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Bondwriter

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  1. Bondwriter
    Hi there, everyone.
    I haven't been insanely post-whoring lately, and I even lost some creds as a proofreader; but since November 1st, this has been quite a roller-coaster ride.
     
    I never discussed this here, and only told two people I think, though reading Krista's, Sharon's or Steve's blogs, I'm definitely not alone.
     
    My mom died on November 9th.
    She was diagnosed with breast cancer right before Christmas 2001. At that time, she was 55, walked and trekked a lot, worked too... I'll sum it up though: surgeries, chemotherapies, radiotherapy... Basically she never had more than three months of "relief". She always kept some hope of recovery. Well, let's say becoming a widow last year didn't help much.
     
    It started getting really bad ten months ago, she had to have spine surgery. She never really got better, and it became difficult to walk. Since then, she got tons of support from friends and relatives, so she could stay at home rather than go to the hospital. There was always someone at least to spend the night there. We've had some fun times with some of her friends I had not seen much since I'd left home 13 years ago.
     
    The last Sunday of October, I was in charge. Moving was getting really difficult, and she used a walking frame. But just walking to the bathroom had become an odyssey, so she used the commode next to her bed in the living room.
     
    She'd had some outside nursing help three times a day since the middle of October, so with someone in the evening, it was all covered. But when this began, she'd also gotten the results from her latest exams, and the radiotherapy had not had any effect. She had a tumor in her brain that didn't want to wane. I think this is when she lost hope.
     
    On Tuesday, my sister came to visit on her way to a family vacation, but she went only as far as getting her children to other relatives. We could no longer leave her alone for two or three hours at a time. With her doctor (a super nice, caring and patient lady), we managed to get some "home hospital" solution, with medical care on top of the other ones.
     
    I'll spare you the details of the next three days, but the commode had become an obsession, and my older sister and I had to help out the whole way. Plus my mom's speech patterns got worse and worse, as she seemed to think she had spoken a whole sentence when she'd said "I think that
  2. Bondwriter

    Fiction and reality

    By Bondwriter,

    I was quite upset as a teenager when I was told about how comics/ movies/ RPGs had a bad influence on "youth". I also hated being made part of a group just on view of my age. I've always believed "people", like in a vast majority of people, were grown up enough to see the difference between fiction and reality.
     
    But as of late, I've started wondering about the influence of fiction, TV series in particular, on how "people" actually see the world. A few months back, I was at one of my music friends' place; we were converting a barn into a room to practice, so we were in cement and concrete since morning. One of my friends' kids, aged 9, was supposed to go to a friend's birthday party, in the village, about 500 meters away, 400 of which are not on a road used by cars. Having grown up in the countryside, I was most amazed they had to give him a ride. When I looked puzzled I was replied "You know, with what goes on nowadays..." I'm not absolutely sure the number of dangerous perverts is much higher than when I was a kid. And these friends have crossed the US twice on bikes, Central America, Australia from North to South, Mongolia... So they're not exactly the kind to be afraid of everything.
     
    But I noticed quite a bit that some people, who watched lots of TV, saw the world as these series showed it to them. A world full of killers that cannot be suspected, of extremely twisted kidnappers, of brutal death waiting around the corner. Though one cannot deny that these ghastly acts take place, one cannot live in fear of them happening. All over the presidential campaign we went through last spring, and since then, it seems this paranoid view of the world has completely pervaded the public debate. Our new president promises a new law every time something happens (big French legal fetish), when enforcing those existing is practically almost impossible.
     
    I don't know if I searched well enough, but I really wonder if some serious research was undertaken on this topic. Popular fiction is less than 200 years old, and it really started spreading around in the late 19th century. Serials, through radio or TV (outside the printed medium) are three generations old at the most. So we live a lot in fiction; I enjoy this a lot, and I'm a big CSI fan, and I love Law & Order and the spin-offs. But does it have an influence on me? And on others?
     
    OK, this was the "I've been thinking about this for a while minute". On other fronts: we record with the band this weekend. One song is GA related, the demo is available in the appropriate forum (yeah, you'll have to search, but as I post very little, it shouldn't be too hard) I got a new job for the next two months. I work outside of home, which is nice in a way: I've got colleagues, a schedule, motivation from a team, possible business trips ... I'm afraid that this, and some family issues that are going on at the moment, will make my proofreading activities a bit more difficult, so for the 5 or 6 authors who entrust me with their stories, I won't be as reactive as I've been. But I won't give up, it's too much fun and honor doing this.
     
    So that's all for now folks, though having long days in the office could actually get me back in the mood for writing in the evening...
  3. Bondwriter
    It was just one year ago today that the phone rang, a bit earlier than it is now. I was chatting with BC, the artist who draws Simon, as we were supposed to meet the following week to have lunch as I wanted to meet him in person, since he lived two hours away from home, though in a different country. I picked up the phone, and right away, I knew by my mom's voice that something was wrong.
     
    My dad was in the clinic. He had undergone an operation to remove a tumor to his lung. He was 63, and had been smoking since he was 14, except for one year when I was a kid when he quit. He also had a heart condition. This was the concern. My mom told me he had suffered a heart attack during the night. I had seen my dad the evening before, and he seemed OK. He was sitting as is normal after such an operation, and though he had some oxygen mask and was dressed in the silly gown you've got to wear in these settings, everything seemed to go smoothly.
     
    We were undergoing a major heatwave at the time, and he had complained of the fact they closed the window during the night. But I kissed him good bye, telling him I'd be back the next day. He had not wanted too many visits, since he didn't like being seen in what he considered a diminished state.
     
    Over the phone, my mom asked me to come pick her up at 12:00 to go and see my dad, and have lunch with her. Needless to say, I no longer felt like going on with Simon's adventures for the morning, so I showered and got ready to go to my parents' early. I was about to leave when the phone rang again. This time, my mom was sobbing and I knew right away what her next words would be. My dad was dead.
     
    There was no blur, no overwhelming feeling of doom. My dad was dead. As I walked to my car, I felt all soft and mellow, and braced for the things to come. I called the funeral home and asked them to go pick up the body, and we scheduled an appointment in the afternoon to settle all the issues. We went to the clinic to pick up my dad's stuff. We were offered to go into the room, and accepted. So here he was, left as he'd been when they'd tried to revive him. His eyes had reopened and his mouth was gaping open. We gathered all of his belongings in his bag and got out from the room. That's when I cried for the first time, as I hugged my mom.
     
    We had to wait in the stuffy hall for the chief nurse to take care of the administrative formalities. We discussed all the practical things that had to be done with my mom. We were strangely calm; she had been alerted during the night, so she hadn't slept much, but she held on bravely; my parents never were too much for cracking up in public places.
     
    We went home and started the round of phone calls. There was a funeral to arrange, as in France you have to manage to get a church for a religious funeral, otherwise it's just the cemetery, there are no funeral homes where you can have the ceremony as in the U.S. Then we called my sisters, and I cried for the second time hearing them sobbing. My older sister was on vacation in the south, with husband & 4 kids, my youngest sister had to fly back from Baltimore. She had come to spend three weeks at the end of June and the beginning of July, my father having scheduled his operation just after she left. This was a blessing since she had last seen him in a rather joyful setting. Then we called my father's friends.
     
    We went to the funeral home. I couldn't help smiling at the contrived look on the woman's face, and her circumlocutions. She called the mayor's office in the village my dad was born, and where my grandparents were buried. There is a family vault there, that may contain eight people, so there were 6 places left. The woman said that "he expressed the will to rest there". I couldn't help but think that, first of all, he didn't express any will, but that we made the choice for him, though we had spoken about this issue, and that he wanted to be buried, not rest. Being a great Six Feet Under fan, I discovered how the whole process actually worked in my own country.
     
    Then we had to choose the coffin. I knew exactly what my dad wanted: the cheapest one. Even though, it was outrageously expensive, but well, funeral homes have some sort of monopoly, so they use and abuse it. Of course we were offered the "options", like the cross over the coffin or other stuff I deemed ludicrous; I managed to remain polite, and we settled for some (free) engraving over the coffin.
     
    We were then led to the funeral parlor, a little house built behind with two (slightly) refrigerated rooms designed to keep bodies. It was a relief to see my dad looking like he was resting this time. They had dressed him up, so the sight was less shocking than in the morning. This whole thing weirded me out, though, mainly the idea that less than 24 hours had gone by since I last saw him alive. The numerous boxes of tissues provided proved useful, since this time I did burst into tears.
     
    We went back to what now was my mom's, and the visits started. At least, it allowed us to have time fly by without noticing. I was busy managing to get the obituary printed in the newspapers, to provide guests with drinks...
     
    So, it was a Friday, and the funeral was on the Wednesday after. My sisters got there on Sunday and Tuesday. Going to pick up my sister at the airport was really weird.
     
    The funeral turned out to be a great moment. It was a family reunion of some sort, the church was packed, the testimonials were great, I managed to read mine without flinching, and the reception after the burial under the blistering sun (this was the hottest day of the heatwave). There was a huge crowd, and fits of laughters through the sobs. Well, a funeral. I felt bad for the undertaker, who couldn't manage the crowd, and was getting late on schedule. Plus, he had to stay dressed in his black suit with a temperature over 40
  4. Bondwriter
    I thought they'd go at it again, but eventually it's quiet.
     
    First of all, a little description is in order. I live in a small two-story house, in what used to be a textile industry neighborhood. In the 12th century, they dried out the swamps in the valley and started building a village in the shade of the cathedral; well they built the cathedral around the same time. In the 18th century the small village saw the implementation of textile plants. So it became people with the plants' workers. It was a working-class neighborhood, that developed its lore and legends.
     
    Came the 70s, and the big textile crisis. All the plants got closed down one by one; my neighborhood had already gone into becoming a bit derelict for a few decades; it was the lair of crime, prostitution and drugs, and hence was rather ill-famed. In the 80s, the city council and some real-estate developers undertook to rehabilitate the place. It all started with a dock next to the river that saw bars and restaurants settling in. In ten years, the neighborhood got cleaned up. When the university got new buildings there, it became profitable to buy housing in order to rent it to students.
     
    Eventually it ended up being populated mainly with students. There were a few long-time residents left, whose families had lived there for three or four generations. Working class, but no longer working for the most part. Actually, there are villages a few miles from my city in which all the economy was based on the textile plant in which the problem is the same. The thing is, this left with people who for a wide part are uneducated.
     
    Here comes my neighbor from across the square. My house is at the end of a street that opens on a cute little square, that was re-cobbled ten years ago, so that the now numerous tourists coming to visit find the place quaint and cute. On the right side of the square, looking from my window, there's a narrow canal with houses built along. It's the back of the houses, the front opening on another street. So you have very small yards, the kind big enough to set a few chairs and a table and the occasional barbecue, when the weather allows, from April to October.
     
    In one of these houses, lives one of the diehard residents. Mid to late 20s, must be unemployed, got married a couple years ago (I remember the noise of the party), got a kid less than nine months later; I suspect him of dealing hashish, because of the odd visits he gets, but this isn't my point.
     
    A few years back, prior to his marriage, sometime in late April early May, I heard some party starting and the noise increased over the evening. Well, all wasn't lost, I wrote a song about it.
     
    An Evening Racket
     
    It
  5. Bondwriter

    A sunny day

    By Bondwriter,

    Yes, I'm original and creative in my titles! Thanks for stopping by, guys, you rock.
     
    Lots of good news today: the lessons I gave in Paris went well, I got some translation job at a proper rate (yeah! good money!), I had lunch with a good friend, and the weather was just perfect: sunny and in the 70s (23
  7. Bondwriter
    To start with, thanks to those who took the time to leave a comment. I agree, L0st Cause, small venues offer great shows. And the singer for French Kiss is a 18/ 20-year old girl, who doesn't look like her Janis Joplin-like voice, just so you know, Carl and Conner.
     
    I'd like to use my blog to contribute to a debate that's been going on in many threads, and avoiding to cluster Shadowgod's blog with my rambling. The porn/ erotica/ sex in fiction debate.
     
    The biggest thing for me is that whatever reactions fiction/ writing aim to cause in a reader, (having him laugh, think, cry or get sexually aroused) what matters is that it manages to provoke these feelings. A good erotic story, or even a good pornographic one, is before all a good story. There should be an atmosphere, characters, language that's adequate to the situations, etc.
     
    Whereas I like erotica, I'm not exactly begging for sex scenes in stories in which there's a plot that's not focused on showing the characters having sex.
     
    The thing has also to do with my own weird fantasies. I like bondage. I have an uncanny taste for situations in which characters are bound and gagged. This element is almost as important for me as the gender and looks of the characters. The first erotica I read on the Internet was straight bondage fiction. As in all genres, there are good writers, and poor ones. People who write great stories, with silly situations that work, and some whom you leave after ten lines because you know it's hopeless.
     
    Strangely enough, there's very little gay bondage fiction. It's always widely mixed with SM; people, consensually or not, inflicting pain to each other. This is not my thing. I like kidnapping situations that end up well (the person freed and the kidnapper in jail), semi-consensual games between willing players, and tons of other variations on these themes. I know, this is weird. It took a while to accept these fantasies, on top of same-sex attraction, and not to be completely ridden with guilt. Colin quoted Popeye somewhere, saying "I yam what I yam." This is sound thinking. I've been on bondage boards on which people were as eager to find out the "Why?" of their fantasies. As much as quite a few here would like to know they're gay.
     
    I've given up on finding out. No fantasy is bad, some fantasies should not be enacted. Other people's fantasies are of two kinds: they make you laugh or they make you puke. Mine would fall in the first category for lots of people, but who cares? Many fantasies question the domination/ submission realm, and I'm rather sure that lots of people I've come across at work who behave like jerks must have unresolved issues with theirs. All the people I've met in real life who take a step in acknowledging these d/s fantasies are well-balanced, honest and kind.
     
    So, yes, a good erotic story is one that will let you know you're part of humanity and this part of imagination that makes the brain an erogenous zone is not yours and yours only.
  8. Bondwriter

    A first

    By Bondwriter,

    I have been meaning to create a blog for a while, just for the sake of not hijacking other people's with comments and rant all on my own. So here we are, my very first entry.
    A positive one as is. Last evening, the band I play with shared the stage (a small bar actually) with these girls. It was a great evening; we played OK, and this took place in a little neighborhood bar in which we have played a few times, and where we are welcome royally every time. It ended the week-end on a joyful note.
    All the other band members are going away at different times, so it was a good way to end the year. There have been lots of good moments with the band this year, and hopefully next year will be even better. This was a short first entry; I'll try to have nice long pages as some do later on. I'll just warm up a bit before.
  9. Bondwriter
    Hey, it seems everyone is giving advice, and instead of ruining Tiger's Desiderata thread, I'll make it an entry.
     
     

     
    WORDS OF ADVICE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
     
     
    People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people. Well, here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.
     
    Never interfere in a boy and girl fight.
     
    Beware of whores who say they don't want money. The hell they don't. What they mean is they want more money. Much more.
     
    If you're doing business with a religious son of a bitch, get it in writing. His word isn't worth shit, not with the good Lord telling him how to f*ck you on the deal.
     
    Avoid f*ckups. You all know the type. Anything they have anything to do with, no matter how good it sounds, turns into a disaster.
     
    Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill. Tell them firmly, "I am not paid to listen to this drivel. You are a terminal fool."
     
    Now some of you may encounter the devil's bargain if you get that far. Any old soul is worth saving at least to a priest, but not every soul is worth buying. So you can take the offer as a compliment. They charge the easy ones first, you know, like money, all the money there is. But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery? Not much to spend it on, eh, Gramps? Getting too old to cut the mustard. Have you forgotten something, Gramps? In order to feel something, you have to be there. You have to be 18. You're not 18, you are 78. Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.
     
    How about an honorable bargain? "You always wanted to become a doctor. Now's your chance. Why, you could have become a great healer and benefit humanity. What's wrong with that?" Just about everything. There are no honorable bargains involving exchange of qualitative merchandise like souls. Just quantitative merchandise like time and money. So piss off, Satan, and don't take me for dumber than I look. As an old junk pusher told me, "Watch whose money you pick up."
     
    -- William S. Burroughs
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