I mentioned an editorial several days ago, and never actually posted it.
I meant to. So. Here you go.
In one way or another, college has always been a life-altering force in people's lives. Students learn a little more about the natural world, the horrors of life (including but not limited to bills and nine to five jobs), and global history. Inevitably, all this learning also leads to decision-making. We decide our majors, how we use our time, where we spend our money, and who we hang out with.
At college, we also decide what we do--and do not--believe about God, which I feel is a really big problem. Why? Well, a few things.
Most colleges teach such that everything one typically learns is based upon the foundation of scientific learning. On the one hand, this scientific approach is awesome: it allows psychology to dovetail with cellular biology to dovetail with english, none of which are apparently related. However, it leaves some huge gaping holes in the learning experience.
Being a science major, I can tell you that the first thing almost every science professor covers at the start of semester is the whole theory-hypothesis-whatnot gig. Having heard this gig several times, let me assure you that a truly scientific approach is exactly why you cannot base a theological decision on anything you hear in a scientific college.
Science, at its core, is the study of the natural world, meaning it only studies and makes decisions on that which can be tested in a lab as it would happen in nature. For this reason, science does not touch the supernatural with a ten foot pole to the point that a true scientist will never debate it since he cannot study it. Students are being taught from a standpoint that declares at its core that God's existence is a moot point because it cannot be tested. It is not that God does not exist: it is that it should not be discussed or even taken into account.
Furthermore, science takes a 'right until proven wrong' approach to everything. Even those bits and pieces that are approached as utterly, unshakably true--take the laws of thermodynamics, for example--could be declared wrong if testing showed it as such. Science is not a stable, unshakable entity that builds upwards eternally: it is volatile, open to change, and constantly being edited. A prime example would be the current debate in the biology world over whether or not turtles are reptiles. Various studies of DNA have revealed the fact that turtle genes are extremely different from their reptilian one-time-cohorts. Many scientists are already accepting of the fact that there needs to be a new, turtles-only taxonomic section, separate from lizards, snakes, and crocodilians.
My point? Science cannot teach absolute truth. Nothing in science is ever considered completely, utterly, 100% absolute. Ideas will be accepted as right until proven wrong, but the moment an exception comes to light, the notion is edited. Compare this with any kind of religious teaching: all declare an unchanging set of truths which define the foundation of belief. These fundamentals are completely at odds with scientific fundamentals, making the two warring entities.
I will not try to make a case for God here: I don't feel that I have the wisdom to attempt that point. However, I know enough to say--without a doubt--that the typical college is NOT where students should decide about God. Ask a pastor, minister, priest, monk, or five of each: approach religious leaders of the community and abroad. Wherever you go, talk to people who at least are open to the idea of His existence. Better to speak to experts than the opinionated.
I know it's not very good--sorry to make you suffer. But it's written whole-heartedly, and educatedly: I didn't put anything in I haven't honestly learned.
Science aside, rugby has been in the front of my mind of late. Why?
6 a.m. Insanity workouts, that's why.
It's a lot easier to think about rugby all the time when every step is a begrudged effort earned only by intense, pain-ignoring effort. Added to this heap of joy is the nice layer of ice coating the entirety of campus, completely unsalted and ignored.
I end up feeling like I waddle all over the place. Which sucks, by the way. Enormously.
However, life goes on, and eventually I'll adjust to the Insanity of it all. Hopefully, but doubtfully.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Ah, music.
I end up ignoring things a lot. Little, mostly unimportant things (it would seem) until they rear up and bite, feeling overly neglected.
Sometimes, I skip out on listening to music.
It's not intentional, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but suddenly I've got this achy quaky sensation and I know it: I haven't listened to enough music lately. In these moments of desperation, I grab my headphones and either my mp3 player or the nearest computer.
I LOVE Grooveshark.
Don't get me wrong, Pandora has its high points. But Grooveshark? Brilliance. All those songs I hear on Pandora can be refound and memorized via Grooveshark's loving system, which gives it many points over Pandora, who gives you tasty things and then takes them away.*
In other news, I have halfway finished my original knitting project, started way back in March or whenever it was. It was a while ago. I now have one knitted fingerless glove, which has taken up residence in my sock drawer for the present. Eventually, it will have a friend and I will wear them, probably too often.
In still other news, I have sacrificed my soul to Pinterest. Want creative ideas? Like the idea of laughing at random pieces of geek-dom? Don't mind the idea of spending hours at a computer, barely moving? Then Pinterest is for you! It eats you, almost as effectively as my organic chemistry book** has eaten me, and leaves you wiggling helplessly in exchange for hours of nonstop awesome.
And by hours, I do mean hours.
If you brave the pin boards . . . . have fun. It's delicious.
I find that I have produced enough randomness for now. Later, I might write a blog entailing what I intend to write for an editorial in the school paper. It's pretty stiff stuff, and I'm proud of what it could be. :)
But that's for later.
* :(
**Which, in the bidding war for my soul, has unlimited funding. :'(
Sometimes, I skip out on listening to music.
It's not intentional, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but suddenly I've got this achy quaky sensation and I know it: I haven't listened to enough music lately. In these moments of desperation, I grab my headphones and either my mp3 player or the nearest computer.
I LOVE Grooveshark.
Don't get me wrong, Pandora has its high points. But Grooveshark? Brilliance. All those songs I hear on Pandora can be refound and memorized via Grooveshark's loving system, which gives it many points over Pandora, who gives you tasty things and then takes them away.*
In other news, I have halfway finished my original knitting project, started way back in March or whenever it was. It was a while ago. I now have one knitted fingerless glove, which has taken up residence in my sock drawer for the present. Eventually, it will have a friend and I will wear them, probably too often.
In still other news, I have sacrificed my soul to Pinterest. Want creative ideas? Like the idea of laughing at random pieces of geek-dom? Don't mind the idea of spending hours at a computer, barely moving? Then Pinterest is for you! It eats you, almost as effectively as my organic chemistry book** has eaten me, and leaves you wiggling helplessly in exchange for hours of nonstop awesome.
And by hours, I do mean hours.
If you brave the pin boards . . . . have fun. It's delicious.
I find that I have produced enough randomness for now. Later, I might write a blog entailing what I intend to write for an editorial in the school paper. It's pretty stiff stuff, and I'm proud of what it could be. :)
But that's for later.
* :(
**Which, in the bidding war for my soul, has unlimited funding. :'(
Monday, October 31, 2011
Starlight
today is a day where, in mute agony, I wonder at who I am.
who am I?
I wonder.
where am I going with my life?
have I remembered what is truly important?
or am I finally lost?
this rarely happens. usually, I am settled in my skin as I should be, fitted neatly, no pins or new seams required.
but today,there are gaps in myself. nothing fits as it should, and I know it.
what makes a person's skin too big?
it is Halloween, and I feel like I've been wearing a mask all year. I've tried to live openly.
but what if I didn't?
who am I?
I wonder.
where am I going with my life?
have I remembered what is truly important?
or am I finally lost?
this rarely happens. usually, I am settled in my skin as I should be, fitted neatly, no pins or new seams required.
but today,there are gaps in myself. nothing fits as it should, and I know it.
what makes a person's skin too big?
it is Halloween, and I feel like I've been wearing a mask all year. I've tried to live openly.
but what if I didn't?
Friday, October 21, 2011
Not The Same
living a busy life, it is easy to forget God some days.
it is easier not to believe in something when you're not looking for it, and some days I forget to look for God.
sometimes, He is obvious: a clear sky and a crisp breeze whipping around me and chilling my fingertips on my bicycle.
sometimes, it takes a second glance: the perfect details in an autumn leaf.
but sometimes I stop looking. my eyes are open, but I do not see.
He is still there, just like the breeze and the leaf and the sky, but I cannot see Him.
I think many people can't see God either.
their eyes are so wide they see nothing, none of the majesty and power of this world around them.
their minds are so educated they consider nothing, none of the simplicity and magic of the universe.
their hearts are so proud they feel too little to know the true, overwhelming awe looking for God brings.
suppose that, for one day, every person was to stop.
stop doing, stop talking, stop everything.
suppose we stopped, and listened.
suppose we stopped, and thought.
suppose we stopped, and wondered.
after that stop, would we ever be the same?
would the silence change us?
would the stillness seep into us?
or would we rush on, speaking and doing thoughtlessly?
I do not know.
but suppose that we stopped, and looked, and saw God.
would we ever be the same?
it is easier not to believe in something when you're not looking for it, and some days I forget to look for God.
sometimes, He is obvious: a clear sky and a crisp breeze whipping around me and chilling my fingertips on my bicycle.
sometimes, it takes a second glance: the perfect details in an autumn leaf.
but sometimes I stop looking. my eyes are open, but I do not see.
He is still there, just like the breeze and the leaf and the sky, but I cannot see Him.
I think many people can't see God either.
their eyes are so wide they see nothing, none of the majesty and power of this world around them.
their minds are so educated they consider nothing, none of the simplicity and magic of the universe.
their hearts are so proud they feel too little to know the true, overwhelming awe looking for God brings.
suppose that, for one day, every person was to stop.
stop doing, stop talking, stop everything.
suppose we stopped, and listened.
suppose we stopped, and thought.
suppose we stopped, and wondered.
after that stop, would we ever be the same?
would the silence change us?
would the stillness seep into us?
or would we rush on, speaking and doing thoughtlessly?
I do not know.
but suppose that we stopped, and looked, and saw God.
would we ever be the same?
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Book I Write
Today's post is not friendly. If you get squeamish, skip out after the words "gross anatomy lab." You won't like it.
I hate Wednesdays. Hate them. It's as simple as that. There's too much to do, and I end up feeling rushed and nasty. Plus, nasty things have a tendency of happening.
Like the test I forgot about until last night. My suitemate and I are in the same class and when she asked, all casual-like, "So how are you feeling about tomorrow's test?"
I nearly collapsed. "What test?" I wanted to ask, until I remembered the professor discussing impending doom on Monday. Then I wanted to say something along the lines of, "Please, decapitate and cremate me now," but that would have been overly dramatic.
We laughed mutually at my statement of, "It's gonna happen," and then we both went and studied. I tried not to have an epic breakdown.
Also looming horribly is next week. Midterms, y'all. Freaking midterms. Which means a test on Organic chemistry, which I hate, and Anatomy, which involves memorizing hundreds of muscles, their attachments, and their movements.
Oh, yeah. I'm thrilled.
The one bright spot for the day was the lightbulb-ish bubble I made in glassblowing yesterday. I was excited to have it turn out nicely, and large-ish, with an appropriately flat bottom and rounded sides and thick-ish bottom and-and-and, so my intent was to take it to my room as soon as possible to contemplate its perfection.
Except all day, it wasn't cooled. I checked, and went to class, and came back two hours later, and checked, and came back TWO HOURS AFTER THAT and it still wasn't done. Depressed?
Just maybe.
Added into this cocktail of self-pity was gross anatomy lab. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, "gross anatomy" means that you dissect the deceased after they've been soaked in fermaldehyde and phenol and other stuff and been de-blooded.
Now, for those of you who haven't spent a lot of time dissecting things, allow me to enlighten you. Fermaldehyde, phenol, and the other stuff may be only slightly preferable to the actual smell of rotting flesh. And if it is, it's a very small slight.
To add interest, each and every thing that is soaked in fermaldehyde comes out a little differently. Cat is not the same nasty as squid is not the same as snake is not the same as worm*. Fermaldehyded human is its own particular brand of nasty. It only gets beat out by squid, probably because the squids were decaying and suspended in fermaldehyde.
The worst part of the human variety isn't the actual smell, though. Rather than simply hanging in the air as such nasty odors usually tend to do, it does something infinitely more nasty.
It sticks.
You know how sometimes, after sitting down under a blanket, you move and a little gust of air runs past your nose?
Imagine my surprise when, at such a moment, the gust that ran past smelled just like the lab.
Imagine my horror when I realized the reek was coming from my clothes and my hair and my skin and . . . everything.
After my shower, I brushed my teeth and tried to scrub my nose because--guess what?--it was stuck in my nose and mouth, too.
I have never been so thoroughly disturbed by a smell. It was horrid.
Thus, I hate Wednesdays.
*Believe it or not, the squid was the worst.
I hate Wednesdays. Hate them. It's as simple as that. There's too much to do, and I end up feeling rushed and nasty. Plus, nasty things have a tendency of happening.
Like the test I forgot about until last night. My suitemate and I are in the same class and when she asked, all casual-like, "So how are you feeling about tomorrow's test?"
I nearly collapsed. "What test?" I wanted to ask, until I remembered the professor discussing impending doom on Monday. Then I wanted to say something along the lines of, "Please, decapitate and cremate me now," but that would have been overly dramatic.
We laughed mutually at my statement of, "It's gonna happen," and then we both went and studied. I tried not to have an epic breakdown.
Also looming horribly is next week. Midterms, y'all. Freaking midterms. Which means a test on Organic chemistry, which I hate, and Anatomy, which involves memorizing hundreds of muscles, their attachments, and their movements.
Oh, yeah. I'm thrilled.
The one bright spot for the day was the lightbulb-ish bubble I made in glassblowing yesterday. I was excited to have it turn out nicely, and large-ish, with an appropriately flat bottom and rounded sides and thick-ish bottom and-and-and, so my intent was to take it to my room as soon as possible to contemplate its perfection.
Except all day, it wasn't cooled. I checked, and went to class, and came back two hours later, and checked, and came back TWO HOURS AFTER THAT and it still wasn't done. Depressed?
Just maybe.
Added into this cocktail of self-pity was gross anatomy lab. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, "gross anatomy" means that you dissect the deceased after they've been soaked in fermaldehyde and phenol and other stuff and been de-blooded.
Now, for those of you who haven't spent a lot of time dissecting things, allow me to enlighten you. Fermaldehyde, phenol, and the other stuff may be only slightly preferable to the actual smell of rotting flesh. And if it is, it's a very small slight.
To add interest, each and every thing that is soaked in fermaldehyde comes out a little differently. Cat is not the same nasty as squid is not the same as snake is not the same as worm*. Fermaldehyded human is its own particular brand of nasty. It only gets beat out by squid, probably because the squids were decaying and suspended in fermaldehyde.
The worst part of the human variety isn't the actual smell, though. Rather than simply hanging in the air as such nasty odors usually tend to do, it does something infinitely more nasty.
It sticks.
You know how sometimes, after sitting down under a blanket, you move and a little gust of air runs past your nose?
Imagine my surprise when, at such a moment, the gust that ran past smelled just like the lab.
Imagine my horror when I realized the reek was coming from my clothes and my hair and my skin and . . . everything.
After my shower, I brushed my teeth and tried to scrub my nose because--guess what?--it was stuck in my nose and mouth, too.
I have never been so thoroughly disturbed by a smell. It was horrid.
Thus, I hate Wednesdays.
*Believe it or not, the squid was the worst.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Discombobulate
It has ended up being one of those days in which I am completely, utterly, inexplicably exhausted. It just doesn't make sense.*
To complicate things, it has not been a nice day** in many ways. I have been scrambling, trying to find something good about said day*** and it keeps getting harder.
So there I was, drifting down the street on my bicycle after organic chemistry#, feeling decidedly melancholy when the sheer niceness of a breeze in my face got the better of me. I stopped worrying about all the nastiness and thought about other things.
Life is a lot like drifting down the street on a bicycle.
Sometimes, the best way to deal with all the little stresses is to let them go.##
It is important to be a bowl rather than a bottle so that, when dealing with bad things, they overflow rather than age.
And with these sort of thoughts, the day gets better.
I thank God for little breezes, which are capable of fixing many things.
*I got to bed at normal time, slept like a log, and did not awaken before my alarm. However, I woke up and it's been downhill from there.
**The paperweight I was going to grind for a grade cracked.
The paperweight I made because the aforementioned paperweight cracked also cracked.
I missed 3 of 5 questions on my morning quiz.
I made myself look dumb in anatomy.
I nearly fell asleep (thus, looking dumb) in organic chem.
And it's not even 2:30 yet.
***This is important--nay, imperative--because if I find something nice, I will not have an epic bawl-fest issue breakdown.
#Most of the way from the Math & Science building to my dorm is downhill. This means minimal pedaling.^
^Which means I practice riding one-handed in the hopes someday I might be able to ride without holding the handlebars.
##Somehow, this brought to me a mental image of sparrows swirling about, as sparrows are wont to do at times.
I like sparrows. :3
To complicate things, it has not been a nice day** in many ways. I have been scrambling, trying to find something good about said day*** and it keeps getting harder.
So there I was, drifting down the street on my bicycle after organic chemistry#, feeling decidedly melancholy when the sheer niceness of a breeze in my face got the better of me. I stopped worrying about all the nastiness and thought about other things.
Life is a lot like drifting down the street on a bicycle.
Sometimes, the best way to deal with all the little stresses is to let them go.##
It is important to be a bowl rather than a bottle so that, when dealing with bad things, they overflow rather than age.
And with these sort of thoughts, the day gets better.
I thank God for little breezes, which are capable of fixing many things.
*I got to bed at normal time, slept like a log, and did not awaken before my alarm. However, I woke up and it's been downhill from there.
**The paperweight I was going to grind for a grade cracked.
The paperweight I made because the aforementioned paperweight cracked also cracked.
I missed 3 of 5 questions on my morning quiz.
I made myself look dumb in anatomy.
I nearly fell asleep (thus, looking dumb) in organic chem.
And it's not even 2:30 yet.
***This is important--nay, imperative--because if I find something nice, I will not have an epic bawl-fest issue breakdown.
#Most of the way from the Math & Science building to my dorm is downhill. This means minimal pedaling.^
^Which means I practice riding one-handed in the hopes someday I might be able to ride without holding the handlebars.
##Somehow, this brought to me a mental image of sparrows swirling about, as sparrows are wont to do at times.
I like sparrows. :3
 |
| See? Es cute. :3 |
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Black Sheep
The abilities of the internet usually manage to surprise me*. Needless to say, I was glad to discover that there are lots of page views on days that I post.
People read my blog.
:3
In other news, I'm working on added colored bits to my clear glass in glassblowing, which has been awesome except for when it's been really hard. Really hard, as in, each of my first three attempts has somehow or other managed to fail epically.
All three of them.**
The first^ wasn't cool enough when I went to gather more glass and mostly ran onto the floor during my desperate speed-walk to the bench; there wasn't time before class to turn it into a paperweight. The second^^ cracked from cooling too quickly while I was helping another person with kiln doors and such because his paperweight was overly large***. I overheated the third^^^ right before I finished it and it fell off in the drip pan at the end of the bench with a shattery-sounding sort of splat.
And the project is due Friday#.
Hopefully, all ends well.
More important than bemoaning the current disaster of glass class is to announce that I have returned from a trip enlightened and impassioned, which is always a good thing. Especially when it will help my study practices.
I am part of an excellent scholarship program supporting the training of medical personnel, and as part of this program I went on a trip to a nearby-ish medical school## that graduates from the program attend.
I loved it.
The school is in an actual city###--with bookstores and nice restaurants and more than one stoplight--and did anyone ever mention that med school is amazing? Yes, they try to destroy you with more information in one day than I sometimes see in a week.
And yes, I just shrugged this off as lightly as I would a coat.
This entire process of earning a Bachelor's is littered with nasty little inconsequential things I don't want to think about anyway. Humanities? Bah. Physical activity classes? Pullox. Introduction to communication? Humbug.
Discussing seeing patients and spending two hours in a gross anatomy lab> and contemplating the white coats>> made driving back to my little state college awful.
I didn't want to leave.
So, despite hating chemistry with an all-consuming passion, I have returned renewed. I will get into med school. I will finish in this program. And I will be a doctor.
Bwaha. :)
*It learns stuff while I'm busy studying and working. I come back and it jumps up and down and says, "See! I do new things now, and some old things better! :D"
No need to mock me, I just don't pay as much attention to the web as would be nice.
** D'B
^blue bits
^^black-and-white bits in a dot pattern
^^^red and white bits
***No good deed goes unpunished. I never believed this before in my life.
#This wouldn't be such an issue except the thing needs 24 hours to cool and at least 15 minutes on the grinding wheel which means I have to make an excellent one+ tomorrow between my make-up test, and class, and rugby. Ugh.
+At least one. More than that would be nice, though, too. :(
##Nearby-ish = 9 hours on a bus each way. Xl
###My definition of 'city' here is slightly different than the usual interpretation: the location in question has a population a little greater than 400 thousand. Which is small, I know.
>Gross = large amounts. As in, cadavers. The smell is . . . special, let me tell you.
>>Those students who are not full-fledged MDs yet have shorter coats than the doctors. They still looked professional.+
+The idea of being professionally dressed every day excites me. I have too many unworn classy clothes. :3
People read my blog.
:3
In other news, I'm working on added colored bits to my clear glass in glassblowing, which has been awesome except for when it's been really hard. Really hard, as in, each of my first three attempts has somehow or other managed to fail epically.
All three of them.**
The first^ wasn't cool enough when I went to gather more glass and mostly ran onto the floor during my desperate speed-walk to the bench; there wasn't time before class to turn it into a paperweight. The second^^ cracked from cooling too quickly while I was helping another person with kiln doors and such because his paperweight was overly large***. I overheated the third^^^ right before I finished it and it fell off in the drip pan at the end of the bench with a shattery-sounding sort of splat.
And the project is due Friday#.
Hopefully, all ends well.
More important than bemoaning the current disaster of glass class is to announce that I have returned from a trip enlightened and impassioned, which is always a good thing. Especially when it will help my study practices.
I am part of an excellent scholarship program supporting the training of medical personnel, and as part of this program I went on a trip to a nearby-ish medical school## that graduates from the program attend.
I loved it.
The school is in an actual city###--with bookstores and nice restaurants and more than one stoplight--and did anyone ever mention that med school is amazing? Yes, they try to destroy you with more information in one day than I sometimes see in a week.
And yes, I just shrugged this off as lightly as I would a coat.
This entire process of earning a Bachelor's is littered with nasty little inconsequential things I don't want to think about anyway. Humanities? Bah. Physical activity classes? Pullox. Introduction to communication? Humbug.
Discussing seeing patients and spending two hours in a gross anatomy lab> and contemplating the white coats>> made driving back to my little state college awful.
I didn't want to leave.
So, despite hating chemistry with an all-consuming passion, I have returned renewed. I will get into med school. I will finish in this program. And I will be a doctor.
Bwaha. :)
*It learns stuff while I'm busy studying and working. I come back and it jumps up and down and says, "See! I do new things now, and some old things better! :D"
No need to mock me, I just don't pay as much attention to the web as would be nice.
** D'B
^blue bits
^^black-and-white bits in a dot pattern
^^^red and white bits
***No good deed goes unpunished. I never believed this before in my life.
#This wouldn't be such an issue except the thing needs 24 hours to cool and at least 15 minutes on the grinding wheel which means I have to make an excellent one+ tomorrow between my make-up test, and class, and rugby. Ugh.
+At least one. More than that would be nice, though, too. :(
##Nearby-ish = 9 hours on a bus each way. Xl
###My definition of 'city' here is slightly different than the usual interpretation: the location in question has a population a little greater than 400 thousand. Which is small, I know.
>Gross = large amounts. As in, cadavers. The smell is . . . special, let me tell you.
>>Those students who are not full-fledged MDs yet have shorter coats than the doctors. They still looked professional.+
+The idea of being professionally dressed every day excites me. I have too many unworn classy clothes. :3
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Still Alive
Is there any way of knowing exactly what one is capable of? We know best what we can do when the buiding is crashing down, the bear charging, the end too near.
We live holding back--yes, it's true. The human body never completely expells all its air. One third of a person's lungs is never emptied as a precaution for the event that there would be no filling it at the next breath.*
We live in wait of a moment that may never come.
But how do we push past this containment? How do we arrive at a place where everything is all out, all or nothing? How do we live in such a manner?
It is foolish to be always waiting in terror of what may never come. And it is even more foolish to live in terror of what is guaranteed to come.
I do not think that life without morals is a good thing: indeed, quite the opposite. We do ourselves more favors by walking the line, keeping to the rules.
But what good does it do to simply hold this glass we have been given, be it half empty or full?
Ride motorcycles in spite of the risk factor: it's freeing.**
Make frienships, even though friends (especially the close ones) will cause hurts: it's a good way to learn empathy and feel happiness.***
Attempt the things that you look at and say, "I would like to try that." Why? Because those are the things that make life brighter.+
Live adventurously. Not stupidly, as they are different things and stupidity could get you killed. But adventurously.
*I learned this in my high school choir class. And who says you never learn anything in high school?^
^ . . . . Yes, I have said this. Don't mock me.
**This is true, very true. Motorcycles are delicious: like riding a horse only faster. :)
***This is true of falling in love, too. Your beloved will hurt you, despite what the world thinks^, and you will have to learn forgiveness or join the growing divorce rate.
^The world is wrong about love for many reasons. Love is not an emotion: it is acted out through wishing the best for someone else. Furthermore, it is wrong about how it happens. Falling in love rarely happens gracefully. It's less like a supermodel on the runway and more like said supermodel on black ice.#
#There will be snags, slips, and many nigh breaks, but hopefully it all comes out all right.
+I, your humble nerdy blogger friend, am currently playing rugby^ and taking glass-blowing^^ in the spirit of this idea.
^They call this the gentleman's game, which quite honestly doesn't make sense to me yet. Clawing a downed person with cleats and ball-snatching are quite acceptable, so you might understand my confusion.
^^This is one of the more delightful things I have ever done. The glass comes out of the kiln like honey, except unlike honey it stiffens up into great glorious things# that can be kept indefinitely.
#I am not yet making great glorious things. I am making paperweights, which are the training grid to making great glorious things. Despite their ingloriousness, they are fun and exciting.
We live holding back--yes, it's true. The human body never completely expells all its air. One third of a person's lungs is never emptied as a precaution for the event that there would be no filling it at the next breath.*
We live in wait of a moment that may never come.
But how do we push past this containment? How do we arrive at a place where everything is all out, all or nothing? How do we live in such a manner?
It is foolish to be always waiting in terror of what may never come. And it is even more foolish to live in terror of what is guaranteed to come.
I do not think that life without morals is a good thing: indeed, quite the opposite. We do ourselves more favors by walking the line, keeping to the rules.
But what good does it do to simply hold this glass we have been given, be it half empty or full?
Ride motorcycles in spite of the risk factor: it's freeing.**
Make frienships, even though friends (especially the close ones) will cause hurts: it's a good way to learn empathy and feel happiness.***
Attempt the things that you look at and say, "I would like to try that." Why? Because those are the things that make life brighter.+
Live adventurously. Not stupidly, as they are different things and stupidity could get you killed. But adventurously.
*I learned this in my high school choir class. And who says you never learn anything in high school?^
^ . . . . Yes, I have said this. Don't mock me.
**This is true, very true. Motorcycles are delicious: like riding a horse only faster. :)
***This is true of falling in love, too. Your beloved will hurt you, despite what the world thinks^, and you will have to learn forgiveness or join the growing divorce rate.
^The world is wrong about love for many reasons. Love is not an emotion: it is acted out through wishing the best for someone else. Furthermore, it is wrong about how it happens. Falling in love rarely happens gracefully. It's less like a supermodel on the runway and more like said supermodel on black ice.#
#There will be snags, slips, and many nigh breaks, but hopefully it all comes out all right.
+I, your humble nerdy blogger friend, am currently playing rugby^ and taking glass-blowing^^ in the spirit of this idea.
^They call this the gentleman's game, which quite honestly doesn't make sense to me yet. Clawing a downed person with cleats and ball-snatching are quite acceptable, so you might understand my confusion.
^^This is one of the more delightful things I have ever done. The glass comes out of the kiln like honey, except unlike honey it stiffens up into great glorious things# that can be kept indefinitely.
#I am not yet making great glorious things. I am making paperweights, which are the training grid to making great glorious things. Despite their ingloriousness, they are fun and exciting.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Going Missing
Well . . . I'm back.
I have returned to the world of college: limitless internet, crazy business, psychotic people. It would be better if my laptop were not in the shop, my financial aid were already all in order, and my entire body did not ache from the rebound of rugby practice*. But I am here. And I intend to enjoy myself.
And . . . well . . . that's all I really know right now. I didn't pick a topic for this, didn't really decide what I was going to be writing about before I sat down. Didn't plan out much witty cynicism.
That being said, I'm back. I'm brunette. And I really, really can't walk in 4-inch high heels**.
*Yes, I joined the rugby team. I intended to last year and didn't get there, so I did this year. I'm liking it, but part of me (namely my calves, hamstrings and abdominal muscles) is telling me that I am a psychotic retard who needs to give up and go back to knitting+.
+Is it pathetic that my morning routine consists of getting up, getting dressed, starting coffee, and stretching?
**Yes, I own a pair of these nowadays. Remember the part where I mentioned sore calves? Yeah . . . walking in heels this high is hard enough (for me) without my legs screaming "NOOOOOOOOO!!!" every time I try to take a step. It was worth it, though. I think.
I have returned to the world of college: limitless internet, crazy business, psychotic people. It would be better if my laptop were not in the shop, my financial aid were already all in order, and my entire body did not ache from the rebound of rugby practice*. But I am here. And I intend to enjoy myself.
And . . . well . . . that's all I really know right now. I didn't pick a topic for this, didn't really decide what I was going to be writing about before I sat down. Didn't plan out much witty cynicism.
That being said, I'm back. I'm brunette. And I really, really can't walk in 4-inch high heels**.
*Yes, I joined the rugby team. I intended to last year and didn't get there, so I did this year. I'm liking it, but part of me (namely my calves, hamstrings and abdominal muscles) is telling me that I am a psychotic retard who needs to give up and go back to knitting+.
+Is it pathetic that my morning routine consists of getting up, getting dressed, starting coffee, and stretching?
**Yes, I own a pair of these nowadays. Remember the part where I mentioned sore calves? Yeah . . . walking in heels this high is hard enough (for me) without my legs screaming "NOOOOOOOOO!!!" every time I try to take a step. It was worth it, though. I think.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Surrender
So, between moving home and being internet-less and hanging out with yet another awesome friend set, I has not blog-ed. I'm thinking of trying to write more/another short story . . . also, perhaps seeing if I can hawk my first attempt for monies of some amount. We'll see. For now, just know that I still have this blog and still love it, and do not intend to completely abandon the project.
Good luck to the other bloggers!!!
Good luck to the other bloggers!!!
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Truffles and Quail
I literally have a pet peeve.
And before you say, "I do, too, so don't think you're special," considering the following image.
First of all, let me say that the cover artists never did Tanith Lee's work justice*, but anyway . . .
see the brown fluffy creature-thing in the very bottom right hand corner? Looks something like a cat, but fox-ish at the same time?
It's a peeve. A pet peeve. And while mine is white (standard issue is brown), it's a pretty good match. I think.
Which means I have a pet peeve that irritates a pet peeve daily.
She sheds. Everywhere. Even with the help of a lint brush and packing tape, you cannot escape. Vacuuming beats back the plague for only a few minutes.**
I've always felt that if the house or person is hairy because of the pet(s), there shouldn't be pets because people are obviously too lazy to clean up. But this is no longer just a pet peeve. This is a whole new level of desperation. I do clean. I do fight the hair, desperately and maybe a little bit madly.
It just never stops coming.
This almost makes up for it, though.
I have other pet peeves--probably more earnest ones--but this one has taken over my brain for the time being. DB
*This is also a pet peeve of mine, I must confess. Inaccurate cover art drives me up a tree. It's not fair to the author because you have incorrect expectations, it's deceiving, and it does nothing for anyone, including the artist. Bad cover art is almost worse, because it compounds all previously discussed effects and it looks awful. Some cover art is okay at first glance, and then you look at it and it oozes poor computer graphics-program skills. There should be jacket art quality-checkers. Or authors should be pickier about the cover art. SOMETHING!!!
**I realized this when I finished the rug (and surrounding wood floor), sighed in contentment, and looked up to see floating hair. I screamed in utter desperation.
And before you say, "I do, too, so don't think you're special," considering the following image.
see the brown fluffy creature-thing in the very bottom right hand corner? Looks something like a cat, but fox-ish at the same time?
It's a peeve. A pet peeve. And while mine is white (standard issue is brown), it's a pretty good match. I think.
 | |
| Cute and fluffy is great until she's shed all over your jeans. And shirt. And hands. And then you realize you're gagging on fine, white hairs that somehow invaded your mouth. |
She sheds. Everywhere. Even with the help of a lint brush and packing tape, you cannot escape. Vacuuming beats back the plague for only a few minutes.**
I've always felt that if the house or person is hairy because of the pet(s), there shouldn't be pets because people are obviously too lazy to clean up. But this is no longer just a pet peeve. This is a whole new level of desperation. I do clean. I do fight the hair, desperately and maybe a little bit madly.
It just never stops coming.
This almost makes up for it, though.
 |
| She snores and sleeps in human-ish positions on her peachy-colored couch's-shoulder-rest-perch, which are endearing behaviorisms. Also, she sometimes likes it when you rub her tummy. :3 |
*This is also a pet peeve of mine, I must confess. Inaccurate cover art drives me up a tree. It's not fair to the author because you have incorrect expectations, it's deceiving, and it does nothing for anyone, including the artist. Bad cover art is almost worse, because it compounds all previously discussed effects and it looks awful. Some cover art is okay at first glance, and then you look at it and it oozes poor computer graphics-program skills. There should be jacket art quality-checkers. Or authors should be pickier about the cover art. SOMETHING!!!
**I realized this when I finished the rug (and surrounding wood floor), sighed in contentment, and looked up to see floating hair. I screamed in utter desperation.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Back Again
Sins of fathers past;
darkness and wrongs that last.
It frightens me
and is shameful to see
eternities before the mast.
As a child
all was mild
but more I find
I cannot be blind.
All seems defiled.
I am going to write this even though it burns my pride for cheap tinder. Forgive me.
In some ways, I've weakened over the years. Once upon a time, there were many things that were not going to be. It was as simple as light and dark. I was going to close my eyes to the existence of things, ignore them, not take part if I chose it as such. With all the authority and conviction within me, I said I will never partake. It was calm, it was still, and it was convinced. It held the harrowing power of anger, the desperation of mourning, the sparkling pride of joy.
I believed it.
Ah, the simplicity of ignorance.
As I've grown, it is not so simple. I don't know when it started, but it is there. It happened a moment ago; it might happen again tomorrow, or the next day. The twitch.
This is why cigarettes frighten me.
I do not smoke. I do not like smoke. It burns my nose, gums into my hair, sits on my tongue, digs into my eyes and my clothes and tries to stay there. I hate smoke.
But there are times, when I am sitting still and thoughtful and somewhat stressed, that the twitch comes. Sometimes it is a gossamer thread of thought that kisses my eyelids and trails through my hair to vanish regretfully. Sometimes it is stronger, and I nearly reach out for it as naturally as a breath.
There are times I want a cigarette.
This is absolutely horrifying. I can't explain the urge. But it is there, and it can be strong as the desperate need to breathe after a long musical phrase.
And I hate it.
There is no happy ending for this. I have no jokes to crack, no cheerful whimsies to offer. All I can say is I thank God for what self-control he's granted me, and that there's enough to keep me out of my car when these sensations come calling.
darkness and wrongs that last.
It frightens me
and is shameful to see
eternities before the mast.
As a child
all was mild
but more I find
I cannot be blind.
All seems defiled.
I am going to write this even though it burns my pride for cheap tinder. Forgive me.
I blame no one, though it would be easy to point fingers. Even the whole "sins of the father" gig is shit: people tend to be lazy and avoid conscientious change, which is necessary if one means to be anything different from his or her family.
Besides, this is not some morbid banner passed down to me, though some of my family has carried it.
In some ways, I've weakened over the years. Once upon a time, there were many things that were not going to be. It was as simple as light and dark. I was going to close my eyes to the existence of things, ignore them, not take part if I chose it as such. With all the authority and conviction within me, I said I will never partake. It was calm, it was still, and it was convinced. It held the harrowing power of anger, the desperation of mourning, the sparkling pride of joy.
I believed it.
Ah, the simplicity of ignorance.
As I've grown, it is not so simple. I don't know when it started, but it is there. It happened a moment ago; it might happen again tomorrow, or the next day. The twitch.
This is why cigarettes frighten me.
I do not smoke. I do not like smoke. It burns my nose, gums into my hair, sits on my tongue, digs into my eyes and my clothes and tries to stay there. I hate smoke.
But there are times, when I am sitting still and thoughtful and somewhat stressed, that the twitch comes. Sometimes it is a gossamer thread of thought that kisses my eyelids and trails through my hair to vanish regretfully. Sometimes it is stronger, and I nearly reach out for it as naturally as a breath.
There are times I want a cigarette.
This is absolutely horrifying. I can't explain the urge. But it is there, and it can be strong as the desperate need to breathe after a long musical phrase.
And I hate it.
There is no happy ending for this. I have no jokes to crack, no cheerful whimsies to offer. All I can say is I thank God for what self-control he's granted me, and that there's enough to keep me out of my car when these sensations come calling.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Saturdays--and Sundays too, I suppose
two s's tangling together
to make a tremulous
trigger of
trips and
thoughts and
toe-wrigglingly sweet times . . . but
there are times we recall
they are only two
struggling to win
things already lost, and we
try not to lose
the imaginary magic of
two s's
There was a time in my high school years that the weekend was a dull, dreary excuse to be only slightly less miserable than the rest of the week. Thankfully, my college years have begun to alleviate that horribly pessimistic vision of the beast.
Music, driving, laughing with family and friends, seeing new sights. A weekend is a chance to be someone else, something different.
take the time
to travel the
tricksy track that
takes treasured time
tactlessly
on every other day.
I love driving. Sitting behind the steering wheel all the time has added a new dimension to trips as a whole. Weekends home this semester have become adventures.
Perhaps the most fun I've had on the road is hunting for historical markers. When in Nebraska and off the interstate* you're bound to see smallish square blue signs depicting white oxen pulling a covered wagon, sometimes with a distance or arrow denoting an approximate location. These signs foretell historical markers*.
Some of the markers themselves are obvious, like the ones parked in plain sight all along Highway 2. These can be difficult: unless one is constantly on the alert for the predicting signs, you'll zoom past them doing 65 without a second thought.
Slamming on one's brakes at approximately 65 mph is interesting, by the way. I don't advise doing it with an unprepared passenger. It provided me with a decent photo of the following marker, though.***
*These are the same thing, by the way: the interstate view of this state doesn't count as Nebraska. The little towns with a church, an abandoned school, and a gas station are the authentic Nebraska. Any town with a population over 10,000 is faking it, and does not count. We need the frauds, though: I would not be happy without the delightful bookstores false Nebraskan towns can offer.
**If one was being horrifically blunt, each and every maker could say, "Once upon a time ago, there was a town here, but then it was considered more affordable and fashionable to live elsewhere and the town died." This is the true story of Nebraska as a whole, and I'm certain that someday, there will be dozens more markers like Hecla's.
It makes me sad.
***'Decent' is the best any photo of mine will ever do. First off, for the foreseeable future, any and all images I post will be taken with a cell phone. I have no digital camera. Secondly, I am not a photographer. I like taking photos very much, but I have very little practice in it as an art form.
to make a tremulous
trigger of
trips and
thoughts and
toe-wrigglingly sweet times . . . but
there are times we recall
they are only two
struggling to win
things already lost, and we
try not to lose
the imaginary magic of
two s's
There was a time in my high school years that the weekend was a dull, dreary excuse to be only slightly less miserable than the rest of the week. Thankfully, my college years have begun to alleviate that horribly pessimistic vision of the beast.
Music, driving, laughing with family and friends, seeing new sights. A weekend is a chance to be someone else, something different.
take the time
to travel the
tricksy track that
takes treasured time
tactlessly
on every other day.
I love driving. Sitting behind the steering wheel all the time has added a new dimension to trips as a whole. Weekends home this semester have become adventures.
Perhaps the most fun I've had on the road is hunting for historical markers. When in Nebraska and off the interstate* you're bound to see smallish square blue signs depicting white oxen pulling a covered wagon, sometimes with a distance or arrow denoting an approximate location. These signs foretell historical markers*.
Some of the markers themselves are obvious, like the ones parked in plain sight all along Highway 2. These can be difficult: unless one is constantly on the alert for the predicting signs, you'll zoom past them doing 65 without a second thought.
Slamming on one's brakes at approximately 65 mph is interesting, by the way. I don't advise doing it with an unprepared passenger. It provided me with a decent photo of the following marker, though.***
 |
| You can't read this on my phone, so I'm glad the bigger version is legible! :D |
The truly delightful thing about this marker--and any other marker sitting immediately next to a highway--is you can prove it actually exists.
This is where historical-marker-hunting gets interesting.
Remember the historical signs with directional arrows attached to them?
SOME OF THE ARROWS ARE LYING.
I had driven down miles of awful, rutted gravel in search of a marker before I hit a three-way split in the road (two of them having cattle guards) and realized this could not be the right way. I drove slowly back into town, I stared down both sides of every street and crawled down the highway back out into the country . . .
The marker did not exist.
I trusted another such arrow, and gave up as soon as I saw the twisty, dirty path of doom. Seriously! The arrow DIDN'T EVEN POINT TO AN ACTUAL ROAD.
These misadventures aside, I felt like my weekend jaunts down Nebraska's Highway 2 (and subsequent searches for historical markers) were grand old times.
If you ever decide to go hunting for the markers . . . . good luck. You'll want it.
*These are the same thing, by the way: the interstate view of this state doesn't count as Nebraska. The little towns with a church, an abandoned school, and a gas station are the authentic Nebraska. Any town with a population over 10,000 is faking it, and does not count. We need the frauds, though: I would not be happy without the delightful bookstores false Nebraskan towns can offer.
**If one was being horrifically blunt, each and every maker could say, "Once upon a time ago, there was a town here, but then it was considered more affordable and fashionable to live elsewhere and the town died." This is the true story of Nebraska as a whole, and I'm certain that someday, there will be dozens more markers like Hecla's.
It makes me sad.
***'Decent' is the best any photo of mine will ever do. First off, for the foreseeable future, any and all images I post will be taken with a cell phone. I have no digital camera. Secondly, I am not a photographer. I like taking photos very much, but I have very little practice in it as an art form.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Rain
deeper beneath
higher above
stretch
toward core
toward wind
reach
breathe air
taste dust
grow
living
life-giving
be
I love rainstorms. They make for quiet, lazy-feeling days . . . but at the same time, I always feel richly alive. It's like if I breathed deeply enough of a rainstorm, I would be able to unfurl into something more at home in wind and weather. This sensation makes me feel very friendly towards trees, and grass, and even the weedy dandelions. People grumble and tuck themselves away over the wet . . . green things get excited and shoot upwards.
higher above
stretch
toward core
toward wind
reach
breathe air
taste dust
grow
living
life-giving
be
I love rainstorms. They make for quiet, lazy-feeling days . . . but at the same time, I always feel richly alive. It's like if I breathed deeply enough of a rainstorm, I would be able to unfurl into something more at home in wind and weather. This sensation makes me feel very friendly towards trees, and grass, and even the weedy dandelions. People grumble and tuck themselves away over the wet . . . green things get excited and shoot upwards.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
California Dreaming
I felt this particular author deserved a recommendation/review. Every adult, no matter how dry and logical, should read this man's books because they are wonderful.
Richard Peck
4/10/1934--
If ever you need a good book to spend very little time on, this is your author. He writes in an easy-to-read, down-to-earth style that engages your brain and paints clear images without being overly verbose. Many of Mr. Peck's books are quick reads because they are technically children's books. However, they have a realistic, poignant, wry give and take between sadness and joy. They go fast because, as soon as you begin, there's no going back: you have to keep reading.
I particularly recommend a set of three books, the latest of which was only just published. For lack of a more unifying series title, I will call them The Adventures of Mrs. Dowdel. Listed in the technical order, they are A Long Way from Chicago, A Year Down Yonder, and A Season of Gifts.* Mrs. Dowdel is the larger-than-life** mishmash of every appallingly yet well-meaningly meddlesome person ever to draw breath, and is one of fiction's very best characters in my opinion.
If you really need a good time, read one of them aloud to your loved ones. Laugh and say, "Awww," together: it makes it so much better.***
*Personally, A Year Down Yonder is by far my favorite. I spent a lot of time with it, which probably helps^, but it is definitely worth the time.
^I used different cuttings in two years of prose presentation competitions. It went one of two ways: either people understood the Depression-era terminology and laughed hysterically, or they did not and stared at me as though I was speaking Finnish.
**Literally, larger. As in, a huge person without being a good-hearted force of nature in spectacles and a dress. As in, she can mimic a professional 1950's boxer and get away with it. As in, she was a camel in a school Christmas production.
***My entire family is familiar with the adventures of Mrs. Dowdel, and thanks to the influence of A Year Down Yonder call her 'Grandma' out of practice. I probably spent at least an hour reading A Season of Gifts to my parents today . . . such fun!
Thinking about and reading books is great fun, so in some ways today was a good day. In others, it was horrible, primarily because I spend far too much time analyzing every embarrassing thing I do.
Conversations are difficult. Especially with people one regards as friends while not being overly familiar with the intrinsic characteristics of the people in question. Beyond the typical--and inane--topics of weather, work, blah blah blah . . . what do you talk about to someone you have not seen or conversed with in a good many weeks/months?
I have no waffling skills, and am bad at creating topics from nothing. Sigh. I am also easily distracted by points of interest--such as work--that somehow apply to the current situation of me and mine. Siiigh. Work especially right now. Work more than anything else right now. If you want to successfully kill a conversation with me right now, bring up work. I will be so busy thinking of all the things I cannot say that I will become silent or awkward, or both. Siiiiiiigh.
I will survive these trying times, but sometimes I wonder . . . why am I so easily distracted? Urrrrgh.
Richard Peck
4/10/1934--
If ever you need a good book to spend very little time on, this is your author. He writes in an easy-to-read, down-to-earth style that engages your brain and paints clear images without being overly verbose. Many of Mr. Peck's books are quick reads because they are technically children's books. However, they have a realistic, poignant, wry give and take between sadness and joy. They go fast because, as soon as you begin, there's no going back: you have to keep reading.
I particularly recommend a set of three books, the latest of which was only just published. For lack of a more unifying series title, I will call them The Adventures of Mrs. Dowdel. Listed in the technical order, they are A Long Way from Chicago, A Year Down Yonder, and A Season of Gifts.* Mrs. Dowdel is the larger-than-life** mishmash of every appallingly yet well-meaningly meddlesome person ever to draw breath, and is one of fiction's very best characters in my opinion.
If you really need a good time, read one of them aloud to your loved ones. Laugh and say, "Awww," together: it makes it so much better.***
*Personally, A Year Down Yonder is by far my favorite. I spent a lot of time with it, which probably helps^, but it is definitely worth the time.
^I used different cuttings in two years of prose presentation competitions. It went one of two ways: either people understood the Depression-era terminology and laughed hysterically, or they did not and stared at me as though I was speaking Finnish.
**Literally, larger. As in, a huge person without being a good-hearted force of nature in spectacles and a dress. As in, she can mimic a professional 1950's boxer and get away with it. As in, she was a camel in a school Christmas production.
***My entire family is familiar with the adventures of Mrs. Dowdel, and thanks to the influence of A Year Down Yonder call her 'Grandma' out of practice. I probably spent at least an hour reading A Season of Gifts to my parents today . . . such fun!
Thinking about and reading books is great fun, so in some ways today was a good day. In others, it was horrible, primarily because I spend far too much time analyzing every embarrassing thing I do.
Conversations are difficult. Especially with people one regards as friends while not being overly familiar with the intrinsic characteristics of the people in question. Beyond the typical--and inane--topics of weather, work, blah blah blah . . . what do you talk about to someone you have not seen or conversed with in a good many weeks/months?
I have no waffling skills, and am bad at creating topics from nothing. Sigh. I am also easily distracted by points of interest--such as work--that somehow apply to the current situation of me and mine. Siiigh. Work especially right now. Work more than anything else right now. If you want to successfully kill a conversation with me right now, bring up work. I will be so busy thinking of all the things I cannot say that I will become silent or awkward, or both. Siiiiiiigh.
I will survive these trying times, but sometimes I wonder . . . why am I so easily distracted? Urrrrgh.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Real World
Who am I supposed to be?
If only there was an easy answer for this question of mine.
There's not, but still, I wonder.
Who?
She's hiding somewhere, and part of me wonders if I will ever find her.
I haven't the slightest clue where to start looking.
If only there was an easy answer for this question of mine.
There's not, but still, I wonder.
Who?
She's hiding somewhere, and part of me wonders if I will ever find her.
I haven't the slightest clue where to start looking.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Septimus
I am exhausted and my brain is trying to escape out my ears. Eating soup with a fork would be easier than finishing this story has been, so I'm sorry if the ending is atrocious . . . BUT I HAD TO FINISH, NO MATTER WHAT.
I tried to keep my grammar nice and the story tone the same, but one can never be sure with their own writing. Let me know anything what needs changing, as well as your overall opinion.
I hope you like this story, which is as of yet nameless.*
From the moment she stepped off the train, she knew things were different. It all looked the same, right down to the carefully-tended pansies in the station's window boxes, but the flowers were unusually still. It was a busy summer day, but the parts of town visible from her position by the tracks looked . . . rigid. Contained.
It had been a while--seven years--but the town shouldn't have changed this much. Something else was at play here, just as she had been warned.
She stopped at the station to ask for directions to the hotel--it had been put up after she left. Mr. Lewis, who had worked at this station beyond anyone's memory, recognized her immediately.
"Miss"--she hushed him.
"Thank you, Mr. Lewis, but I'd like to keep this visit as quiet as possible." She smiled. "I am so pleased to see you again. Thank you for your assistance."
Mr. Lewis sniffed brusquely in his neat grey mustache, almost managing to look properly upset, but he offered her a peppermint from the stash he kept in the booth. She laughed, and took it--just as she always had. She cradled it in her gloved hand for a moment, lost in thought, then smiled at the elderly man once more.
"Again, Mr. Lewis, thank you. It is always delightful to see you." She left the office and walked briskly down the platform out of sight.
"Mr. Lewis? Who was that?" A homely lady stuck her head out the mail room door.
"No-one of import, Miss Annabelle. An acquaintance," he said, and then only to himself, "though I never thought she'd grow to be such a lady."
Miss Annabelle raised an eyebrow--she had caught Mr Lewis' aside--and went back to work. Mr. Lewis sat looking out the window long after the finely-dressed figure had vanished, the air around him quiet and sad.
The longer she was in town, the more eerie things were. No birds flew. The people were hushed. When she looked down the short alleyways to the edge of town, she saw large, tangled bunches of tumbleweeds.
The wind was dead where she walked, but she could see grass dancing frantically along the horizon.
She sighed and continued down the boardwalk with her black case. There were several familiar faces, but none of them bothered to peer through the dark veil on her hat. She thought one might have paused just past, but she had reached the hotel doorway and--
She stopped short, stricken and breathless, to almost jump around and look south along the dusty road.
The young man stood, hands in pockets, at the center of the street. He was just far enough away she couldn't make out his face, but he was staring. He was staring at her.
She was still breathless but no longer on the verge of panic when he began ambling forward. Her case quivered in her grip, but she stiffened herself and waited. After what seemed an eternity, he stopped at the edge of the boardwalk.
She knew him. He'd grown up more than she'd expected, but it was still Ch--Mr. Wright, she corrected herself. Please, let it be someone else . . . She nearly jumped when he spoke: she hadn't expected his voice would change so much, either.
"I couldn't really believe it was you at first." He still stared, but she knew his face. It was older, but it was still Mr. Wright's--
"I'd given up on ever seeing you again." Something twitched in the dark blue of his eyes, and her heart wrenched painfully. Oh, no, please, no. Make it be my imagination. She stepped slowly towards the edge of the boardwalk, skirts whispering, eyes searching.
"I wrote you. Dozens and dozens of letters. And you never wrote back." She stared back now, and the view was all she had dreaded. Cold dismay wrapped around her like a blanket.
"I would have written back, Mr. Wright, but it was not possible. I told you when I left that for seven years--" She stopped, watching him laugh bitterly.
""Mr. Wright." Seven years is some time, but I told you to always call me Charley. And then I wondered why you never wrote back. No one would reply to a stranger." Face bitter, eyes flickering, he stepped onto the boardwalk. His hair and clothes stirred in a breeze that wasn't there.
She stood, watching, case twitching. Not much longer, she thought mournfully.
He stepped in front of her, raised a hand to her face.
Had it been seven years previous, her cheek would have blistered before he even touched her. The impossible heat of him would have burned, beginning under his fingertips and spreading until she died in the flames.
But it was not seven years ago.
"Charley." She could barely whisper the name.
"Yes, dear." She almost winced.
"Why, Charley. Why could you not wait for me." Her voice was flat, inflectionless. He bent down a little so they were at eye level.
"That wasn't a question." His eyes were no longer the dark blue of water at night, but bright--brighter than the noonday sky above them.
"Why, Charley." The case in her hand jerked suddenly, and she no longer held a case. She raised her arm, and pressed the pistol to his chest.
His strange eyes stared at her hand now, her hand that knew its work and would therefore help her do this heartbreaking thing. Her hat, the lace at her throat and wrists, her dress shook in the energy currents she no longer kept locked in her case. They were both caught in the waves, but she was stronger and infinitely more practiced. Seven years could be a long time.
She would do what she must.
"Charles Wright, you have stolen power from this town and all territory surrounding in every direction for five miles. It is my duty to restore this force to nature, with or without your co-operation. Will you release this energy of your own volition?"
He looked at her face again, and she knew his answer. The pale blue had bleached brighter still, and his irises were nearly pure white. His fingers were actually starting to burn her cheek.
"Very well. I will do what I must."
She pulled the trigger.
Mr. Lewis was waiting at the station door when she walked onto the platform again. The pansies where dancing merrily in the first breeze they had felt for quite some, and their jigs had let him know it was safe to step outside again.
She had returned, but she was not joyous. Her hat was gone now, revealing over-bright eyes and letting the wind pick at bright curls. Her dress was all-over dusty, and the case gone: there was a black purse at her elbow instead. Her hands were wrapped tightly around a bare-rooted rosebush with small, blue-white blossoms.
"Mr. Lewis, is there a window box you might be able to loan me for a time?" Whatever her eyes said, her voice was calm and firm as it had been on her arrival.
He did not reply, but went and fetched a box that had not been empty very long. The short, deep box was set carefully on the platform, and the rosebush gently planted. It was only when she used the last of the water he had brought to rinse her hands, setting her gloves aside, that Mr. Lewis glimpsed the wicked cuts that had gouged through the kidskin and into her palms. She saw his face.
"It's alright, Mr. Lewis. I just forgot about the thorns again." She almost smiled.
"I know how you feel, m-miss. I know that . . . that this is difficult. Just remember, you've barely a fortnight before--" She shook her head ever so slightly, and he frowned in confusion.
"Mr. Lewis, my season was over very nearly a month ago. I did not hear of the . . . the matters here until I was going through the seven years' worth of post that had accumulated while I was . . . otherwise engaged." She grew very still. "I . . . asked for another term."
His sharp breath whistled in over his mustache, and his face hardened in dismay. She watched him for a moment, then stepped away from the flower box.
A slight shake of the shoulders and the dust was gone from her dress. The case dangled in her hand again, and her hat perched on her head once more.
A train sounded in the distance.
"You can't understand what you've done. One day, you'll wake up alone in a world stranger than you now believe possible and you'll know, but--" Mr. Lewis paused stiffly, snuffling and adjusting his spectacles, "but you can't understand what---what it's going to become at present."
He could not see her eyes through the veil of her hat, but her mouth smiled. How can she smile so?
"Mr. Lewis, it has been a pleasure, as always. I am grateful for your concern, I truly am. Ah, well," she sighed. "If all else fails, I'll become a train clerk, no?" She chuckled, and then her lips were serious again. "I'll be back for--for the rose soon enough. As soon as I'm settled, yes?" The train whistled again, much closer this time.
"Certainly, miss."
They stared at each other, old man and young woman. He knew, as she did, that it would be more than seven years before she returned. She knew, as he did, that he would still be here when she arrived. Magic soaked through skin into bones and spirit as it was used. Seven years was the advised season with good sense. If one only served seven years, one was guaranteed to still be human.
Mr. Lewis had worked in an era when power was mostly less dangerous than breathing, and remembered his seven terms: how could he forget, with the violet pansies to remind him daily? His forehead wrinkled, and something slipped across his cheek.
"Promise me, miss, that you'll do no such thing as four." The train whistled again, coasting in toward the track. The pansies danced. The lady stood very still, staring down at the pale roses.
"Please, miss. Promise me."
"I will be back in fewer than twenty-one years. I give you my word." Her voice was softer than he should have been able to hear.
"Good," he sighed, and his words were lost in the hiss of the engine.
"Well, Mr. Lewis, a pleasure. As always." She stepped up the passenger car's narrow stairway. "Don't kill the rose." She waved as she slipped into the seating area and out of view.
Mr. Lewis watched her silhouette sit, and remembered a carriage--no, it had been something else . . . what had they called it? He could not remember. But he remembered loneliness, and sorrow, and a pretty girl with an uncommon fancy for small purple flowers who had walked away without looking back.
The train blew its whistle one last time, and began pulling away. Mr. Lewis waved slowly, still remembering, then looked down at the rose. The petals already looked darker than he remembered them being. He smiled.
"Take heart, Charley Wright. It should only be three decades or so before you're finished, and she'll be back by then. And since she'll be retired, she'll have her name again."
Mr. Lewis looked back down the tracks--the train was gone. He picked up the window box and carried it to the station, setting it next to another box containing one pale lavender and one deep violet pansy. Perhaps they could teach the young man a trick to pass the time.
At least he wouldn't be forever waiting.
WARNING: DUE TO EPIC TIREDNESS THESE FOOTNOTES CONTAIN SEVERAL GARTH NIX SPOILERS. A REFERENCE TO THE 2010 (or 2011, I can't remember right now . . .) TRUE GRIT IN THE + FOOTNOTE, SO IF YOU LIVE UNDER A ROCK AND HAVEN'T SEEN IT, YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ THAT ONE. ALSO, CHARACTER DISCUSSIONS FROM ROBIN MCKINLEY'S SUNSHINE IN ++.
ALSO, IT HAS EVOLVED INTO A TRIP DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE, AND YOU PROBABLY WON'T COME OUT ENLIGHTENED. TAKE CAUTION.
*So, this story is a muddled twitchy combobulation of many different stories-ish except for the part where it's also written off feelings I get from stories-ish. But anyway, it is, in a few ways, a cousin twice or three times removed from a Garth Nix^ short story--I can't remember the title at present, but it was good in a Garth-Nix-sometimes-likes-creepy-things way--and in my exhaustion I almost gave my story here an almost identical ending, involving an empty-except-for-our-heroine train that vanishes randomly down track that isn't typically there, but I sobered up at an opportune moment to avoid a cousin twice removed from plagiarism; however, I still couldn't really save it--or this foot note--so it's rather awkward. Plus, beyond some back history explanations, I never had a real idea of an ending. Beyond her leaving. Which, we got there, but . . . urgh. Do you think it's bumpy?
I do.
^Since I've been doing this blog as a random combobulation of reviews, I should put a good word out there for Mr. Nix. Yes, he has a fascination for creepy and gore at times+. However, his Abhorsen trilogy is brilliance and deliciousness, even if there's not a lot of talk of things that even remotely qualify as edible (besides Mogget and his eternal fish-cravings, but you'll have to read the books to understand how desperate Mogget gets). On some levels, it is the creepishness that makes them a little more likable. When we think zombies these days, we think relatively human things that look gross. Garth Nix makes ex-humanoids that make you want to vomit and poop your pants simultaneously, they are that gross and scary (or they are in my head). ++ So, be a trooper. Support real fantasy. READ GARTH NIX (and Robin McKinley, but I haven't talked about her yet).
+ The gore, I think, gets me more than creepish. Average zombies, I can handle. The blood-spattering tentacled nightmares that explode in a horrendous fountain of gore from some random loser's head and torso on the Resident Evil~ videogames? AAAAAAUGH SAVE ME. (I spent several hours watching my brother play RE IV when I was younger. And then there was the time I accidentally found the video screen shots of the hero vs. Chainsaw Man and the hero lost. Horribly. D8 ) Which is where--TADAAA!--True Grit shows up. I did not want a closeup of the dead guy's head. I didn't. Your CGI is gorgeous, but . . . augh. Don't.
~I join the few Resident Evil worshippers I know in saying the movies don't even count. They're not even that scary. Or horrifyingly gory. Oooh, it's a dog that rips in half into a giant mouth! There are fish like that. Also, seen Monsters, Inc lately? Yeah. Look for the orange toilet-creature with teeth.
++This footnote mostly applies to the scary part of above line, as gross has already been discussed. It is also where I start . . . saying mean things . . . about today's teen literature.
First off, Robin McKinley has the right of it when she tries to write about a vampire that's scary~ as opposed to . . . what? That was the whole point of vampires, folks, and now that we've stripped them of their terror-raising skills they're annoying wusses that sparkle. And what about werewolves? They were once heralded as the ultimate doomsdayers, and calling someone a werewolf meant one of two things: either your village was going to gang up on that individual and burn him, or he was going to murder you to avoid the former scenario--and then he might burn anyway. What is the point of monsters that aren't scary? What are we going to geld next? Mass murderers?--oh, wait, that's Sweeney Todd fangirlisms. OH MY SHMARGLEFRITZ. THIS IS RIDICULOUS.~~
~Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Robin McKinley's Sunshine. Sunshine's the heroine: the butt-kickingly scary vampire cast includes--but is not limited to--Con (Constantine, as close to good as these vampires get, but he's still scary as hell) and Bo (Beauregard, also known as evil incarnate). Authors of the world: we need more scary vampires. Even if you don't stake them all . . . MAKE THEM SCARY!!!
~~The longer I live in the real world, the more I notice everything is messed up--especially my head.
I tried to keep my grammar nice and the story tone the same, but one can never be sure with their own writing. Let me know anything what needs changing, as well as your overall opinion.
I hope you like this story, which is as of yet nameless.*
From the moment she stepped off the train, she knew things were different. It all looked the same, right down to the carefully-tended pansies in the station's window boxes, but the flowers were unusually still. It was a busy summer day, but the parts of town visible from her position by the tracks looked . . . rigid. Contained.
It had been a while--seven years--but the town shouldn't have changed this much. Something else was at play here, just as she had been warned.
She stopped at the station to ask for directions to the hotel--it had been put up after she left. Mr. Lewis, who had worked at this station beyond anyone's memory, recognized her immediately.
"Miss"--she hushed him.
"Thank you, Mr. Lewis, but I'd like to keep this visit as quiet as possible." She smiled. "I am so pleased to see you again. Thank you for your assistance."
Mr. Lewis sniffed brusquely in his neat grey mustache, almost managing to look properly upset, but he offered her a peppermint from the stash he kept in the booth. She laughed, and took it--just as she always had. She cradled it in her gloved hand for a moment, lost in thought, then smiled at the elderly man once more.
"Again, Mr. Lewis, thank you. It is always delightful to see you." She left the office and walked briskly down the platform out of sight.
"Mr. Lewis? Who was that?" A homely lady stuck her head out the mail room door.
"No-one of import, Miss Annabelle. An acquaintance," he said, and then only to himself, "though I never thought she'd grow to be such a lady."
Miss Annabelle raised an eyebrow--she had caught Mr Lewis' aside--and went back to work. Mr. Lewis sat looking out the window long after the finely-dressed figure had vanished, the air around him quiet and sad.
The longer she was in town, the more eerie things were. No birds flew. The people were hushed. When she looked down the short alleyways to the edge of town, she saw large, tangled bunches of tumbleweeds.
The wind was dead where she walked, but she could see grass dancing frantically along the horizon.
She sighed and continued down the boardwalk with her black case. There were several familiar faces, but none of them bothered to peer through the dark veil on her hat. She thought one might have paused just past, but she had reached the hotel doorway and--
She stopped short, stricken and breathless, to almost jump around and look south along the dusty road.
The young man stood, hands in pockets, at the center of the street. He was just far enough away she couldn't make out his face, but he was staring. He was staring at her.
She was still breathless but no longer on the verge of panic when he began ambling forward. Her case quivered in her grip, but she stiffened herself and waited. After what seemed an eternity, he stopped at the edge of the boardwalk.
She knew him. He'd grown up more than she'd expected, but it was still Ch--Mr. Wright, she corrected herself. Please, let it be someone else . . . She nearly jumped when he spoke: she hadn't expected his voice would change so much, either.
"I couldn't really believe it was you at first." He still stared, but she knew his face. It was older, but it was still Mr. Wright's--
"I'd given up on ever seeing you again." Something twitched in the dark blue of his eyes, and her heart wrenched painfully. Oh, no, please, no. Make it be my imagination. She stepped slowly towards the edge of the boardwalk, skirts whispering, eyes searching.
"I wrote you. Dozens and dozens of letters. And you never wrote back." She stared back now, and the view was all she had dreaded. Cold dismay wrapped around her like a blanket.
"I would have written back, Mr. Wright, but it was not possible. I told you when I left that for seven years--" She stopped, watching him laugh bitterly.
""Mr. Wright." Seven years is some time, but I told you to always call me Charley. And then I wondered why you never wrote back. No one would reply to a stranger." Face bitter, eyes flickering, he stepped onto the boardwalk. His hair and clothes stirred in a breeze that wasn't there.
She stood, watching, case twitching. Not much longer, she thought mournfully.
He stepped in front of her, raised a hand to her face.
Had it been seven years previous, her cheek would have blistered before he even touched her. The impossible heat of him would have burned, beginning under his fingertips and spreading until she died in the flames.
But it was not seven years ago.
"Charley." She could barely whisper the name.
"Yes, dear." She almost winced.
"Why, Charley. Why could you not wait for me." Her voice was flat, inflectionless. He bent down a little so they were at eye level.
"That wasn't a question." His eyes were no longer the dark blue of water at night, but bright--brighter than the noonday sky above them.
"Why, Charley." The case in her hand jerked suddenly, and she no longer held a case. She raised her arm, and pressed the pistol to his chest.
His strange eyes stared at her hand now, her hand that knew its work and would therefore help her do this heartbreaking thing. Her hat, the lace at her throat and wrists, her dress shook in the energy currents she no longer kept locked in her case. They were both caught in the waves, but she was stronger and infinitely more practiced. Seven years could be a long time.
She would do what she must.
"Charles Wright, you have stolen power from this town and all territory surrounding in every direction for five miles. It is my duty to restore this force to nature, with or without your co-operation. Will you release this energy of your own volition?"
He looked at her face again, and she knew his answer. The pale blue had bleached brighter still, and his irises were nearly pure white. His fingers were actually starting to burn her cheek.
"Very well. I will do what I must."
She pulled the trigger.
Mr. Lewis was waiting at the station door when she walked onto the platform again. The pansies where dancing merrily in the first breeze they had felt for quite some, and their jigs had let him know it was safe to step outside again.
She had returned, but she was not joyous. Her hat was gone now, revealing over-bright eyes and letting the wind pick at bright curls. Her dress was all-over dusty, and the case gone: there was a black purse at her elbow instead. Her hands were wrapped tightly around a bare-rooted rosebush with small, blue-white blossoms.
"Mr. Lewis, is there a window box you might be able to loan me for a time?" Whatever her eyes said, her voice was calm and firm as it had been on her arrival.
He did not reply, but went and fetched a box that had not been empty very long. The short, deep box was set carefully on the platform, and the rosebush gently planted. It was only when she used the last of the water he had brought to rinse her hands, setting her gloves aside, that Mr. Lewis glimpsed the wicked cuts that had gouged through the kidskin and into her palms. She saw his face.
"It's alright, Mr. Lewis. I just forgot about the thorns again." She almost smiled.
"I know how you feel, m-miss. I know that . . . that this is difficult. Just remember, you've barely a fortnight before--" She shook her head ever so slightly, and he frowned in confusion.
"Mr. Lewis, my season was over very nearly a month ago. I did not hear of the . . . the matters here until I was going through the seven years' worth of post that had accumulated while I was . . . otherwise engaged." She grew very still. "I . . . asked for another term."
His sharp breath whistled in over his mustache, and his face hardened in dismay. She watched him for a moment, then stepped away from the flower box.
A slight shake of the shoulders and the dust was gone from her dress. The case dangled in her hand again, and her hat perched on her head once more.
A train sounded in the distance.
"You can't understand what you've done. One day, you'll wake up alone in a world stranger than you now believe possible and you'll know, but--" Mr. Lewis paused stiffly, snuffling and adjusting his spectacles, "but you can't understand what---what it's going to become at present."
He could not see her eyes through the veil of her hat, but her mouth smiled. How can she smile so?
"Mr. Lewis, it has been a pleasure, as always. I am grateful for your concern, I truly am. Ah, well," she sighed. "If all else fails, I'll become a train clerk, no?" She chuckled, and then her lips were serious again. "I'll be back for--for the rose soon enough. As soon as I'm settled, yes?" The train whistled again, much closer this time.
"Certainly, miss."
They stared at each other, old man and young woman. He knew, as she did, that it would be more than seven years before she returned. She knew, as he did, that he would still be here when she arrived. Magic soaked through skin into bones and spirit as it was used. Seven years was the advised season with good sense. If one only served seven years, one was guaranteed to still be human.
Mr. Lewis had worked in an era when power was mostly less dangerous than breathing, and remembered his seven terms: how could he forget, with the violet pansies to remind him daily? His forehead wrinkled, and something slipped across his cheek.
"Promise me, miss, that you'll do no such thing as four." The train whistled again, coasting in toward the track. The pansies danced. The lady stood very still, staring down at the pale roses.
"Please, miss. Promise me."
"I will be back in fewer than twenty-one years. I give you my word." Her voice was softer than he should have been able to hear.
"Good," he sighed, and his words were lost in the hiss of the engine.
"Well, Mr. Lewis, a pleasure. As always." She stepped up the passenger car's narrow stairway. "Don't kill the rose." She waved as she slipped into the seating area and out of view.
Mr. Lewis watched her silhouette sit, and remembered a carriage--no, it had been something else . . . what had they called it? He could not remember. But he remembered loneliness, and sorrow, and a pretty girl with an uncommon fancy for small purple flowers who had walked away without looking back.
The train blew its whistle one last time, and began pulling away. Mr. Lewis waved slowly, still remembering, then looked down at the rose. The petals already looked darker than he remembered them being. He smiled.
"Take heart, Charley Wright. It should only be three decades or so before you're finished, and she'll be back by then. And since she'll be retired, she'll have her name again."
Mr. Lewis looked back down the tracks--the train was gone. He picked up the window box and carried it to the station, setting it next to another box containing one pale lavender and one deep violet pansy. Perhaps they could teach the young man a trick to pass the time.
At least he wouldn't be forever waiting.
Fin
WARNING:
ALSO, IT HAS EVOLVED INTO A TRIP DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE, AND YOU PROBABLY WON'T COME OUT ENLIGHTENED. TAKE CAUTION.
*So, this story is a muddled twitchy combobulation of many different stories-ish except for the part where it's also written off feelings I get from stories-ish. But anyway, it is, in a few ways, a cousin twice or three times removed from a Garth Nix^ short story--I can't remember the title at present, but it was good in a Garth-Nix-sometimes-likes-creepy-things way--and in my exhaustion I almost gave my story here an almost identical ending, involving an empty-except-for-our-heroine train that vanishes randomly down track that isn't typically there, but I sobered up at an opportune moment to avoid a cousin twice removed from plagiarism; however, I still couldn't really save it--or this foot note--so it's rather awkward. Plus, beyond some back history explanations, I never had a real idea of an ending. Beyond her leaving. Which, we got there, but . . . urgh. Do you think it's bumpy?
I do.
^Since I've been doing this blog as a random combobulation of reviews, I should put a good word out there for Mr. Nix. Yes, he has a fascination for creepy and gore at times+. However, his Abhorsen trilogy is brilliance and deliciousness, even if there's not a lot of talk of things that even remotely qualify as edible (besides Mogget and his eternal fish-cravings, but you'll have to read the books to understand how desperate Mogget gets). On some levels, it is the creepishness that makes them a little more likable. When we think zombies these days, we think relatively human things that look gross. Garth Nix makes ex-humanoids that make you want to vomit and poop your pants simultaneously, they are that gross and scary (or they are in my head). ++ So, be a trooper. Support real fantasy. READ GARTH NIX (and Robin McKinley, but I haven't talked about her yet).
+ The gore, I think, gets me more than creepish. Average zombies, I can handle. The blood-spattering tentacled nightmares that explode in a horrendous fountain of gore from some random loser's head and torso on the Resident Evil~ videogames? AAAAAAUGH SAVE ME. (I spent several hours watching my brother play RE IV when I was younger. And then there was the time I accidentally found the video screen shots of the hero vs. Chainsaw Man and the hero lost. Horribly. D8 ) Which is where--TADAAA!--True Grit shows up. I did not want a closeup of the dead guy's head. I didn't. Your CGI is gorgeous, but . . . augh. Don't.
~I join the few Resident Evil worshippers I know in saying the movies don't even count. They're not even that scary. Or horrifyingly gory. Oooh, it's a dog that rips in half into a giant mouth! There are fish like that. Also, seen Monsters, Inc lately? Yeah. Look for the orange toilet-creature with teeth.
++This footnote mostly applies to the scary part of above line, as gross has already been discussed. It is also where I start . . . saying mean things . . . about today's teen literature.
First off, Robin McKinley has the right of it when she tries to write about a vampire that's scary~ as opposed to . . . what? That was the whole point of vampires, folks, and now that we've stripped them of their terror-raising skills they're annoying wusses that sparkle. And what about werewolves? They were once heralded as the ultimate doomsdayers, and calling someone a werewolf meant one of two things: either your village was going to gang up on that individual and burn him, or he was going to murder you to avoid the former scenario--and then he might burn anyway. What is the point of monsters that aren't scary? What are we going to geld next? Mass murderers?--oh, wait, that's Sweeney Todd fangirlisms. OH MY SHMARGLEFRITZ. THIS IS RIDICULOUS.~~
~Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Robin McKinley's Sunshine. Sunshine's the heroine: the butt-kickingly scary vampire cast includes--but is not limited to--Con (Constantine, as close to good as these vampires get, but he's still scary as hell) and Bo (Beauregard, also known as evil incarnate). Authors of the world: we need more scary vampires. Even if you don't stake them all . . . MAKE THEM SCARY!!!
~~The longer I live in the real world, the more I notice everything is messed up--especially my head.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Intermission*
Sleeping More Than Six Hours
This can create a huge difference in one's outlook on the morning, life, pillow, and coffee.** I was amazed at the remarkable agility with which I was able to get up and dressed.*** I am more aware of people and the world in general. Sleeping in excess of six hours is definitely a good idea.
And the local noon chime was on time today: go figure.
In other news, I have a really, really hard time with the fashion industry. There are not precise words for how difficult a concept the whole fashion thing is for me. Why are stylish things 'in'? If they look atrocious on me, what do I do? Are nylons/pantyhose okay? Which shoes go best with which dress? I know an outfit isn't necessarily okay even if I like it, but how do I tell--beyond sizes--if something is atrocious on me? The more I consider it, the more I like my frumpy jeans and less-than-couture shirts: better to wear something completely outside the sphere of fashion than to look bad.
Don't get me wrong: I like cute things. I like fashionable stuff.
I don't have a flying clue about picking it out for myself.
Of course, I am used to--after nineteen years--not having a clue. It's normal. I can deal with it. Feeling stupid is okay. I am used to not fitting in.
It doesn't change the fact I wish I knew more about picking clothes.
This entire rant was spawned by the "Wear a Dress Day" event, nursed by the snow+, and matured in the environment of "Is this outfit really okay?" Someday, I'll get this all figured out, but that day is not today.
*Yes, the title got a footnote. Stop mocking me already.
I don't want people to go off and find the wrong song here, and I know you easily could as the title is rather nonspecific. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CBdfPYlBzk is the right one. :)
**The morning is not a soul-sucking force that makes you get up, life is not meant to be spent in a hazy state of consciousness, the pillow does not stick to your face so you can't get up, and coffee does not have to be brewed at as close to a 1:1 ratio as humanly possible.
***On other occasions, it has felt something like dragging a dead mammoth out of a tar pit. It is also important to note that I was out of my room by 8:32 and I didn't wake up unti 8:15. Plus, this morning's class is voluntary^.
^Because I took several years' worth of violin lessons, I felt that helping with the college's string pedagogy class was a good idea. My pillow and the backs of my eyelids keep arguing, but what do they know?
+Which continues to fall like it's December.
What. The. Hell.
This can create a huge difference in one's outlook on the morning, life, pillow, and coffee.** I was amazed at the remarkable agility with which I was able to get up and dressed.*** I am more aware of people and the world in general. Sleeping in excess of six hours is definitely a good idea.
And the local noon chime was on time today: go figure.
In other news, I have a really, really hard time with the fashion industry. There are not precise words for how difficult a concept the whole fashion thing is for me. Why are stylish things 'in'? If they look atrocious on me, what do I do? Are nylons/pantyhose okay? Which shoes go best with which dress? I know an outfit isn't necessarily okay even if I like it, but how do I tell--beyond sizes--if something is atrocious on me? The more I consider it, the more I like my frumpy jeans and less-than-couture shirts: better to wear something completely outside the sphere of fashion than to look bad.
Don't get me wrong: I like cute things. I like fashionable stuff.
I don't have a flying clue about picking it out for myself.
Of course, I am used to--after nineteen years--not having a clue. It's normal. I can deal with it. Feeling stupid is okay. I am used to not fitting in.
It doesn't change the fact I wish I knew more about picking clothes.
This entire rant was spawned by the "Wear a Dress Day" event, nursed by the snow+, and matured in the environment of "Is this outfit really okay?" Someday, I'll get this all figured out, but that day is not today.
*Yes, the title got a footnote. Stop mocking me already.
I don't want people to go off and find the wrong song here, and I know you easily could as the title is rather nonspecific. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CBdfPYlBzk is the right one. :)
**The morning is not a soul-sucking force that makes you get up, life is not meant to be spent in a hazy state of consciousness, the pillow does not stick to your face so you can't get up, and coffee does not have to be brewed at as close to a 1:1 ratio as humanly possible.
***On other occasions, it has felt something like dragging a dead mammoth out of a tar pit. It is also important to note that I was out of my room by 8:32 and I didn't wake up unti 8:15. Plus, this morning's class is voluntary^.
^Because I took several years' worth of violin lessons, I felt that helping with the college's string pedagogy class was a good idea. My pillow and the backs of my eyelids keep arguing, but what do they know?
+Which continues to fall like it's December.
What. The. Hell.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Bach Double
Got ready to start this, and then--on a tab-closing spree--remembered the tab I'd opened as a "Whaaaah?"*
I was promptly amused.
"Oboists. All that blowing makes them brain dead."
BUT THIS WAS NOT THE GOAL OF TODAY. I have more reviews.
Megamind (2010)
Director: Tom McGrath
Ah, the beauty of cliches. That's the fun part about this film: it exploits all super hero/villain cliches but manages to maintain individuality. Yes, I could guess the end. Yes, I knew Metroman wasn't actually dead. Viewing these as plot line destinations, the journeys to these ideas were at least somewhat original, making a charming state function effect. This may not be one of my favorite films, but it's worth seeing once**.
Red (2010)
Director: Robert Schwentke
Good things: Karl Urban, who is always nice to see. :3 Helen Mirren as a vicious ladylike sniper (personally, I wouldn't mind being like that when I'm older). John Malcovich was born to play an ex-agent missing a few screws. The jokes are funny, and Bruce Willis' initial image as a creepy kidnapper is hilarious.
Bad thing: Bruce. I know you're still trying to be all that and a box of cigars, but we need to face the music. A make-out scene with someone who looks a good 20 years younger than you is not cool. I think I would love this movie if not for that.
Sorry for a rather . . . spacey blog. I'll probably have to edit later.
UPDATE: Editing commenced. Gentlemen aren't required to read the edits.
It ended up being an interesting afternoon.
An upcoming event--it's this Friday--that I have been rather excited for is Wear a Dress Day. I've always had a soft spot for dresses, and so I was looking forward to a good excuse to wear one just for everyday life. This is when I had a sudden--and slightly horrifying--epiphany.
Beyond my prom gowns, I did not own a single dress. Skirts, yes. But a dress and a skirt are not the same thing at all.
And I did not own a single dress.
It made sense, not to own dresses. The majority of my pre-college years was spent in some combined state of hot, sweaty, dirty, animal-hairy, and dung-covered. Dresses are not designed for such turmoil. Plus, I spent all my time in jeans.+ Legs the color of frog bellies are not meant for display. But still. Not one dress? I was seeing myself, yet again, as the frumpy one.
I do not like being frumpy.
So, feeling desperate and rather pathetic, I escaped to a local clothing store. Much to my delight, I found two dresses. Two. And they are cute, and I like them--and they were affordable. My joy was abounding.
Frumpiness diverted. :)
END EDIT.
P.S. ANOTHER UPDATE: I've been looking over my posts for this week, and was flattered to find that I look like a happy person. I'm not horribly miserable, but the fact I look happy is comforting. By looking happy, I might actually get back to feeling happy.
END. This post is now finished, I promise. No more edits. In other news, I think I'm going to start perfecting this weird story that was randomly birthed in my head. Wish me luck.
*Online preview of The Guild comic^. It has inspired me to watch the videos^^, which are humorous on the same level as The Office. In other words, it's funny. And my brain is crying hysterically from the stupidity.^^^
^I can associate with Cyd, though. When a chick says NO, she frigging means it. Why won't some guys listen?
I also know a mother like Clara. I am not proud of this fact, though.
^^I saw two commercials for the US premier of Doctor Who . . . 8o
^^^"Don't leave me like your father did!" "He had a heart attack!" "Out of spite!!"
I was promptly amused.
"Oboists. All that blowing makes them brain dead."
BUT THIS WAS NOT THE GOAL OF TODAY. I have more reviews.
Megamind (2010)
Director: Tom McGrath
Ah, the beauty of cliches. That's the fun part about this film: it exploits all super hero/villain cliches but manages to maintain individuality. Yes, I could guess the end. Yes, I knew Metroman wasn't actually dead. Viewing these as plot line destinations, the journeys to these ideas were at least somewhat original, making a charming state function effect. This may not be one of my favorite films, but it's worth seeing once**.
Red (2010)
Director: Robert Schwentke
Good things: Karl Urban, who is always nice to see. :3 Helen Mirren as a vicious ladylike sniper (personally, I wouldn't mind being like that when I'm older). John Malcovich was born to play an ex-agent missing a few screws. The jokes are funny, and Bruce Willis' initial image as a creepy kidnapper is hilarious.
Bad thing: Bruce. I know you're still trying to be all that and a box of cigars, but we need to face the music. A make-out scene with someone who looks a good 20 years younger than you is not cool. I think I would love this movie if not for that.
Sorry for a rather . . . spacey blog. I'll probably have to edit later.
UPDATE: Editing commenced. Gentlemen aren't required to read the edits.
It ended up being an interesting afternoon.
An upcoming event--it's this Friday--that I have been rather excited for is Wear a Dress Day. I've always had a soft spot for dresses, and so I was looking forward to a good excuse to wear one just for everyday life. This is when I had a sudden--and slightly horrifying--epiphany.
Beyond my prom gowns, I did not own a single dress. Skirts, yes. But a dress and a skirt are not the same thing at all.
And I did not own a single dress.
It made sense, not to own dresses. The majority of my pre-college years was spent in some combined state of hot, sweaty, dirty, animal-hairy, and dung-covered. Dresses are not designed for such turmoil. Plus, I spent all my time in jeans.+ Legs the color of frog bellies are not meant for display. But still. Not one dress? I was seeing myself, yet again, as the frumpy one.
I do not like being frumpy.
So, feeling desperate and rather pathetic, I escaped to a local clothing store. Much to my delight, I found two dresses. Two. And they are cute, and I like them--and they were affordable. My joy was abounding.
Frumpiness diverted. :)
END EDIT.
P.S. ANOTHER UPDATE: I've been looking over my posts for this week, and was flattered to find that I look like a happy person. I'm not horribly miserable, but the fact I look happy is comforting. By looking happy, I might actually get back to feeling happy.
END. This post is now finished, I promise. No more edits. In other news, I think I'm going to start perfecting this weird story that was randomly birthed in my head. Wish me luck.
*Online preview of The Guild comic^. It has inspired me to watch the videos^^, which are humorous on the same level as The Office. In other words, it's funny. And my brain is crying hysterically from the stupidity.^^^
^I can associate with Cyd, though. When a chick says NO, she frigging means it. Why won't some guys listen?
I also know a mother like Clara. I am not proud of this fact, though.
^^I saw two commercials for the US premier of Doctor Who . . . 8o
^^^"Don't leave me like your father did!" "He had a heart attack!" "Out of spite!!"
"I'm about to ruin 42 cents-worth of tater-tots!"
Oh shit. I SHOULD NOT HAVE WATCHED THIS. I don't need more distractions . . . 8'(
**Personally, they got me at "Use the Forget-Me Stick! 8D "
+I went swimming earlier this semester. It was my first trist in a pool in a good year or two.
+I went swimming earlier this semester. It was my first trist in a pool in a good year or two.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Snow (Hey Oh)
First off.
Grooveshark*, old buddy.
I WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS SONG.
BACK OFF AND LET ME HAVE IT**.
Today is one of those days that make me doubt my quality as a human being. To make me feel a little bit better about my epic misplacement of time***, I'll be doing several reviews. I hope some of them are chuckle-worthy.
Pop Tarts
If you're in a hurry and forget you own delicious, possibly-more nutritious blueberry bagels, these are a good resource. They'll spend the next few days hanging out in your colon unless you gorge yourself on fiber. The "fruity" filling has not yet been proved as organic material. But hey, they are sweet and better than nothing. A last-ditch effort at breakfast.
POMx Pomegranate Blackberry Tea
An evolution in tasty. Nice fruity overtones, and the black tea doesn't back down either. A hydrating drink with a mouth-puckered dry sort flavor. Beware, though: it needs refrigeration like FOX needs Firefly^. Without it, all the smooth fruityness goes sharp and sour--weeny, sleep-deprived taste buds won't like it. Still, a good buy.
Professor Buchman (spelling needs sourcing)
A step away from the usual, which was pleasant. A guest-speaking professor. Successfully made the cellular cycle interesting, informing, and entertaining. I did not want to fall asleep in lecture, possibly due to the fact it was a guest. At any rate, a good lecture.
Summer Wars (2009)
Director: Mamoru Hosoda
The reason for my sleeplessness. Also, did not get any knitting or crocheting done during the film: I watched the subbed version. A relatively good movie with a definitely more Japanese story style. I like the way this director breaks things up: on the one hand, the world is on the verge of ending. On the other, life goes on as always in many, many ways. There are a few features of the film's plot I contest against--primarily that the world as a whole is at risk, but it's up to one family to fix it all? At any rate, it is well-animated (mostly--there were a few bad leg angles, but they didn't happen too often.) and puts an interesting and fresh perspective on possible downfalls of today's increasingly technology-based society. I would recommend this film.
Urgh. Post finished. Decomposition may recommence.
*A poor loser's way of listening to music she doesn't have/can't afford^. Please don't shun me.
^These are the same thing. Looking up the Quigley Down Under soundtrack last night was torture. iTunes was the only place I could find it at first. Don't you just love their little 15-second clips?
**I have tried to keep no fewer than four versions of the song at this point, and each malfunctions the following day. Coincidence?--I think not. It is Grooveshark's personal attempt to make my life (more) miserable.
***Stayed up WAY too late watching a movie. Did not want to wake up at alarm, and accidentally pressed "Dismiss" as opposed to "Snooze". Slept till 9:30, and Chemistry II started at 9. Was minutes late for Cellular Biology on account of degrading functional abilities. Did not get any coffee. Sometimes, I hate myself.
^Translation: FOX sucks when not airing Firefly+. Therefore, POMx Blackberry Pomegranate Tea sucks when not refrigerated.
+Don't get these Firefly references? Then go look it up to watch it. NOW. As you're watching, mull over the fact that there are only--and most likely will only ever be--fourteen episodes. And it is FOX's doing.
Grooveshark*, old buddy.
I WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS SONG.
BACK OFF AND LET ME HAVE IT**.
Today is one of those days that make me doubt my quality as a human being. To make me feel a little bit better about my epic misplacement of time***, I'll be doing several reviews. I hope some of them are chuckle-worthy.
Pop Tarts
If you're in a hurry and forget you own delicious, possibly-more nutritious blueberry bagels, these are a good resource. They'll spend the next few days hanging out in your colon unless you gorge yourself on fiber. The "fruity" filling has not yet been proved as organic material. But hey, they are sweet and better than nothing. A last-ditch effort at breakfast.
POMx Pomegranate Blackberry Tea
An evolution in tasty. Nice fruity overtones, and the black tea doesn't back down either. A hydrating drink with a mouth-puckered dry sort flavor. Beware, though: it needs refrigeration like FOX needs Firefly^. Without it, all the smooth fruityness goes sharp and sour--weeny, sleep-deprived taste buds won't like it. Still, a good buy.
Professor Buchman (spelling needs sourcing)
A step away from the usual, which was pleasant. A guest-speaking professor. Successfully made the cellular cycle interesting, informing, and entertaining. I did not want to fall asleep in lecture, possibly due to the fact it was a guest. At any rate, a good lecture.
Summer Wars (2009)
Director: Mamoru Hosoda
The reason for my sleeplessness. Also, did not get any knitting or crocheting done during the film: I watched the subbed version. A relatively good movie with a definitely more Japanese story style. I like the way this director breaks things up: on the one hand, the world is on the verge of ending. On the other, life goes on as always in many, many ways. There are a few features of the film's plot I contest against--primarily that the world as a whole is at risk, but it's up to one family to fix it all? At any rate, it is well-animated (mostly--there were a few bad leg angles, but they didn't happen too often.) and puts an interesting and fresh perspective on possible downfalls of today's increasingly technology-based society. I would recommend this film.
Urgh. Post finished. Decomposition may recommence.
*A poor loser's way of listening to music she doesn't have/can't afford^. Please don't shun me.
^These are the same thing. Looking up the Quigley Down Under soundtrack last night was torture. iTunes was the only place I could find it at first. Don't you just love their little 15-second clips?
**I have tried to keep no fewer than four versions of the song at this point, and each malfunctions the following day. Coincidence?--I think not. It is Grooveshark's personal attempt to make my life (more) miserable.
***Stayed up WAY too late watching a movie. Did not want to wake up at alarm, and accidentally pressed "Dismiss" as opposed to "Snooze". Slept till 9:30, and Chemistry II started at 9. Was minutes late for Cellular Biology on account of degrading functional abilities. Did not get any coffee. Sometimes, I hate myself.
^Translation: FOX sucks when not airing Firefly+. Therefore, POMx Blackberry Pomegranate Tea sucks when not refrigerated.
+Don't get these Firefly references? Then go look it up to watch it. NOW. As you're watching, mull over the fact that there are only--and most likely will only ever be--fourteen episodes. And it is FOX's doing.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Annie Waits
I figured something out the other day concerning films and soundtracks and myself. If a movie does not have a decent soundtrack, I won't like it. End of discussion. But those movies that have awesome soundtracks become my favorite friends.
I didn't realize this before, oddly enough. I would come out of a theatre with this curious sort of buzzing sparkly excited sensation, and the unshakable desire to watch the feature again. The other day I finally noticed the relationship between that and the sensation I get from a superior musical performance*. I've compiled (and discussed, somewhat) four of my exceptional favorites in no particular order. There will be more later. Enjoy!
Pride & Prejudice (2003)
Composer: Dario Marianelli
Watching this film the first time was not a wonderful experience. I was talked at the entire time, added to the fact I was in a room of young teenage girls who would not shut up**. I could barely understand the plot line, but I knew as soon as it was over I needed to see it again. Why? A very tasteful combination of piano and orchestral timbres, that's why. Mr. Marianelli's piano pieces are fresh, with undertones of some of the romantic period's best sounds. Those parts not including a piano are still strong(I really love the dance piece Meryton Townhall, because it demands a reaction). An album with a particularly classical/romantic feel.
Quigley Down Under (1990)
Composer: Basil Poledouris
I grew up on this movie. John Wayne might have been the first cowboy, but I believe Tom Selleck was a better one, even though the background music probably helped this bias***. This soundtrack is built on a swaggering-feel orchestra, a sleepy-sounding clarinet, and the twang and jig of a traditional banjo. And the bassline is to die for. It sounds and feels similar to typical country, old-time Western music without making a full commitment to the stereotype of old-time country.
Star Trek (2009)
Composer: Michael Giacchino
Of the tracks that make this list, this is possibly my least favorite because it leans very heavily intense, anxious-feeling conflicted tones and my neurons start firing ::Get rid of the stress, and NOW or I will make you cry:: in fairly short order. Don't get me wrong--there is a delightful variety in the tonal content. The overall emotion is conflict, though, and I am (for the most part) something of a spineless wimp who cannot handle conflict. Excepting a few rock-n'-roll songs not included on the track, this orchestral album has strong classical themes with modern overtones incorporated gracefully into the original Star Trek theme.
Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Composer: Hans Zimmer
Tee hee. This soundtrack is composed for a cousin twice removed from an orchestra. The typical instruments all put in an appearance--but the star of the show is a hammered dulcimer for crying out loud. Not to mention they hauled in a shitty piano and some electric guitars. These combinations do a brilliant job showing the convoluted rabbit trail that is Holme's brain. They also sound amazing and adventurous. This track has recollections of old-time music coupled with forcefully modern twists, and the combination makes it quite enjoyable.
This was entirely enjoyable for me, interestingly enough. I hope it was for anyone who read it, either. I think I shall make a habit of watching films for their soundtracks now, though.
Good night!
*They're the same. Go figure.
**I've always had a hard time finding friends as easily spellbound by book and film as I. This was probably a great cause of conflict.
***Still. Quigley would have made John Wayne's Rooster Cogburn cry like a baby. A hungry, angry baby.
I didn't realize this before, oddly enough. I would come out of a theatre with this curious sort of buzzing sparkly excited sensation, and the unshakable desire to watch the feature again. The other day I finally noticed the relationship between that and the sensation I get from a superior musical performance*. I've compiled (and discussed, somewhat) four of my exceptional favorites in no particular order. There will be more later. Enjoy!
Pride & Prejudice (2003)
Composer: Dario Marianelli
Watching this film the first time was not a wonderful experience. I was talked at the entire time, added to the fact I was in a room of young teenage girls who would not shut up**. I could barely understand the plot line, but I knew as soon as it was over I needed to see it again. Why? A very tasteful combination of piano and orchestral timbres, that's why. Mr. Marianelli's piano pieces are fresh, with undertones of some of the romantic period's best sounds. Those parts not including a piano are still strong(I really love the dance piece Meryton Townhall, because it demands a reaction). An album with a particularly classical/romantic feel.
Quigley Down Under (1990)
Composer: Basil Poledouris
I grew up on this movie. John Wayne might have been the first cowboy, but I believe Tom Selleck was a better one, even though the background music probably helped this bias***. This soundtrack is built on a swaggering-feel orchestra, a sleepy-sounding clarinet, and the twang and jig of a traditional banjo. And the bassline is to die for. It sounds and feels similar to typical country, old-time Western music without making a full commitment to the stereotype of old-time country.
Star Trek (2009)
Composer: Michael Giacchino
Of the tracks that make this list, this is possibly my least favorite because it leans very heavily intense, anxious-feeling conflicted tones and my neurons start firing ::Get rid of the stress, and NOW or I will make you cry:: in fairly short order. Don't get me wrong--there is a delightful variety in the tonal content. The overall emotion is conflict, though, and I am (for the most part) something of a spineless wimp who cannot handle conflict. Excepting a few rock-n'-roll songs not included on the track, this orchestral album has strong classical themes with modern overtones incorporated gracefully into the original Star Trek theme.
Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Composer: Hans Zimmer
Tee hee. This soundtrack is composed for a cousin twice removed from an orchestra. The typical instruments all put in an appearance--but the star of the show is a hammered dulcimer for crying out loud. Not to mention they hauled in a shitty piano and some electric guitars. These combinations do a brilliant job showing the convoluted rabbit trail that is Holme's brain. They also sound amazing and adventurous. This track has recollections of old-time music coupled with forcefully modern twists, and the combination makes it quite enjoyable.
This was entirely enjoyable for me, interestingly enough. I hope it was for anyone who read it, either. I think I shall make a habit of watching films for their soundtracks now, though.
Good night!
*They're the same. Go figure.
**I've always had a hard time finding friends as easily spellbound by book and film as I. This was probably a great cause of conflict.
***Still. Quigley would have made John Wayne's Rooster Cogburn cry like a baby. A hungry, angry baby.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
This Never Happened Before
I am not sitting on yarn right now, which is a miracle. I have four different colors at present, three of which are in the immediate vicinity. There's the rainbow tape-yarn-stuff that is on its way to being crocheted into a shrug ( we're not past the first row yet), the blue scarf that I have restarted 5+ times (I'm double-crocheting this time--maybe I'll like it), and the black-to-white gradient fingerless gloves that I am knitting (which, after being restarted several times as well, is going fairly well now).
It was awful: I walked over to get some coffee, and the black-to-white was somehow looped around my waist. I dragged it around for a while before noticing.
At least I didn't lose any stitches. And it didn't get dragged through anything overwhelmingly nasty.
Of the things I have successfully finished, my hat sits upon my head and I gave the two flowers to my neighbors. A lot of work for not much product at this point. But hey, I'm a perfectionist and I only started this gig in January. I'm not doing too badly, methinks.
Well, the main point of this post was to actually start my blog here. It's been all ready and waiting for a few weeks now, and I have felt badly for it. So there. It has a post.
It was awful: I walked over to get some coffee, and the black-to-white was somehow looped around my waist. I dragged it around for a while before noticing.
At least I didn't lose any stitches. And it didn't get dragged through anything overwhelmingly nasty.
Of the things I have successfully finished, my hat sits upon my head and I gave the two flowers to my neighbors. A lot of work for not much product at this point. But hey, I'm a perfectionist and I only started this gig in January. I'm not doing too badly, methinks.
Well, the main point of this post was to actually start my blog here. It's been all ready and waiting for a few weeks now, and I have felt badly for it. So there. It has a post.
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