him, fills him with a false sense of superiority.
Allowing him to look away first, droning on about the hunter's bravery, I bring my attention to a different kind of darkness. Outside, the daylight is quickly waning. Storms in this area have a tendency to move in rather fast. Most times they bring good, gentle rains and other times they bring bad, severe winds.
The fading of the light is the only part of the storm that I like. Rain does not interest me. It is too wet, and water is barely tolerable when it is streaming from a shower head. The wind always seems like an assertive bully. Worse still are the thunder and lightning. One is a loud rumble as though the sky is hungry for something, and the other is a bright flash as though the sky paparazzi are craving photos of our dysfunctional lives.
An advantage to living in the city is that the tall buildings are a sort of buffer between people and the storm. But unlike most schools, closer to the ground where they are probably safer, this private institution is three quarters of the way up a skyscraper. Then, being the greedy corporation it is, a great deal of money has been put into bracing this part of the building against formidable weather.
New Placidair was not always the storm capital of the world. According to my parents, the major shift in weather patterns happened when my mother became pregnant with me. Almost as though I am somehow responsible for the storms that visit the area. Which, of course, is an absurd thing to think. I am no one special, after all. Maybe I am the last of our tribe, but that does not add significance to my existence.
A movement in the dark clouds makes me squint my eyes as though I will see better. I am uncertain what it is I think that I might have seen, but all I do see is rolling clouds and small sparks of heat lightning. Keeping my eyes on the gathering storm, I continue to see nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe this one will stick. Already working on chapter two.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
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