note to self on a monday.

one of the many merits of working at a Coach House

Our toilet bowl? Frozen. Solid.
We all stood around it in mute horror (and silent mirth) on Friday.
Someone suggested that filling it in the usual manner would no doubt break the icey pond encased in porcelain, but no one wanted to test and be sure.
Finally a cup of boiling water did the trick.
But not before I wished fervently, SO fervently, that a camera had been present.

enthusiasm binges

It occured to me today that I may have a strange affliction: enthusiasm binges.
I have been indulging them lately, in a manic frenzy of over-activity. Book-making, letter-writing, scarf knitting, pot-plant planting, web-site building, manic-hard-drive organization.
I mean MANIC.
Rational thought will have NO ESCAPE from this evening's organizational tactics.
And though this may sound just peachy to some, I am really not quite sure. It's getting excessive.

I really need to get cable. Or perhaps the motivation to figure out how this television I was loaned actually gets even the basic channels, which I haven't quite had the patience to do yet.

Anyhow, I'm not sure what all this means, but I did feel the need to post a vague concern.

I suppose this productivity does keep me in tow over the winter months, and alleviates some work worries I've been having.
I googled enthusiasm binges, anyhow. Only got four hits: two blogs and two dead ends. So if it's an ailment, I'm the only one who has it. (sigh) Great. Oh, would that I were a normal human being!

my anatomical leanings and a horrid nightmare.

well.
This'll be a post with subheadings, i think.
It's just that kind of post.
And I love subheadings.

MY CLEVER LITTLE BRAIN.
I went to bed feeling immensely clever.
I taught myself to write html and build websites etc from scratch many years ago, so whenever I finish one I always have this memory of my very first web page. (It was hand-coded, so to speak, and took about 13 hours. I kid you not. It was a red screen with the word hello that linked to a green page that said well done!.)
(My roomie at the time, 073666, was most impressed, especially when I got him out of bed to show him at 2 in the morning.
"Oh." he said, if I remember correctly.)
Anyhow.

MY NEW WEBSITE.
For those of you unfamiliar with my new site, one of the splash pages has four mason jars on a shelf, which, when rolled over, reveal different parts of human anatomy floating in the formaldehyde which lead you to the pertinent pages (ie. eyes for paintings, heart for books, stomach for freelance work)

I know.

MY ANATOMICAL LEANINGS.
I love anatomy. It fascinates the hell out of me, I think the human body is the most beautiful and AMAZING machine that exists. I think about it every day, and it never fails to remind me of magic, and I am convinced that every single thing we do, have, or have created, can be found to be a mere and modest mimicry of something that already goes on inside us physiologically.
(shrug) It's my ideal metaphor.

OTHER PEOPLE.
When I first told Coco (aka. 231079, aka RSS, aka what on earth do you want to be known as on this blog?) about my new design, she was vaguely horrified.
I chuckled a bit, as I do, seeing as I am the FIRST one under my chair, hands paralysed, when the horror movie trailers grace the theatre screen. I can deal with them, but from beneath my chair is the place I do it best.
When concocting my little splash page drawings, it didn't even occur to me that my little mason jars have much the same effect on your (well, not really average), but definitely sane human being.

WELL.
I had a HORRIFIC nightmare last night.
Literally a "cold sweat and awaking in manic terror of the dark room" sort of dream. I don't have them often, and i hate them. HATE them. Probably because I spend so much time dissecting them for significance, I end up feeling like this is it, my time is up, etc etc.
I won't go into any details about it here, not only would it send you, dear reader(s) running, but would probably bring the little men in white coats clamouring forward to remove me from the internet for content violations.
But I will say in part of the dream I was decapitated.
(Don't worry, I sewed my head back on and even managed to smoke a cigarette.)
(And I don't even smoke.)
(Beetlejuice's got nothing on me.)

Now I comprehend, and now I worry.
I'm not really sure what to do, because what looks like four modest mason jars with anatomy in them is really a week and a half of toil and hairpulling.
So I suppose this is a disclaimer of sorts.

I guess for now, did I say go visit my website? Don't go visit my website.
(sigh)

i'm sorry Coco, there are no dancing ladies.

But it's DONE. and up. Not content to just add the few trifling things missing, I rebuilt my whole website in the last week.
Off my head. Utterly Potty.
But thrilled nonetheless.
It's quite the task, I was doing a link check to finish up and my hefty website program told me there are 1545 links in the bloody thing. How does it keep TRACK of everything?!?! I wonder.
Anyhow. Come visit.

a cyber respite.

it's true. I have been remiss.
But.
Not content to just "update my website" with new projects, (how GAUCHE), I am toiling away at a redesign, which is so on the cusp of being finished that I am salivating, if it is possible to do such a thing online.
Coco, I don't know if there will be dancing ladies, but I am striving, oh how I am striving.

I'm aiming for the end of the week to upload said site, and I pray you, be patient. You bloggy sorts will no doubt appreciate my new html efforts in this latest venture in websitedom. It is true, I have discovered....(cyber drum roll) SLICES. (sounds of accelerated heartbeat and heavy breathing) Goodness.

In the meanwhile.
Discovered this quite by accident whilst writing a (thumpa thumpa) letter this evening.
(No, like a Real letter. THEY STILL EXIST. IT'S TRUE. And I'm BACK OFF THE BANDWAGON, GLORY BE)
But yes.
I dropped my thesaurus, a formidable tome, and as I leaned down to pick it up, I saw that the honorable sorts in Oxford have provided us english speakers with three synonyms for "man on the Clapham Omnibus".
These are: (in order of importance) "hoi polloi", "people", and "plebeian"

How extraordinarily competent of them.

on the variegated nature of the prefix eune

231079 (aka Coco) and I were discussing the similiarities between the words eunoia and eunuch the other day. She of course, while i was no doubt lying prone and useless under something heavy, went forth and researched Eunoia, and came up with these facts, courtesy of Wikipedia.

Eunoia is the shortest English word containing all five main vowel graphemes. It comes from the Greek word (insert incomprehensible alphabet here) which means "well mind". It is a rarely used medical term referring to a state of normal mental health. In book eight of Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle uses the term (in Greek) to refer to the kind and benevolent feelings of goodwill a spouse has which form the basis for the ethical foundation of human life.[1]

hmm. kind and benevolent.

To which I shall now add a few sundry words about "eunuch".
A eunuch is a castrated man; the term usually refers to those castrated in order to perform a specific social function, as was common in many societies of the past...In some societies, the notion of eunuch has been expanded to include men who are impotent with women or are simply celibate.

The English word eunuch is from the Greek eune ("bed") and ekhein ("to keep"), effectively "bed keeper."


May I point out that eunuch is based on the Greek word "eune" which is bed. Although Wikipedia doesn't translate (strange greek word here), which Eunoia is based on, perhaps it is "bed"?
This would of course lend credence to my theory that a state of normal mental health involves being perpetually asleep.

Which of course, given that I am sitting here typing this and am not in my bed right now, is proof positive that I am Truly certifiable.

iFascists and a nostalgia for the humble mixed tape.

Because of these poxy limitations on iTunes purchased music, my mixed cd from 163478 (product of Saturday's hostage situation) is only four songs strong, with a bleeding 21 defunct due to the need to authorize authorize AUTHORIZE. Like iTunes were even the "authors" in the first place. Grrr.
And as 163478 so aptly put it, sharing is not just for personal use.

____

oh yeah, and I'm nostalgic for mixed tapes.

SNOW!!!!

snow snow snow SNOW (little musical notes of glee here) Snow SNOW snow snoW sNOW SNOW!!!! YEEEEEHHHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! Snow that covers the ground! Snow that is mushy and brown in the roads!!! Snow that makes people honk their horns malevolently!!! SNOOOOOWWWWW!!!

on the logic of karma.

Had a discussion the other day about karma, which I am beginning to hate the concept of. Karma has always seemed a rational process to me. Something happens and i think to myself, oh! that's because I did such and such before. Karma. And then everything makes sense and all seems right with the world.

The other day an alternative train of thought was pointed out to me. What if karma is NOT why said happening took place? What if my logic is completely wrong, and said happening was about as related to me as that box that fell over in the closet last week, while i was sitting all the way across the room?

The scary thing about believing in karma is that there is no one out there to argue with your logic. And if it makes "sense" to you, it's really hard to dispel.

But you could be Wrong.

Being wrong is a distinct (and not necessarily unpleasant) possibility.

Hostage situation.

It's Saturday, and what follows is the sort of trouble I get up to when I have no pressing deadlines.

My good friend 163478, prone to forgetfulness, left his ipod here when leaving my house yesterday after more Who watching. Seeing as my Ipod presently lies prone in a drawer (only 1 1/2 years old!), broken and unusable (ggrrrrr I hope you Apple fuckers are reading this) I have taken advantage of this to enjoy a day of gratuitous shuffle at 163478's expense.
And as my heinous crime (outlined below) will never make the papers, denying me my fifteen minutes of criminal fame, I post this email, sent to him, outlining my demands for its safe return.

Now. It occurs to me that what we have here, dear 163478, is a hostage situation.

You see, until I receive my ransom (one mixed cd of a memorable and 163478-standard quality), your ipod will remain in my possession. Your actions alone can determine its fate.
So.
Until such a time as you yield to my demands, I am holding your ipod here hostage.
But I am a benevolent captor, rest assured, and, seeing as I'm sitting next to it at my computer puttering away, I shall heretofore record, via email, what songs it sings to me in its shuffling state, to reassure you of its well-being.

So off we go.

...(listing of various songs of an admirable and highly entertaining quality, courtesy of 163478's ipod.)...

i have to go for brunch now. I'm leaving a bowl of water by this ipod and it's shackled to the speakers. The place is booby trapped and the walls have ears. Don't even TRY to come get it.
----

hmm.
i wonder if this is how divorcees deal with their assets. You know, like:
I'M PISSING ON YOUR COUCH RIGHT NOW YOU FUCKHEAD, GIVE ME BACK THOSE PILLOW SHAMMIES.

More tr(who)isms.

As beautiful as you and as deadly as the plague. If she was real I'd marry her.

Do you mind not standing on my chest, my hat's on fire.

Restrain her! We must cannibalize her for parts!

This is not wine but vinegar! Fetch good wine, dog!

I have better things to do than meddle in the piffling policies of your tiny planet!

We agreed to meet at midnight, but I had nothing better to do so I thought I'd come early. What's your reason?
Do I need one?
Well no, but it would have been fun to hear it.

RSS, an unstoppable force of wit.

Commenting on my tendency towards self deprecation, R coined it today thusly: Always pissing in the champagne. Honestly.

Galloping Authoritarian Equines!

A police horse just GALLOPED past my window. Just this moment.
GALLOPED, dear reader(s). What is going on in this city?!?!

random query about shrubbery

to a friend via email, today returned this link.
Of course.
And it's so true. I would feel Horrid, betrayed, and horticulturally destitute if months and years of my hard work (were) simply wiped out and destroyed with BAD INFORMATION(.)

and on the seventh day, she knitted.

Above you will see a model photo of the projected (width-wise) proportion of human to wool for my new woolly Scarf.

I started it last week, and Dr. Who can eat his heart out, 'coz not only will I be able to strangle dastardly villains and rescue people hanging from cliffs with this one, I will do it while the sheep look on in sheer (har har) astonishment.

1.5 feet down, 18.5 feet to go.

debt and daisies.

RSS and I decided over lunch today to compare debts.
We decided that she is, in fact, in worse debt than I am. Instead of feeling relief at this, (which would be odd), I felt the need to reset the scales somewhat. I pointed out that, being 6 years younger than me, she might well be in debt longer, but she will also last 6 years longer, still skipping valiantly through the daisies whilst I am pushing them up.

the One Night Stands, an official announcement.

OK.
So now. The show is up AND the books are done, but Rubbishy Christ. I bound them by hand, a task which left me with a mixed feeling of bliss (fun to do) and Utter Futility (About 5 hours of fiddling, for a meagre 13 books.)
That's 13 Very Lucky People, that's all I have to say. Or not, depending on how good my binding turned out in the end.

Printmakers of the world would be right to be appalled.
As would many, and not just at my bookbinding skills.

Anyhow. Go check out the drawings. They're in the art window 'til the end of the month. The drawings are for sale; I'm running out of room to store 'em all, so if you have rich friends, drag them with you. Point out how enticing said millionaires will seem to colleagues, exes,mortal enemies, if they hang a sleeping stranger above their mantel.

In the meanwhile, and since you've read this far, I'm using the cover image (above) as a Rorschacht to discover the true/inner nature of you, my dear reader(s). What do you see in the fabric on the cover?
I've had three answers so far; a sweater, intestines, a corpse (three guesses on who saw the corpse).

Today.

Should be OUTLAWED FROM THE ANNALS OF TIME.
Today should have been questioned before it began about the pending atrocities in store, and then cancelled due to lack of enthusiasm.
Today was SO Ass there are no words to describe it.
And so, dear reader(s), I won't even try.
You have been spared. And may my karma be watching (the good deed of my silence on the subject of today) from wherever it lurks, and may it take notes, gold stars at the ready.

the One Night Stands, a public hanging.

My One Night Stands are now publicly hanging in the art window at Pages bookstore in Toronto.
Well, six of 'em are. I'm pleased, though very ready for this project to be over. I'm not sure how my well-intentioned projects always end up being creepy, but there it is.
The original idea behind the project was a simple one. Find pictures of strangers sleeping, take one night with each of them (no more no less), make a drawing and then walk away from it. Never go back.

NO I DON'T KNOW ANY OF THEM, AND I HAVEN'T SLEPT WITH ANY OF THEM.
just for the record.

The idea seemed harmless, but as I finished off the book, with my little bits of text and definitions and such, the end product has turned out decidely more ominous.
Weird.

I'm a nice person, in actual fact. Really.

There is a book with the project, that was in fact the end product in question, but they, alas, are still in the finishing stages. In fact the cover drawing is sitting here in front of me right now, in fact. So I'm back to that. Binding 'em tomorrow, bringing 'em to Pages Wednesday. So if anyone feels inclined to pilgrimage to Pages, wait 'til Wednesday and you can see (and buy if you want!) the whole book.

This is silly, but both times I've had a Pages art window I've felt a little like I've won an Oscar or something, I walked by the window tonight and felt a ridiculous moment of pride that something of mine has a home there.
It's the Best Bookstore in Toronto. The Best. I don't care how cheesy and/or fawning it sounds.

(not even close to) the end of a Very busy sunday.

This pithy little reminder from U2(!) as i fatiguedly plod onwards, with piles of unbound paper and framed things everywhere.:
"You have to live in your dreams; don't make them so hard."

bondage.

by the nefarious nipples of Nebuchadrezzar, HOW BEST TO BIND THESE BLOODY BOOKS.
Show goes up tomorrow despite it all; books are printed at least, covers incomplete, heart pounding.
Gah.

faith, vows and children.

My friend Flick told me yesterday about a friend of hers who repeats her marriage vows to her husband on the 22nd of every month (the date they got married), regardless of how faithful (or not) they may be feeling to them at the moment. This struck me as immensely beautiful. Not necessarily the marriage context. But this action of speaking out against our brains, or rather, in spite of our brains in any given moment. Our minds are so constantly distracted and chattering and concerned with the whims of now now now, which could be the product of anything from indigestion to an ill-timed comment, that there is something about stopping for a moment to repeat words that represent a greater truth.
Then we were talking about this relative to children. That most adults seem better able to bypass criticisms and self-absorbed whims of the moment when speaking with kids. It's rare to hear an adult say to a child "what *I* want is more important than what you want" or "I don't like you" (in the heat of a moment) or things like that.
Alot of us know when children are anxious, or when they need to hear something. When talking to a kid, it's easier to recognize when they are fearful or in pain or need attention.
If we dealt with other adults more often as if they were still children (proverbially speaking), I imagine we would get much further with each other. And be kinder, and perhaps even more honest.

laughing my way to crippledom.

The significance and/or oddity of this will only make sense to my closest of friends, but I finished the gutsplitting book posted about below this morning, and was laughing So hard my hands went numb. I KID YOU NOT. I had to perch the book in my lap. So weird.

Just One More.

I Promise. JUST ONE. (new readers, see a few posts down)
"They Call Me Naughty Lola" ladies and gentlemen, "They Call Me Naughty Lola"
I love the British SO FUCKING MUCH.

I'd like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart attacks. Box no. 6207.

The Oddities.

and now that this Christmas gift has at last found its owner, well, I can post it. Rife with errors, inconsistencies, misplaced copy, but still I was rather pleased that my year-long collection of the office emails made its way into a little book, which I fondly call the Brick Oddities.
208 pages. Holy Cow. We all, might I boast, give Very Good Email.

(click on picture to see back-cover copy.)

I have one lending copy in my library. Interested parties please contact me to borrow it.

But until then, I have garnered permission to publish some of the more recent missives, the ones that arrived after "publication". And until I am quieted, you, dear reader(s) shall reap the fruits of our daily labours.

from: managing editor
subject: Some Changes around here.
date: Thursday, January 4, 2007 3.27 PM

I have a letter from someone who signs himself so: Andy McDonald, B.A.

I find it so delightfully pretentious, that in future I shall sign myself (RSS), B.A. I expect you to address me as such (comme ca: "Rebecca, B.A., will you please pass me a cookie"). Also I expect the attendant heightened respect of my newly acknowledged credentials.
(You can do this too if you like. For instance: stef lenk, O.Y.O.U.B.D.O.F.R.U/R.O.S.L.E.A.U.T.A.F.B.F.E.I.B.P.F.B.E.W.N.B.L.C. (One Year of University Before Dropping Out For Reasons Unknown; Reams Of Subsequent Life Experience And Unparalleled Travel Adventures Followed By Formal Education In Book Publishing Followed By Employment With Nerdy But Loving Colleagues).

PEEING myself.

Today 231079, 443980, and i went a-wandering through Pages at lunchtime. So dangerous.

I picked up a book called They Call Me Naughty Lola.

Who wouldn't, really.

I opened it and was greeted with (real) personal ads taken from the London Review of Books, which some clever sort decided to amass between dustcovers.

Poor 231079.
I didn't have money on me. (This had been vaguely strategic planning, given the perilous dangers of a trip to Pages). 231079 decided, though, that I must have said book and purchased it for me, regardless of financial strife, regardless of the common sense knowledge that I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAVE ANY MORE BOOKS. She even refused my attempts to compensate her, in that way of hers that causes So Much Reverence and only a slight (Slight) bit of worry.

And how did i repay her? sigh. By following her around the bookshop, reading endless passages of the wit of lonelyhearts and Howling Uncontrollably. So patient. So tolerant.
And I was Crying, I tell you. SO. FUNNY.

I am going to attempt to restrain myself from re-copying the whole book onto this blog. Especially since I am (believe it or not) aware that people probably do not share my excessive degree of mirth over these, or even my rather uptight and stodgy sense of humour in general.
I do appreciate that.
I do.
But sweet balls of Beelzebub, just a few.
Just a few. (This is what you get for reading blogs, you fools. Stuck with my idea of funny.)

Here we go:

You were reading the BBC in-house magazine on the Jubilee Line (12 November), I was coughing hot tea through my nostrils. Surely you can't have forgotten? Write now to smitten, weak-kneed, severely burned, bumbling F (32, but normally I look younger). I'll be quite a catch when my top lip has healed. And this brace isn't forever. Box no. 7432.

Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth. Box no. 7652.

Baste me in butter and call me Slappy. No, really. M, 35. Box no. 3175.

Are you Kate Bush? Write to obsessive man (36) at box no. 7363. Note: People who aren't Kate Bush need not respond.

Grave disappointment all round WLTM serious mistake in a nightie. Box no. 6453.

You are going to be alone this Christmas. That's because nobody likes you. I, however, will provide you with a basic meal and some pleasant company on the understanding that you do not criticise my collection of antique medical implements. Tidy man, 51. Size 9 slipper. Box no. 7314.

Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station.* Unless the 10.15 to Watney has been delayed. In which case I'll get the bus—meet me at Morrisons, by the front entrance. If you can't find your way there, get a taxi and I'll give you the fare when I arrive, but make sure you take some change with you. If you don't have any change, take a trumpet so that you can busk for some. Woman, 38, burdened by the need to make contingency plans, seeks well-ordered man to 45. Or woman to 50. Or anyone to 60. Write to box no. 3485. If you can't find stamps, place an ad here and I'll get back to you. If the office is closed, email it. If you can't write, send a taped voice message. Etc., etc.

*(This one had Footnotes!! The preceding is a lyric to an old Monkees single.)

I will end with saying that I do realize that there is a fine line between gut-splittingly funny and grievously sad. Sigh. All this really shows us is how many single people there are out there who (ahem) spend Far Too Much Time Reading.

Shannon Gerard, you are the Coolest BookMaker on this Planet.

I am a subscriber to a series of books called "Stones and Ghosts", made by one Shannon Gerard, artist and bookmaker extraordinaire of Toronto. Her books are Unsurpassed. I encourage you, I harangue you, I Implore you; click here and look. Seriously.

It has been a short while since the last one arrived, Naturally, I thought, given the holidays and all manner of insanity.
Chatting with her in person a couple of days ago, she mentioned she had done another one, and that they were in her bag, no less.

And then today, in the mail, I got a 26 page hand-made book called "intermission", containing 26 drawings from Miz Gerard's latest venture interruptus, an illustration job of 500 (FIVE HUNDRED) drawings for a school phonics book, that needed to be completed in two months. TWO MONTHS.

I get my books in the mail without fail, even if we happen upon each other in real life, because this is the nature of the project. So, amidst the useless fliers, bills, and other atrocities with which we desecrate our postal system, are these tiny gems that arrive periodically.

And, not even just the scheduled subscription, it seems, but Glorious books made Above and Beyond the call of duty. Untold Glee, I tell you. And awe-inspiring. And bloggable gratitude. Everything.

see, it's stuff like this that makes me happy in the mornings.

SO Happy. Like chuckling to myself in an empty apartment at 8.46am happy.
not to mention that it anticipates lunch.
and i love lunch.

Today's Word: Borborygm (Noun)

Pronunciation: [bor-bê-'rig-êm]

Definition 1: The gurgling sounds made by the stomach after eating.

Usage 1: The plural is "borborygmi" and the adjective "borborygmic." Borborygmi form the gastromantic data base (see WotD Archives for "gastromancy"). "Borborology" is a both rare and archaic alternate with an unexpected meaning: profanity. However, it is difficult not to believe that gastromantics are students of borborology, not of profanity but of borborygmi.

Suggested Usage: Today we offer you a more presentable expression for the less acceptable "gut-rumblings." Use it judiciously, "The conversation around the campfire was accompanied by borborygmic remnants of the evening meal." Elizabeth Fenwick wrote in 'Long Way Down' (1959), "The room was very quiet, except for its borborygmic old radiator."

Etymology: Borrowed into English from Greek borbor-ugmos via French "borborygme." This is a clear example of Greek onomatopoeia, the imitation of a real sound in the sound of the word referring to it. It is odd the French and English did not simplify this word to "borborism" as the Greeks ultimately did. (We are grateful to suspected gastromantic Kate Johnson for today's postgastronomical term.)

psychotic tendencies.

I have been on strike against my radio alarm for some time, due to its Astounding habit of starting my day with news of someone very far away committing atrocities and inhumane acts that I both am uninvolved with and can't do anything about.
Well, yesterday of course, the year proper started, and I had things that needed doing.
My radio was going for under thirty seconds and I heard the words crime, torture, and the name of some country in the Middle East. I turned it off.
Still feeling rattled ('coz that's just the way I am) I went to lunch and decided that Savage Love would be safely light reading, only to read about a woman who was raped by her boyfriend, and was writing in to see if she should forgive him, 'coz he was hospitalized with suicidal tendencies over the guilt of it all.
I was walking back to work when a friend of mine phoned me to apologize about getting a cheque to me a bit late; her brother had been shot and his friend killed in a drunken fight over the holidays, about four blocks away from where I live.
And then later, (this heard on another radio, where, I can't remember) was news of some woman posting videos of Saddam Hussein's execution for the general public to ogle on YouTube.

Somewhere, the poet Albert Goldbarth (alas, the only reference I found when googling it was my own allusion to this in my 2005 blog!) said that Eadweard Muybridge invented pornography. He was referring to Muybridge's clinical way of photographing the human form in all its revolutions; recording aspects of people that they are unable to see from all angles whilst actually engaged in said action. And all of this for other people to examine at their leisure, through the safety of distance.

Nowadays I wonder if he invented the news as well. People playing voyeur to extremes in which they will never be involved, but can watch or hear from the safety of their homes.
I doubt seriously that this passive engagement comes without consequence.