He began to pace in the narrow chamber, back and forth down the long length of it. “You’re a lucky little witch,” he said, spinning and pointing at her as if cracking a whip. “Lucky that the damages could be restricted to only a few, lucky that Totenberg is insubordinate enough to have been there to help put the fire out. No, don’t start,” he said, as she opened her mouth to explain.
She nodded and hung her head. If he's scolding, then it's not so bad. No one ever died from a tongue-lashing. She braced for him to go on the way he did, pausing to probe for more, coming back to spit acid.
"Haven't you been taught better? Haven't you learned from the Hounds? When a door is shut, you have no way of knowing who's on the other side. That goes for all doors, physical and magical. Make sure you have an ally waiting. But no, the first chance you get, you fling openings to the bottom of the Mandelbrot set wide and shout 'Is there anybody out there?' " He stopped short of yelling the last sentence, but he had raised his voice for the third time in her memory. He stopped, grasping the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.
"I didn't--"
"Quiet." They listened to the heavy brocaded silence in the chamber for a moment.
Outside in the hallway, Totenberg fished in the breast pocket of his tunic, finally coming out with his tobacco pouch and a sheaf of leathery leaves. He proceeded to roll a cigarillo there in the hallway, fingers surprisingly nimble at their task. The younger of the human guards stepped forward as if to stop him, but the other caught his sleeve and shook his head. Totenberg grinned as he caught a light off the torch in the hallway. Being a Hound had a few privileges.
Including the hearing. The old man had almost lost it for a moment there, but seemed to be regaining control. That's a good thing, he thought. He had served Spike's father, and his father before that, and his father before that, and confidently expected to serve Spike's children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren before he retired. Spike was . . . interesting, though. Interesting in a way that might cut his plans short. We never know, do we?
Sascha watched the operation closely. “You ain’t done that since . . . that night at Durmstrang.”
“Yah.”
“Think it gonna be that bad?”
Totenberg blew a long blue breath at the ceiling, ignoring the pointed glares of the guards nearby. “Dunno. We—“ he motioned to himself and Dmitri, “We can always go back to the hussars. You?” He tapped under his left eye, two quick pecks on the cheekbone. “On horseback? With a projectile or a ray? You almost as dangerous to our side as you are to the enemy.”
Sascha pulled himself up straight, out of the typical Hound’s crouch dictated by anatomy. “Can still fight!”
“Didn’t say you couldn’. Just said you couldn’ ride with us no more.”
Sascha had angled himself to be able to keep watch on both the door and his captain. Now he turned his full attention to the door. Totenberg put a hand on his shoulder.
“We wait.”
Sunday, March 04, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
A Reluctant Conversation, Part Two
Outside the door to the audience chamber, Spike stood with one hand on the handle. It was harder to be fierce here, with the doors that towered over her and not knowing what was waiting on the other side. The guardsmen had frowned at the Hounds, lowering their polearms. She’d wanted to hug them goodbye, but they’d stepped well back and saluted her. Totenberg nodded once, briskly, as his hand dropped back to his side.
The throne of bones was empty. That could be a good sign, that maybe she’d beaten him here somehow. Or it could be bad, that he’d become impatient with waiting for her and was now pacing the room. She closed the door behind her with a hollow thud.
When she turned around, he was waiting for her there in the gloom. A tall, lean man, dressed all in tightly fitted black from his doublet to hose and boots, with a sleeveless robe trimmed in bearskin that glinted with silver. His head was shaved. He was a man of all or nothing; no half-measures. When his hair had begun to fade and fall, he has simply gotten rid of it all. Even though he was her father, he was mostly a stranger to Spike, like a dour god.
He looked down at Spike with eyes as hard and grey as February. "Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron," he started, and Spike winced. It was never good when they used your full name. His voice was soft and his cadence slow, like water dripping from an icicle.
"Atyets--Papa! I can explain . . ." She trailed off as he shook his head.
"I'm sure you can. And I'm sure it's a good explanation, and it wasn't your fault." She nodded, mouth dry. "But there comes a time when explanations must end." He held up a slender, pointed hand to stop her from going on in the pause. "And that time, Nischka, is now."
The throne of bones was empty. That could be a good sign, that maybe she’d beaten him here somehow. Or it could be bad, that he’d become impatient with waiting for her and was now pacing the room. She closed the door behind her with a hollow thud.
When she turned around, he was waiting for her there in the gloom. A tall, lean man, dressed all in tightly fitted black from his doublet to hose and boots, with a sleeveless robe trimmed in bearskin that glinted with silver. His head was shaved. He was a man of all or nothing; no half-measures. When his hair had begun to fade and fall, he has simply gotten rid of it all. Even though he was her father, he was mostly a stranger to Spike, like a dour god.
He looked down at Spike with eyes as hard and grey as February. "Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron," he started, and Spike winced. It was never good when they used your full name. His voice was soft and his cadence slow, like water dripping from an icicle.
"Atyets--Papa! I can explain . . ." She trailed off as he shook his head.
"I'm sure you can. And I'm sure it's a good explanation, and it wasn't your fault." She nodded, mouth dry. "But there comes a time when explanations must end." He held up a slender, pointed hand to stop her from going on in the pause. "And that time, Nischka, is now."
Sunday, February 19, 2012
A Reluctant Conversation, Part One
She walked down the halls and through the corridors flanked by her batmen -- Dmitri to the left, Sascha to the right, and Totenberg behind her. Always, always this arrangement when they walk together so Sascha could keep his blind side to Spike. She could see the melted flesh where it twisted around the silver, mostly hidden by the eyepatch. Hounds were notoriously difficult to kill, so much so that outsiders—those not of the family -- mistook them for werewolves or demons. Sascha had been captured once, years before she was born—before Great-Grandfather was born—and after taking his left eye, they had cauterized the wound with molten silver. It hadn’t worked. Sascha was still walking the earth, and the dagger in his boot had handles of yellowed bone, smooth and cool.
She didn't really see the corridors and the doorways as they walked past. Her mind was utterly consumed by thoughts of the upcoming meeting with her father. Would the headsman be waiting there in the audience chamber, to take her back up the stairs to Nyebaveeshka, the great tower set with the sky? Where she'd be interred in one of the open cells, with three walls and no ceiling, open to the elements on two sides, with a sheer drop across from a barred door. Where she'd have the choice of flying lessons or waiting on her father's pleasure.
When they reached the third floor, Spike glanced out over the balustrade into the small conservatory. The glass ceiling was misty with warmth and humidity from the hot springs. It would smell of roses and summer—it was always summer in there. The glass inner doors were closed to keep the heat in. She stopped for a moment near them, started to reach for the handle.
Sascha stopped her. “No,” was all he said.
“Just for a moment.”
“No. Your atyets, he expect us.”
“But--"
Sascha cocked his head, looking down at her, the silver in his scars winking in the torchlight. "Need to be carried?" They'd done that before, when she was younger and had done something or another to make trouble. Trouble had a way of finding her, no matter how well she tried to hide from it.
"No, but--wait a minute!" Sascha was reaching for her, but he stopped and listened. "Please. Just one minute. Atyets can wait just one minute for us." Her eyes itched with tears, but she swallowed hard to keep them down. "I may never see the gardens again."
Sascha tilted his head towards his captain, standing behind their charge. One minute?
Totenberg frowned, then shrugged. "One minute." He'd take whatever fall came.
Sascha held the door for Spike. "Go--and breathe deep."
She did, head swimming with the perfumes. A hummingbird had found its way inside the gardens at some point that summer, and it flew about her head, scolding, an indignant jewel. She watched it flashing in emerald and ruby as it wheeled around, dive-bombing her. So little and fierce. She squared her shoulders. I can be fierce, too.
She didn't really see the corridors and the doorways as they walked past. Her mind was utterly consumed by thoughts of the upcoming meeting with her father. Would the headsman be waiting there in the audience chamber, to take her back up the stairs to Nyebaveeshka, the great tower set with the sky? Where she'd be interred in one of the open cells, with three walls and no ceiling, open to the elements on two sides, with a sheer drop across from a barred door. Where she'd have the choice of flying lessons or waiting on her father's pleasure.
When they reached the third floor, Spike glanced out over the balustrade into the small conservatory. The glass ceiling was misty with warmth and humidity from the hot springs. It would smell of roses and summer—it was always summer in there. The glass inner doors were closed to keep the heat in. She stopped for a moment near them, started to reach for the handle.
Sascha stopped her. “No,” was all he said.
“Just for a moment.”
“No. Your atyets, he expect us.”
“But--"
Sascha cocked his head, looking down at her, the silver in his scars winking in the torchlight. "Need to be carried?" They'd done that before, when she was younger and had done something or another to make trouble. Trouble had a way of finding her, no matter how well she tried to hide from it.
"No, but--wait a minute!" Sascha was reaching for her, but he stopped and listened. "Please. Just one minute. Atyets can wait just one minute for us." Her eyes itched with tears, but she swallowed hard to keep them down. "I may never see the gardens again."
Sascha tilted his head towards his captain, standing behind their charge. One minute?
Totenberg frowned, then shrugged. "One minute." He'd take whatever fall came.
Sascha held the door for Spike. "Go--and breathe deep."
She did, head swimming with the perfumes. A hummingbird had found its way inside the gardens at some point that summer, and it flew about her head, scolding, an indignant jewel. She watched it flashing in emerald and ruby as it wheeled around, dive-bombing her. So little and fierce. She squared her shoulders. I can be fierce, too.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
A Note Passed, Part Three
He’d saved lives that day, starting with his little mistress. They’d only lost one professor (but he was gone before I even entered the room. He was gone seconds after he traced the lines of the diagram Spike drew, gone even as he started to ask what this was. Turned into a living doorway for a gibbering squamous mass with rolling eyes and gaping maw. One professor, and the student next to him.)
Aloud, he said, "There are other schools. Maybe Beauxbatons--"
Spike sneered. "Charms, Transfiguration, and Hairdressing. I'll blend into that batch of mirror-dazzled half-Veela about as well as black pepper in a cream sauce."
"Not so bad." His accent had thickened since returning home, back to its half-drawling growl. Vowels drawn out and bent sideways, consonants like stones dropped down a well. No one else talked like that, no one but the Hounds. She'd wondered before if it was a result of their physiology, or if it was a matter of tribal identity. They had little else in common, those created monsters of her father's private army. "Power come from more than one source."
Spike sighed. He had a point. She hated it when he had a point. That point always seemed to be attached to the petard she was hoist upon. "And Hogwarts. Home to the Boys Who Were Over-Rated and the Girls Who Were Wallpaper."
He snorted derision at that. "Not so bad, I tell you." Hydellhyu, like the sound the wind made around the spires in the early spring. "Other schools, they founded by one witch or wizard, they focus on one thing. Monomaniacal, one could say. Hogwarts founded by four, who joined as a team. Reinforce each other's weaknesses, see different values. Diversity, yah?"
"I guess . . ." But did she really want to go to Hogwarts--assuming she was accepted, that was. There was always the Americas, much newer, much less well-known, making its name based on a heavily Muggle-influenced branch of magics. They use clockwork and steam there, she marveled, recalling what she had heard about the Iveagh League. Clockwork gears and boilers and fire and water harnessed to the will of the witch or wizard. There was diversity, calling on elementals to do your bidding.
But, on the other hand, so far away. It was a long flight from America by broom, and she wouldn't be able to Apparate for some time yet. Maybe she could take Muggle transportation--could one drive from America? Is a car waterproof? She would have to look that up. She started to go to the bookshelf to do some research, and then remembered for the hundredth time that day that she had no books. No philosophical engine, no connection at all to the world beyond her bedroom door.
"Would you ask Dmitri--" and then someone was clapping softly for entrance. Spike felt the pit of her stomach freeze over at the sound. The headsman. Had to be. She had been the heir, and had suddenly been demoted to the spare. No sense in keeping her around. Her hands were numb again, she felt the tingling in her lower back, adrenaline bee stings as she leaped to her feet, whirling and diving for cover under the bed. Totenberg was fast, but by the grace of the good Bear she was faster. His claws caught and ripped the leg of her pants just over her boot as he grabbed, but she was under the bed on her belly and scrabbling into a tight ball at the headboard by the time he caught back up to her.
"Vat de--"
"Headsman." She was panting, unable to catch her breath, shaking. "Atyets's sent the headsman for me and--" She couldn't finish. The block will be cold, this time of year, she thought, cold and frosted over like the boards of the stage. Or will Atyets have them use a sword instead, for a quicker, cleaner end? Will he convene the village as a public lesson, or keep it a private, family matter?
Totenberg arose from his crouch at the foot. "Don't be silly. Headsman wouldn't clap--he'd just order Dmitri and Sascha out of his way and come for you."
"And you'd--"
"I'd do what I had to do," he replied over his shoulder as he swung the door open. She could see Dmitri's boots in the corridor, and high up near the lintel, a slice of Sascha's red-gold hair. She couldn't hear what the one Hound said to the other, but Totenberg was nodding and coming back for her, all too soon, leaving the door ajar.
"Is time, little mistress. You papa, he say come now."
Aloud, he said, "There are other schools. Maybe Beauxbatons--"
Spike sneered. "Charms, Transfiguration, and Hairdressing. I'll blend into that batch of mirror-dazzled half-Veela about as well as black pepper in a cream sauce."
"Not so bad." His accent had thickened since returning home, back to its half-drawling growl. Vowels drawn out and bent sideways, consonants like stones dropped down a well. No one else talked like that, no one but the Hounds. She'd wondered before if it was a result of their physiology, or if it was a matter of tribal identity. They had little else in common, those created monsters of her father's private army. "Power come from more than one source."
Spike sighed. He had a point. She hated it when he had a point. That point always seemed to be attached to the petard she was hoist upon. "And Hogwarts. Home to the Boys Who Were Over-Rated and the Girls Who Were Wallpaper."
He snorted derision at that. "Not so bad, I tell you." Hydellhyu, like the sound the wind made around the spires in the early spring. "Other schools, they founded by one witch or wizard, they focus on one thing. Monomaniacal, one could say. Hogwarts founded by four, who joined as a team. Reinforce each other's weaknesses, see different values. Diversity, yah?"
"I guess . . ." But did she really want to go to Hogwarts--assuming she was accepted, that was. There was always the Americas, much newer, much less well-known, making its name based on a heavily Muggle-influenced branch of magics. They use clockwork and steam there, she marveled, recalling what she had heard about the Iveagh League. Clockwork gears and boilers and fire and water harnessed to the will of the witch or wizard. There was diversity, calling on elementals to do your bidding.
But, on the other hand, so far away. It was a long flight from America by broom, and she wouldn't be able to Apparate for some time yet. Maybe she could take Muggle transportation--could one drive from America? Is a car waterproof? She would have to look that up. She started to go to the bookshelf to do some research, and then remembered for the hundredth time that day that she had no books. No philosophical engine, no connection at all to the world beyond her bedroom door.
"Would you ask Dmitri--" and then someone was clapping softly for entrance. Spike felt the pit of her stomach freeze over at the sound. The headsman. Had to be. She had been the heir, and had suddenly been demoted to the spare. No sense in keeping her around. Her hands were numb again, she felt the tingling in her lower back, adrenaline bee stings as she leaped to her feet, whirling and diving for cover under the bed. Totenberg was fast, but by the grace of the good Bear she was faster. His claws caught and ripped the leg of her pants just over her boot as he grabbed, but she was under the bed on her belly and scrabbling into a tight ball at the headboard by the time he caught back up to her.
"Vat de--"
"Headsman." She was panting, unable to catch her breath, shaking. "Atyets's sent the headsman for me and--" She couldn't finish. The block will be cold, this time of year, she thought, cold and frosted over like the boards of the stage. Or will Atyets have them use a sword instead, for a quicker, cleaner end? Will he convene the village as a public lesson, or keep it a private, family matter?
Totenberg arose from his crouch at the foot. "Don't be silly. Headsman wouldn't clap--he'd just order Dmitri and Sascha out of his way and come for you."
"And you'd--"
"I'd do what I had to do," he replied over his shoulder as he swung the door open. She could see Dmitri's boots in the corridor, and high up near the lintel, a slice of Sascha's red-gold hair. She couldn't hear what the one Hound said to the other, but Totenberg was nodding and coming back for her, all too soon, leaving the door ajar.
"Is time, little mistress. You papa, he say come now."
Sunday, February 05, 2012
A Note Passed, Part Two
Her monstrous bodyguard, seven feet of lean muscle, pointed ears and sharp white teeth. He pulled his black and silver hair back in a braid that fell almost to his boot tops when it dangled free, pooled on the floor as he crouched beside her there by the fire. The light glinted off the sleek dark fur covering his face, long limbs coiled under him as he squatted. Longer fur peeked out from under the cuffs at his wrists. He looked like one of Atyets’s mastiffs given the ability to stand upright and the power of speech. Legs sleekly muscled, spatulate palms with long claw-tipped fingers. The better to chase you with, my dear, the better to catch you with.
Spike sighed. “It’s just not fair,” she mumbled. It was becoming her mantra, it seemed. He made some noise of encouragement, and she went on.
“It’s not fair. Worse than that happened, and they weren’t kicked out—“
“Was students to students. Survival of the fittest.”
“But still! It wasn't my fault." She looked up at him now. How could she tell it in a way that he'd understand, would intercede with Atyets on her behalf. "I'd had an Idea in Arithmancy, one of those that I get sometimes--"
He knew about his mistress's Ideas; they all did. Often diving for cover when she started with the quill and parchment, scribbling away, fire in her eyes and ink in her hair. They'd taken turns spoon feeding her while she was in the middle of inspiration, keeping a careful watch over her, waiting for the moment when it was wiser to take the implements of creation out of her hands and quickly distract her. They'd gone through most of the barracks card games by now, time to teach her Arimaa.
And he'd missed this one. Minions weren't allowed in classes. He'd had a quiet word with the headmaster, explaining that Spike wasn't quite like the other students; that her talents were . . . a little wild sometimes. His eyes flicked to the tapestry that covered the north wall and the scars still in the stone from that incident what Spike was two and just getting a handle on speech. She'd gotten frustrated, grabbed a length of wood, swish and flick, and--sometimes he could still hear the voices humming and whispering, muffled only slightly by the tapestry.
For his efforts, all Totenberg had received was a patronizing lecture on how all of Durmstrang's students were among the exceptionally gifted, of course, and that the staff had plenty of experience handling all the situations that might arise. He should go and wait in the dormitory with the other minions; everything was going to be just fine.
He wondered how the headmaster had explained--call a spade a spade--covered up the incident in Arithmancy.
"So I was writing a note -- to myself! For later! And when I was done with the diagram, I was folding it up, and suddenly he was there by my elbow, demanding I give him that piece of parchment. He was going to read it out loud to the class."
Totenberg could see it now, the vulturous Arithmancy professor, with his long neck hunched into his narrow shoulders looming up behind Spike as she sketched and labeled her Idea. How he’d looked down his nose and cawed a demand that she hand it over, this tiny new Idea that she was hammering down to explore further. How she’d have looked up, blinking and returning to the world outside her head. Corbidius would have taken that for guilt, most likely.
Then the blood on the walls and the screaming. He’d not confined himself to the dormitory, despite the headmaster’s demands, nor had he insisted that Sascha and Dmitri do the same. So after the professor had been forcibly evicted from his body by the being that he had unwittingly opened a gateway to, Totenberg had been waiting in the hallway, where he could kick the door in and go help, rather than a solid klick away, behind many sets of doors and stairs.
Spike sighed. “It’s just not fair,” she mumbled. It was becoming her mantra, it seemed. He made some noise of encouragement, and she went on.
“It’s not fair. Worse than that happened, and they weren’t kicked out—“
“Was students to students. Survival of the fittest.”
“But still! It wasn't my fault." She looked up at him now. How could she tell it in a way that he'd understand, would intercede with Atyets on her behalf. "I'd had an Idea in Arithmancy, one of those that I get sometimes--"
He knew about his mistress's Ideas; they all did. Often diving for cover when she started with the quill and parchment, scribbling away, fire in her eyes and ink in her hair. They'd taken turns spoon feeding her while she was in the middle of inspiration, keeping a careful watch over her, waiting for the moment when it was wiser to take the implements of creation out of her hands and quickly distract her. They'd gone through most of the barracks card games by now, time to teach her Arimaa.
And he'd missed this one. Minions weren't allowed in classes. He'd had a quiet word with the headmaster, explaining that Spike wasn't quite like the other students; that her talents were . . . a little wild sometimes. His eyes flicked to the tapestry that covered the north wall and the scars still in the stone from that incident what Spike was two and just getting a handle on speech. She'd gotten frustrated, grabbed a length of wood, swish and flick, and--sometimes he could still hear the voices humming and whispering, muffled only slightly by the tapestry.
For his efforts, all Totenberg had received was a patronizing lecture on how all of Durmstrang's students were among the exceptionally gifted, of course, and that the staff had plenty of experience handling all the situations that might arise. He should go and wait in the dormitory with the other minions; everything was going to be just fine.
He wondered how the headmaster had explained--call a spade a spade--covered up the incident in Arithmancy.
"So I was writing a note -- to myself! For later! And when I was done with the diagram, I was folding it up, and suddenly he was there by my elbow, demanding I give him that piece of parchment. He was going to read it out loud to the class."
Totenberg could see it now, the vulturous Arithmancy professor, with his long neck hunched into his narrow shoulders looming up behind Spike as she sketched and labeled her Idea. How he’d looked down his nose and cawed a demand that she hand it over, this tiny new Idea that she was hammering down to explore further. How she’d have looked up, blinking and returning to the world outside her head. Corbidius would have taken that for guilt, most likely.
Then the blood on the walls and the screaming. He’d not confined himself to the dormitory, despite the headmaster’s demands, nor had he insisted that Sascha and Dmitri do the same. So after the professor had been forcibly evicted from his body by the being that he had unwittingly opened a gateway to, Totenberg had been waiting in the hallway, where he could kick the door in and go help, rather than a solid klick away, behind many sets of doors and stairs.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A Note Passed, Part One
The trip home had been a distinct and painful contrast to the trip away. Spike could see the carriage of horn in the embers, imagine it riding up the mountain on which Schadelthron perched, talons sunk deep into the rock. If I lean in and look closely enough, she wondered, will I see me in the carriage, Dmitri driving and Sascha next to him? Totenberg facing the rear with me, making sure I don't call for a stop and then run?
It had been a warm and sunny fall afternoon, riding out, the leaves crisp in the blue tinted air, the sun a lemon drop. Sweet with remembered summer, sour with the tang of winter to come. Everything new--new books, fresh parchment, ink stoppered in clean glass bottles like liquid jewels of crimson, sapphire, and jade. And black, lots of matte fuligin for the final drafts. Bone black. New made clothes with the family crest discreetly displayed on the left breast. A rainbow of new livery for her batsmen in brown and silver, purple and gold, black on black on black for best. All of it folded with thyme and rosemary to keep it fresh and sweet until it was worn.
She had been so excited. Accepted to Durmstrang, the school that swum, changing locations from day to day. Never rooted, unlike Schadelthron which had been carved out of the mountain's very bones, with its back against the river. Nunquam verto, the motto of her family. Hard to retreat with the cliff at your back and the river far below. Nunquam trado, it should have been. Except Great-great-great however many greats grandfather hadn't been much of a one for Latin. Just because he had a dim view of the Caesar clan.
And then the ride back. There hadn't actually been shouting peasants with torches and pitchforks, but she felt the ignominy of having to flee, and knowing that she was fleeing from one bad situation to the next. It didn't help that she was returning home; home wasn't any safer than the wide world. But where else could she have gone? An untrained witch was a danger to herself as much as to others, and even if she and her bodyguards had gone rogue and preyed off the land and the folk who scrabbled a hard living from it, they wouldn't have lasted long before being hunted back down.
That would have been something to see, the Hounds going from hunter to hunted. Preferably from far enough away that her own tender hide wasn't involved in the process. Totenberg laid one hand across her shoulders. "What you thinking?"
“What do you think?”
“Think you shouldn’t answer a question with a question.” Spike scowled at the fire, she could hear the grin in his voice. Her batman, her sideboy, one of the three who had watched over her since; well, since forever, as far as she was concerned. She had never been afraid of the dark because the worst possible thing, the boogeyman that other parents used to scare their children with was there in the dark with her, keeping watch as she slept.
It had been a warm and sunny fall afternoon, riding out, the leaves crisp in the blue tinted air, the sun a lemon drop. Sweet with remembered summer, sour with the tang of winter to come. Everything new--new books, fresh parchment, ink stoppered in clean glass bottles like liquid jewels of crimson, sapphire, and jade. And black, lots of matte fuligin for the final drafts. Bone black. New made clothes with the family crest discreetly displayed on the left breast. A rainbow of new livery for her batsmen in brown and silver, purple and gold, black on black on black for best. All of it folded with thyme and rosemary to keep it fresh and sweet until it was worn.
She had been so excited. Accepted to Durmstrang, the school that swum, changing locations from day to day. Never rooted, unlike Schadelthron which had been carved out of the mountain's very bones, with its back against the river. Nunquam verto, the motto of her family. Hard to retreat with the cliff at your back and the river far below. Nunquam trado, it should have been. Except Great-great-great however many greats grandfather hadn't been much of a one for Latin. Just because he had a dim view of the Caesar clan.
And then the ride back. There hadn't actually been shouting peasants with torches and pitchforks, but she felt the ignominy of having to flee, and knowing that she was fleeing from one bad situation to the next. It didn't help that she was returning home; home wasn't any safer than the wide world. But where else could she have gone? An untrained witch was a danger to herself as much as to others, and even if she and her bodyguards had gone rogue and preyed off the land and the folk who scrabbled a hard living from it, they wouldn't have lasted long before being hunted back down.
That would have been something to see, the Hounds going from hunter to hunted. Preferably from far enough away that her own tender hide wasn't involved in the process. Totenberg laid one hand across her shoulders. "What you thinking?"
“What do you think?”
“Think you shouldn’t answer a question with a question.” Spike scowled at the fire, she could hear the grin in his voice. Her batman, her sideboy, one of the three who had watched over her since; well, since forever, as far as she was concerned. She had never been afraid of the dark because the worst possible thing, the boogeyman that other parents used to scare their children with was there in the dark with her, keeping watch as she slept.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Returning Home
The wind hissed through the teeth of the bars, promising sleet or snow in its whispers. Spike stood in front of the barred window, hair skirling in the breeze. Her fingers were numb and white on the ironwork. It was going to hurt when she finally closed the windows again, drew the shutters, and sat by the fire. She didn't care. It couldn't hurt worse than the heartbreak she felt right now.
She'd been contemplating the rocks down below, far down enough to look like nothing but crushed velvet texture. She'd hiked along them before in summer, with the spume from the ocean splashing up around her, foam flying off the jagged crags. No doubt, that's why they'd had the bars installed before she came home; in case she decided to try any flying lessons.
Not that she'd get far. She glanced over her shoulder. Her bodyguard, recently pressed into service as her jailer, lounged against the wall by the door. He looked relaxed, slouched easily and loosely, arms folded, one foot up against the wall, but his eyes missed nothing. When she'd opened the windows, he'd shivered to alertness, ears pricked forward, weight shifting forward, ready to tackle her and bring her to the floor--then he'd seen the frosty iron and relaxed again.
There was still rock dust in the craters holding the bars in place. They must have had them put in the moment they received word that she was coming home again in disgrace. She put her forehead against them, between them, as if measuring to see if her head will fit. Rule of the cat, if your head will fit, your body will fit. Totenberg must have had the same thought; she heard the sole of his boot scuff as he peeled off the wall and started across the room.
"I'm closing up," she said loudly, shutting the window and then barring the shutters back over it. She sat down by the fire, on the wooden stool with the one short leg, tucking her hands into her armpits to thaw slowly. They went from numb to tingling to burning and throbbing as she sat staring into the coals. Her whole world had been reduced to this. The fire, the window, and bed.
Her books were gone, her papers were gone. No ink, no parchment. They had even taken her wand. And she had no idea what was coming; whether she would be quietly moved off to another estate somewhere in the backwaters to learn another trade, whether she would be ensconced in the upper floors of the Tower, in one of the rooms without walls, or if all would be forgiven somehow.
She hoped it would be the last of the three options, slim though that hope was. She was only the first in line by an accident of birth, being the eldest--but a girl. The next child had been a starchild, never drawing breath, but then came her younger brother. Her grasp on the throne of bones had been tenuous but firm, and now it was all slipping away.
"It wasn't my fault," she protested out loud for what had to be the hundredth time that day. "I didn't do it on purpose, why can't they see that?" Totenberg didn't answer; he'd already said everything he had to say on that matter on the ride back to Schadelthron.
She'd been contemplating the rocks down below, far down enough to look like nothing but crushed velvet texture. She'd hiked along them before in summer, with the spume from the ocean splashing up around her, foam flying off the jagged crags. No doubt, that's why they'd had the bars installed before she came home; in case she decided to try any flying lessons.
Not that she'd get far. She glanced over her shoulder. Her bodyguard, recently pressed into service as her jailer, lounged against the wall by the door. He looked relaxed, slouched easily and loosely, arms folded, one foot up against the wall, but his eyes missed nothing. When she'd opened the windows, he'd shivered to alertness, ears pricked forward, weight shifting forward, ready to tackle her and bring her to the floor--then he'd seen the frosty iron and relaxed again.
There was still rock dust in the craters holding the bars in place. They must have had them put in the moment they received word that she was coming home again in disgrace. She put her forehead against them, between them, as if measuring to see if her head will fit. Rule of the cat, if your head will fit, your body will fit. Totenberg must have had the same thought; she heard the sole of his boot scuff as he peeled off the wall and started across the room.
"I'm closing up," she said loudly, shutting the window and then barring the shutters back over it. She sat down by the fire, on the wooden stool with the one short leg, tucking her hands into her armpits to thaw slowly. They went from numb to tingling to burning and throbbing as she sat staring into the coals. Her whole world had been reduced to this. The fire, the window, and bed.
Her books were gone, her papers were gone. No ink, no parchment. They had even taken her wand. And she had no idea what was coming; whether she would be quietly moved off to another estate somewhere in the backwaters to learn another trade, whether she would be ensconced in the upper floors of the Tower, in one of the rooms without walls, or if all would be forgiven somehow.
She hoped it would be the last of the three options, slim though that hope was. She was only the first in line by an accident of birth, being the eldest--but a girl. The next child had been a starchild, never drawing breath, but then came her younger brother. Her grasp on the throne of bones had been tenuous but firm, and now it was all slipping away.
"It wasn't my fault," she protested out loud for what had to be the hundredth time that day. "I didn't do it on purpose, why can't they see that?" Totenberg didn't answer; he'd already said everything he had to say on that matter on the ride back to Schadelthron.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
More Rice
Second part of the second part, now. With me so far?
On Ravelry, there are many groups who all share the commonality of fiber and crafting--specifically spinning, dyeing, knitting, crocheting, and weaving. Some are groups for fans of particular designers, some are groups based on location, and some are groups that focus on a particular type of craft. Lace knitting is fairly popular.
And then there are the crossover folks, the people who are fans of the Tour de France and knitting, the people who love beer and weaving, and yes, MMORPG1 fans who crochet while waiting for the browser to refresh already. As you may imagine, there are more than a few people who are science fiction and fantasy fans prowling around the board in places like the Ankh-Morpork Knitter's Guild.
Most of my knitting mojo has been directed at Ravelry, and one group in particular: the Harry Potter Knit and Crochet House Cup. As you may gather from the name of the group, the focus is on fans of Ms. Rowling’s seminal work.
I’ve described it to my Muggle friends as a group for competitive knitting or knitting as an extreme sport, but of course, there’s more to it than that. Given its composition of fiction fanatics, it has taken on a flavor of its own; more like a LARP2 played via text message, which actually results in projects being made in accordance with prompted guidelines.
Of course, me being me, I’ve worked out a whole character arc, including backstory nuggets that I stumble across every so often, and I know a large chunk of where this is going. So whenever I respond to a prompt with a picture of what I was inspired to create, I’ll add some flavor by building a story around it.
Which brings us down to the last few pairs of socks and underpants.
Most of my happyfunstuffs ends up on Ravelry. I’d invite you all to follow me over there, but I’m betting that those of you on the fiber spectrum are either (a) already there, or (b) not interested at all. Those of you who are not fiber geeks have no reason to be there.
So the mountain simply must come to Mohammed. Or, in other words, I’ll leverage my creative fun, and post photos and stories here, in the order they were created.
I’ll tag this series with HPKC, so those of you interested in following along can do so. After all, this was originally created as a place to share stories and projects, like a bento box of topics. We’re just adding some more rice. And a Hello Kitty with soybean eyes and a Spam hairbow.
There will still be big things, like death, disease, and loss, and they’ll make guest appearances here on the same arbitrary schedule you’ve come to know and love. Meanwhile, it makes me happy to know thatmy deathless prose Spike’s stories will all be sitting right here.
1. Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game
2. Live Action Roleplaying Game
On Ravelry, there are many groups who all share the commonality of fiber and crafting--specifically spinning, dyeing, knitting, crocheting, and weaving. Some are groups for fans of particular designers, some are groups based on location, and some are groups that focus on a particular type of craft. Lace knitting is fairly popular.
And then there are the crossover folks, the people who are fans of the Tour de France and knitting, the people who love beer and weaving, and yes, MMORPG1 fans who crochet while waiting for the browser to refresh already. As you may imagine, there are more than a few people who are science fiction and fantasy fans prowling around the board in places like the Ankh-Morpork Knitter's Guild.
Most of my knitting mojo has been directed at Ravelry, and one group in particular: the Harry Potter Knit and Crochet House Cup. As you may gather from the name of the group, the focus is on fans of Ms. Rowling’s seminal work.
I’ve described it to my Muggle friends as a group for competitive knitting or knitting as an extreme sport, but of course, there’s more to it than that. Given its composition of fiction fanatics, it has taken on a flavor of its own; more like a LARP2 played via text message, which actually results in projects being made in accordance with prompted guidelines.
Of course, me being me, I’ve worked out a whole character arc, including backstory nuggets that I stumble across every so often, and I know a large chunk of where this is going. So whenever I respond to a prompt with a picture of what I was inspired to create, I’ll add some flavor by building a story around it.
Which brings us down to the last few pairs of socks and underpants.
Most of my happyfunstuffs ends up on Ravelry. I’d invite you all to follow me over there, but I’m betting that those of you on the fiber spectrum are either (a) already there, or (b) not interested at all. Those of you who are not fiber geeks have no reason to be there.
So the mountain simply must come to Mohammed. Or, in other words, I’ll leverage my creative fun, and post photos and stories here, in the order they were created.
I’ll tag this series with HPKC, so those of you interested in following along can do so. After all, this was originally created as a place to share stories and projects, like a bento box of topics. We’re just adding some more rice. And a Hello Kitty with soybean eyes and a Spam hairbow.
There will still be big things, like death, disease, and loss, and they’ll make guest appearances here on the same arbitrary schedule you’ve come to know and love. Meanwhile, it makes me happy to know that
1. Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game
2. Live Action Roleplaying Game
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Socks and Underpants
I keep my promises, really I do. Here's the second part. Or rather, the first part of the second part. Trust me a little longer?
The Internet is primarily a place of gathering and tribes. It is a vast plain studded liberally with watering holes. Where there were once a few great lakes (and if you don't like the water, too bad) there are now thousands of ponds for people to gather at. It is no longer an issue of finding a few likeminded people in your hometown to discuss your shared tastes with; the Internet has a place for virtually everything.
Including knitters and fiber artists.
Enter Ravelry, a combination social media and database site. I know, it sounds like about as much fun as watching painted grass grow. But see, this is a place where I can crack the joke about the Dungeon Master who's knitting a stochastic cabled garment, and is putting the fear into her players by pointing at random someones down the table and asking them to roll. "Uh, twelve?" The DM consults the chart, makes a left twist cable, smiles, and says, "Thanks," while all the players do the "deer in the headlights" look. And by the time they bash the balrog, the DM has a nice new pair of wool socks to keep her toes cozy at the table.
And people get it. Get it because they are gamer geeks and fiber freaks, and one or two will drop a line back about how they are implementing this plan for next Saturday's game. (And a few more who post a picture of Beavis with the caption, "Heh-heh! You said 'stochastic!' Heh-heh-heh!!")
The Internet is primarily a place of gathering and tribes. It is a vast plain studded liberally with watering holes. Where there were once a few great lakes (and if you don't like the water, too bad) there are now thousands of ponds for people to gather at. It is no longer an issue of finding a few likeminded people in your hometown to discuss your shared tastes with; the Internet has a place for virtually everything.
Including knitters and fiber artists.
Enter Ravelry, a combination social media and database site. I know, it sounds like about as much fun as watching painted grass grow. But see, this is a place where I can crack the joke about the Dungeon Master who's knitting a stochastic cabled garment, and is putting the fear into her players by pointing at random someones down the table and asking them to roll. "Uh, twelve?" The DM consults the chart, makes a left twist cable, smiles, and says, "Thanks," while all the players do the "deer in the headlights" look. And by the time they bash the balrog, the DM has a nice new pair of wool socks to keep her toes cozy at the table.
And people get it. Get it because they are gamer geeks and fiber freaks, and one or two will drop a line back about how they are implementing this plan for next Saturday's game. (And a few more who post a picture of Beavis with the caption, "Heh-heh! You said 'stochastic!' Heh-heh-heh!!")
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Unpacking
I stole this metaphor from Lois McMaster Bujold and her Vorkorsigan series. If you're going to crib, crib from the best, yes? Her protagonist has a mind like a bag of cats--the strings loosen, and all the words rush out. He's so busy with getting everything out there where it can be seen that he often forgets the conventions of communication, i.e., that the receiver cannot always see the pattern that seems so very obvious to the speaker.
So often, several times per book often, Bujold will have him stop and mutter "Unpack." as a reminder to himself that the fractal he's developing may be intuitive, obvious, and painfully clear to him; but he lost the listener several iterations back. Why burlap? How can we obtain herring? And what does this have to do with a plan to wrest control of the space station back from the villains?
So. Unpack.
I've been dying to share some of this with my audience, but I need to take a deep breath and step back and, well, unpack so you can see the coolativity of what I've been up to while I've been away.
To begin with, this is all Xerhino's fault.
I have multiple blogs, this one here that anyone can find, another one tucked away that only gets updated under a full moon when I sacrifice a black goat over the keyboard, and a mindwipe journal on LiveJournal where I stick stuff I don't need now, but would like to have handy sometime. Think of it like a ten year old's pockets after walking on the beach, full of shells, pebbles that turn bright colors when wet, and bits of sea glass worn to frosty velvet drops.
And, see, Xerhino is on LiveJournal.
So every time I trot over there to deposit the latest bit of treasure, I'll get a note that he saw I'd updated, and hey howdy, what's going on, and will I post a picture of the driftwood Zozobra I'm building in his fair isle sweater? Xerhino has never seen a sweater for a fifty-foot flaming statue, and is curious.
So there's the first part, multiple blogs, and this is my project blog.
Which you'll probably note, has been awful empty of late.
It's not that I'm not knitting; it's that I've, er, been unfaithful. But I promise -- pinkyswear promise-- to mend my evil ways.
Next week.
So often, several times per book often, Bujold will have him stop and mutter "Unpack." as a reminder to himself that the fractal he's developing may be intuitive, obvious, and painfully clear to him; but he lost the listener several iterations back. Why burlap? How can we obtain herring? And what does this have to do with a plan to wrest control of the space station back from the villains?
So. Unpack.
I've been dying to share some of this with my audience, but I need to take a deep breath and step back and, well, unpack so you can see the coolativity of what I've been up to while I've been away.
To begin with, this is all Xerhino's fault.
I have multiple blogs, this one here that anyone can find, another one tucked away that only gets updated under a full moon when I sacrifice a black goat over the keyboard, and a mindwipe journal on LiveJournal where I stick stuff I don't need now, but would like to have handy sometime. Think of it like a ten year old's pockets after walking on the beach, full of shells, pebbles that turn bright colors when wet, and bits of sea glass worn to frosty velvet drops.
And, see, Xerhino is on LiveJournal.
So every time I trot over there to deposit the latest bit of treasure, I'll get a note that he saw I'd updated, and hey howdy, what's going on, and will I post a picture of the driftwood Zozobra I'm building in his fair isle sweater? Xerhino has never seen a sweater for a fifty-foot flaming statue, and is curious.
So there's the first part, multiple blogs, and this is my project blog.
Which you'll probably note, has been awful empty of late.
It's not that I'm not knitting; it's that I've, er, been unfaithful. But I promise -- pinkyswear promise-- to mend my evil ways.
Next week.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Proving a Negative
So a moment ago I'm thinking fine proud strong thoughts like "start over" and "you can't break me" and about discovery of self and shadow light and dark and woo and woo and woo. and then I log in here, and watch the pigeons fly, leaving the square totally empty except for a few feathers falling from the sky.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
It's the same thing driving to work, thinking about this and that and how these things would make an excellent piece for seven hundred and fifty words, how I could probably get a whole string out of this and then I park the car and log in and sign in and the lights go out as soon as the screen comes up.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
And when I lost a day here I started over, and heaven only knows how many times in my life I started over. During the great collapse of ought whenever it was, where I lost two novels and all my short fiction to date, when I moved to Arizona and abandoned everything on my folks' computer (yes, Virginia, there once was a time, long long ago, when we did not have thumb drives, when the best we could do was floppy discs, and no, I didn't manage to keep everything up because my output was on several floppies. Hell, one of the books was too big for one floppy at the time.) and so I called it abandoned, and started over. Picked up my metaphorical pen and started over.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I broke down a hell of a barrier a couple of years ago, and took the NaNoWriMo challenge in January to prove I couldn't write fifty thousand words of coherent fiction in thirty days. I was right, it took twenty five days to hit that mark. In March, I realized I had more of a trilogy on my hands. And in April, I stopped.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
In November I took up the official NaNoWriMo challenge and made it through by the skin of my teeth, sweating blood and pushing hard. Most of the novel was plotted during a two-hour lunch break where I scribbled and scribbled and banged on the keys like a madwoman. Then I expanded on my notes, blowing up the scenes like a wading pool, huffing and puffing and blue in the face. Then I stopped in January.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I've published short stories. I've published poetry. For actual money and copies of the book, not through Lulu, or by vanity press where you plunk down an "entry fee" of fifty bucks per poem or article and hope to get a copy of the magazine when you're done. The only rejection slips I have ever received were from the high school literary magazine, which was just as much popularity contest as anything else. Three-quarters of the one I submitted to concerned a girl in the second-tier clique who died in a car wreck. It was full of acrostics and haiku, brimming with images of flowers picked just as they came to blossom, and wilting in a glass vase unopened, and the ineffable sadness and grief that can only be explained in poorly rhymed iambic tetrameter.
See? Clearly, I'm not a writer.
I reach out to define what and who I think a writer is. If I can see more clearly what it is that I am not, then perhaps I can pick up the pieces and incorporate what I need to own this piece. But I feel like I'm stuck trying to prove a negative, which any elementary logician will advise against. It's catching soap bubbles, watching the rainbow spill over your outstretched hand. The easy part is getting to the rainbow, eh?
And if I were a writer, I might be able to find the language to make you understand that.
But no, I'm not a writer.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
It's the same thing driving to work, thinking about this and that and how these things would make an excellent piece for seven hundred and fifty words, how I could probably get a whole string out of this and then I park the car and log in and sign in and the lights go out as soon as the screen comes up.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
And when I lost a day here I started over, and heaven only knows how many times in my life I started over. During the great collapse of ought whenever it was, where I lost two novels and all my short fiction to date, when I moved to Arizona and abandoned everything on my folks' computer (yes, Virginia, there once was a time, long long ago, when we did not have thumb drives, when the best we could do was floppy discs, and no, I didn't manage to keep everything up because my output was on several floppies. Hell, one of the books was too big for one floppy at the time.) and so I called it abandoned, and started over. Picked up my metaphorical pen and started over.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I broke down a hell of a barrier a couple of years ago, and took the NaNoWriMo challenge in January to prove I couldn't write fifty thousand words of coherent fiction in thirty days. I was right, it took twenty five days to hit that mark. In March, I realized I had more of a trilogy on my hands. And in April, I stopped.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
In November I took up the official NaNoWriMo challenge and made it through by the skin of my teeth, sweating blood and pushing hard. Most of the novel was plotted during a two-hour lunch break where I scribbled and scribbled and banged on the keys like a madwoman. Then I expanded on my notes, blowing up the scenes like a wading pool, huffing and puffing and blue in the face. Then I stopped in January.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I've published short stories. I've published poetry. For actual money and copies of the book, not through Lulu, or by vanity press where you plunk down an "entry fee" of fifty bucks per poem or article and hope to get a copy of the magazine when you're done. The only rejection slips I have ever received were from the high school literary magazine, which was just as much popularity contest as anything else. Three-quarters of the one I submitted to concerned a girl in the second-tier clique who died in a car wreck. It was full of acrostics and haiku, brimming with images of flowers picked just as they came to blossom, and wilting in a glass vase unopened, and the ineffable sadness and grief that can only be explained in poorly rhymed iambic tetrameter.
See? Clearly, I'm not a writer.
I reach out to define what and who I think a writer is. If I can see more clearly what it is that I am not, then perhaps I can pick up the pieces and incorporate what I need to own this piece. But I feel like I'm stuck trying to prove a negative, which any elementary logician will advise against. It's catching soap bubbles, watching the rainbow spill over your outstretched hand. The easy part is getting to the rainbow, eh?
And if I were a writer, I might be able to find the language to make you understand that.
But no, I'm not a writer.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Me and Machines
Ok, let’s try this, then. It’s been a rough day for me and machines. It seems like everything is doing its level best to get in my way and prevent me from doing what’s important to me. I probably shouldn’t say that; next the car will die. On the freeway. On the overpass where it narrows to one lane.
It started this morning when I went to log into 750words.com so I could get that chore out of the way before I went over to Vinnie’s so I could work on the shrines and boxes project. Computer was running its little security check so it was slow. Ok, I get that. And 750words won’t load on the version of explorer we’re running; it has to be Firefox. Ok, I can manage that, too. So I open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . ah. Firefox is running, yay. Uhm. Two windows are open and sucking up resources. Fine. Go to 750words, close one window . . . tick tick tick . . . 750words opens, and promptly shuts down again as I go to log in.
Grr. Fine. Just fine. I'll do it later. Hop in the shower, wash up, head out. Get to Vinnie's, get set up on the patio. Ahhhhh. Coffee and paper mache and a belt sander to work on the boxes I started yesterday which are dry and coming along nicely. Having fun.
Vinnie needs to make a quickie store run, will I be okay? Sure, no problem, what can go wrong go wrong go wrong.
Yeah, like that.
So I'm sanding away, finish one box and pick up the next. Right there in the groove. Then I get a skitch too close to the belt . . . and the damned thing sucks up a chunk of jacket. I smell the motor overheating, get my finger off the dead man's switch. Stand there thinking "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."A minute later, I have run my diagnostics and determined that I'm ok. No skin caught, no shirt caught. No bleeding nowhere. Ok. Now what?
First things first. I reach over and unplug the sander so nothing else bad can happen.
Stand there attached to the machine for a minute, then look down. The zipper isn't among the part that's been sucked in, so I unzip my jacket and step out of it for a better look. I've got folds of jacket sucked up into the belt, so if I could just wiggle a little bit loose, I'd have enough slack to get the rest out.
Now, it's not like this is a jacket inherited from my great-uncle Ernie that cannot be replaced, but I am rather fond of it. It's the grey fleece jacket upon which everything depends, William Carlos Williams style. I've had the thing for something like fifteen years now, and it's important to me. In part because I don't have anything else old and grungy enough to replace it with once it gets eaten/worn out. It's my slop around mixed media go to the gym jacket.
So I pull and yank, and nothing. No slack at all.
I turn the sander over and over looking for some way to remove the drive in order to get just a skosh of wiggle room, but nothing.
So I go to work on the stuff that doesn't need sanding--I make sleeves for the shrines, and then I'm stuck because one of the things Vinnie went to get was tissue paper for the paper mache. Fine. Just fine.
I go in to knit for a while. I am going to finish Yggdrasil on time if it kills me. Just like I'm going to finish this damned novel on time. (50,000 words, I will WRITE YOU!!!)
Vinnie gets home, and I ‘splain what happened, reassure her that I'm fine, just a little chilly and concerned about her sander. Bless her heart, she's more worried about me and my jacket ("your good jacket, not even your work shirt") than she is about the sander.
(This, of course has kicked in a running joke about "can I use your blender/laptop/chasing hammer, as long as I don't get my clothes caught in it?")
We dismantle the sander, taking off the engine cover to expose the motor, and then as we're trying to get the drive belt off, I notice that my jacket fabric is moving . . . so here I am, grabbing and pulling on the jacket, Vinnie is cranking on the nut and pulling on the sander. Between the two of us, we get the sander to let go. Finally.
So of course, my jacket is filthy. (But untorn. Yay!!!) Fortunately, Vinnie is doing laundry, so I'm able to toss the jacket into the wash with the next load. Keep this in mind; it becomes important again later.
Ok. I get a bunch done that does not require sanding, and I'm very pleased with how the shrines are moving along again (finally. Finally!!!) (I may actually finish them in this lifetime.) (Oh, and the sander still worked even after we re-mantled it. Bonus round!!!) I get all washed up, everything is clean, and I spend some time knitting.
Then Vinnie has to make another run to the store because the anchovies have vanished. Oh, great! I can get my words in while she's gone, and I won't have to worry about doing them before bed tonight!
So I go to log on to her laptop, and while it's booting I grab my jacket so I won't forget it. No internet. Noneya. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Fine. Just fine. I'll use the word-cruncher (and curse the tiny keyboard, where nothing is where it belongs to be) and at least get things going. Vinnie gets back shortly after things get going good, and re-hooks the cable in the bedroom that the dogs have ripped out, and then she goes out to the garage to get the laundry . . .
And comes in turning grey before my eyes.
"Spike? Uhm . . . your jacket's not in the dryer . . ."
"Oh. Yah, I went and grabbed it so I wouldn't forget it."
Vinnie sags against the doorpost with relief. "I was trying to figure out how to explain that the dryer ate it."
Yup. Is has done been a day for me and machines.
It started this morning when I went to log into 750words.com so I could get that chore out of the way before I went over to Vinnie’s so I could work on the shrines and boxes project. Computer was running its little security check so it was slow. Ok, I get that. And 750words won’t load on the version of explorer we’re running; it has to be Firefox. Ok, I can manage that, too. So I open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . ah. Firefox is running, yay. Uhm. Two windows are open and sucking up resources. Fine. Go to 750words, close one window . . . tick tick tick . . . 750words opens, and promptly shuts down again as I go to log in.
Grr. Fine. Just fine. I'll do it later. Hop in the shower, wash up, head out. Get to Vinnie's, get set up on the patio. Ahhhhh. Coffee and paper mache and a belt sander to work on the boxes I started yesterday which are dry and coming along nicely. Having fun.
Vinnie needs to make a quickie store run, will I be okay? Sure, no problem, what can go wrong go wrong go wrong.
Yeah, like that.
So I'm sanding away, finish one box and pick up the next. Right there in the groove. Then I get a skitch too close to the belt . . . and the damned thing sucks up a chunk of jacket. I smell the motor overheating, get my finger off the dead man's switch. Stand there thinking "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."A minute later, I have run my diagnostics and determined that I'm ok. No skin caught, no shirt caught. No bleeding nowhere. Ok. Now what?
First things first. I reach over and unplug the sander so nothing else bad can happen.
Stand there attached to the machine for a minute, then look down. The zipper isn't among the part that's been sucked in, so I unzip my jacket and step out of it for a better look. I've got folds of jacket sucked up into the belt, so if I could just wiggle a little bit loose, I'd have enough slack to get the rest out.
Now, it's not like this is a jacket inherited from my great-uncle Ernie that cannot be replaced, but I am rather fond of it. It's the grey fleece jacket upon which everything depends, William Carlos Williams style. I've had the thing for something like fifteen years now, and it's important to me. In part because I don't have anything else old and grungy enough to replace it with once it gets eaten/worn out. It's my slop around mixed media go to the gym jacket.
So I pull and yank, and nothing. No slack at all.
I turn the sander over and over looking for some way to remove the drive in order to get just a skosh of wiggle room, but nothing.
So I go to work on the stuff that doesn't need sanding--I make sleeves for the shrines, and then I'm stuck because one of the things Vinnie went to get was tissue paper for the paper mache. Fine. Just fine.
I go in to knit for a while. I am going to finish Yggdrasil on time if it kills me. Just like I'm going to finish this damned novel on time. (50,000 words, I will WRITE YOU!!!)
Vinnie gets home, and I ‘splain what happened, reassure her that I'm fine, just a little chilly and concerned about her sander. Bless her heart, she's more worried about me and my jacket ("your good jacket, not even your work shirt") than she is about the sander.
(This, of course has kicked in a running joke about "can I use your blender/laptop/chasing hammer, as long as I don't get my clothes caught in it?")
We dismantle the sander, taking off the engine cover to expose the motor, and then as we're trying to get the drive belt off, I notice that my jacket fabric is moving . . . so here I am, grabbing and pulling on the jacket, Vinnie is cranking on the nut and pulling on the sander. Between the two of us, we get the sander to let go. Finally.
So of course, my jacket is filthy. (But untorn. Yay!!!) Fortunately, Vinnie is doing laundry, so I'm able to toss the jacket into the wash with the next load. Keep this in mind; it becomes important again later.
Ok. I get a bunch done that does not require sanding, and I'm very pleased with how the shrines are moving along again (finally. Finally!!!) (I may actually finish them in this lifetime.) (Oh, and the sander still worked even after we re-mantled it. Bonus round!!!) I get all washed up, everything is clean, and I spend some time knitting.
Then Vinnie has to make another run to the store because the anchovies have vanished. Oh, great! I can get my words in while she's gone, and I won't have to worry about doing them before bed tonight!
So I go to log on to her laptop, and while it's booting I grab my jacket so I won't forget it. No internet. Noneya. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Fine. Just fine. I'll use the word-cruncher (and curse the tiny keyboard, where nothing is where it belongs to be) and at least get things going. Vinnie gets back shortly after things get going good, and re-hooks the cable in the bedroom that the dogs have ripped out, and then she goes out to the garage to get the laundry . . .
And comes in turning grey before my eyes.
"Spike? Uhm . . . your jacket's not in the dryer . . ."
"Oh. Yah, I went and grabbed it so I wouldn't forget it."
Vinnie sags against the doorpost with relief. "I was trying to figure out how to explain that the dryer ate it."
Yup. Is has done been a day for me and machines.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Eating an Elephant
My friend Mischief is eating an elephant, and all I can do is stand by with napkins and hot sauce.
I just recently polished off one last bowl of elephant stew, thin and bitter. I was moving things around in the freezer, pondering what nourishes me, what was worth keeping and what I would discard, when someone made a comment. When I turned back to what I was doing, I had a Tupperware bowl dated from July 2009 in my hand.
So I warmed it up and ate it, every salty drop of broth. The meat is all gone, the vegetables reduced to mushy bits at the bottom of the bowl and lingering ghosts in the watery fluid.
There are books out there about eating elephants, ranging from the classic cookbook about the seven stages of steaks, roasts, chops, burgers, sausages, stews, and organ meats. There are professionals who will advise you to start at the tail, or at the trunk. There are others who will give you pills if you take "too long" to eat your elephant, or if you're eating too fast and might choke.
We all eat an elephant at least once in our lives. Any time we give our hearts, we buy a future in an elephant. And that call option will come due; no way to sell that back. But elephants come in different sizes, and you can't predict what the market will have on any given day.
Grandpa becoming old and tired one day may produce a sweet pink cherubic elephant that yields a roast, a couple of sandwiches, and some tetrazzini. A beloved pet crossing the Rainbow Bridge may create meals for months. No one can tell you what size your elephant is, or how long you should be there at the table.
I want to tell Mischief to ignore the quacking of the duck-billed platitudes. They mean well, they've eaten elephants before. I want to tell her that it's okay to leave the table to go have pizza and birthday cake with her friends. I want to tell her that chosing to do so does not mean she's giving up the project. That she doesn't need to listen to those who tell her she should march herself back into the kitchen and keep chewing on the rubbery bristly grey hide. That she doesn't have to ladle mignonette and salt onto the meat and sit there until she's totally done with the whole thing in one marathon sitting.
But that's just as much quackery as the rest of them--it's nothing more than my understanding of eating an elephant. Mischief has to eat her elephant on her own--I can't do it for her.
So I offer her napkins to wipe her face with, garlic wing sauce to make it taste a little better, and I replace her fork when she drops it or throws it in frustration. I do what I can to support her in this endeavor as she sits at the table.
Eating one bite at a time. Chewing, swallowing.
I just recently polished off one last bowl of elephant stew, thin and bitter. I was moving things around in the freezer, pondering what nourishes me, what was worth keeping and what I would discard, when someone made a comment. When I turned back to what I was doing, I had a Tupperware bowl dated from July 2009 in my hand.
So I warmed it up and ate it, every salty drop of broth. The meat is all gone, the vegetables reduced to mushy bits at the bottom of the bowl and lingering ghosts in the watery fluid.
There are books out there about eating elephants, ranging from the classic cookbook about the seven stages of steaks, roasts, chops, burgers, sausages, stews, and organ meats. There are professionals who will advise you to start at the tail, or at the trunk. There are others who will give you pills if you take "too long" to eat your elephant, or if you're eating too fast and might choke.
We all eat an elephant at least once in our lives. Any time we give our hearts, we buy a future in an elephant. And that call option will come due; no way to sell that back. But elephants come in different sizes, and you can't predict what the market will have on any given day.
Grandpa becoming old and tired one day may produce a sweet pink cherubic elephant that yields a roast, a couple of sandwiches, and some tetrazzini. A beloved pet crossing the Rainbow Bridge may create meals for months. No one can tell you what size your elephant is, or how long you should be there at the table.
I want to tell Mischief to ignore the quacking of the duck-billed platitudes. They mean well, they've eaten elephants before. I want to tell her that it's okay to leave the table to go have pizza and birthday cake with her friends. I want to tell her that chosing to do so does not mean she's giving up the project. That she doesn't need to listen to those who tell her she should march herself back into the kitchen and keep chewing on the rubbery bristly grey hide. That she doesn't have to ladle mignonette and salt onto the meat and sit there until she's totally done with the whole thing in one marathon sitting.
But that's just as much quackery as the rest of them--it's nothing more than my understanding of eating an elephant. Mischief has to eat her elephant on her own--I can't do it for her.
So I offer her napkins to wipe her face with, garlic wing sauce to make it taste a little better, and I replace her fork when she drops it or throws it in frustration. I do what I can to support her in this endeavor as she sits at the table.
Eating one bite at a time. Chewing, swallowing.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
One Last Day Together (In Memoriam)
We had a long time together, Rodentia and I. Nineteen years.
But everyone everywhere eventually ends.
The night before, Rodentia was agitated, going from corner to corner throughout the house peering intently into the space between. Gareth said he saw a young tuxedo Jellicle cat outside looking in with big yellow eyes. Sounds like Jamara, I thought, the first cat who owned me.
Jamara was a cat of between spaces, always looking for just the right spot--in the middle of a doorway, in transitional spaces between the house and the out--the garage, the attic. Jamara would be happy as a psychopomp, escorting the living to the land of the dead. Leading her afterlife in the Between.
Jamara had come for Rodentia, and Rodentia was ready to follow.
Rodentia joined me for breakfast on that last day together. We were in the kitchen, and she got stuck on the other side of the water bowl. She wanted some moist cat food, could see and smell it, but could not piece together the way around the obstacle.
It seemed selfish to put her down. Whose suffering was I really ending this way? It seemed selfish to demand that she continue on a journey of drudgery--she was having trouble lying down. She would circle and circle, doddering and hunched.
I told her I wished she'd tell me what she wanted after I hung up with the vet's office. I asked her to tell me if she was ready to go, but tethered to a heart that just. Would. Not. Stop. Or, if on the other paw, she wanted every last scrap of good day that was left to her, even if she had to dig through a dungheap for them.
So, for the first time in weeks, she came out of hiding to sleep in line of sight, just as she used to do as a young adult.
When she turned her face to the wall, the way cats do when completely overwhelmed, I knew.
She slept the day away drowsing and nodding at my feet. She got up and drank copiously, but never left to use the litter box. It was clear what I was cutting short was not a matter of years, but of days, if that. And what I was cutting short was not long and lazy warm afternoons, but effortful existence--a burden on her narrow cat shoulders.
When I boxed her up to go to the vet, she complained about being lifted, but never said a word or tried to get out once inside. Usually I'm hearing threats to call an attorney before I've thrown the car in reverse. Not now.
The vet said that really, there was nothing to do for her--she was old, and what looked to be wrong was either kidneys, or thyroid, or both. While there are treatments, the question would be whether the few months we could buy her would be worth the discomfort. Whether we'd just be prolonging the inevitable, with the cost in pain.
We brought her home wrapped in a towel. I washed her feet and shaved the mats off her belly. Gareth walked in while I was handling her. His family does not handle physical death well1, and I come from a long line of country wimminfolk who would set the deceased's hair, clean and dress the body for the funeral at home. I've touched all my relatives goodbye at the viewing since I became old enough not to give a damn what anyone thought.
I said, "I bet this is creeping you out." I had a basin full of warm water, Rodentia laid out on two clean towels, and a washcloth I was using to soak the clumped litter from around her pads.
"No," he said, tears in his eyes, "I think that's really beautiful. You're so tender with her."
I buried her under the largest pine tree for a monument, her favorite three toys with her. A knitted catnip mouse between her forepaws, a catnip pillow my mother made her grandcat under her head, and a jingle ball by her ear. Very Egyptian.
One year ago today, I spent one last day with Rodentia. One last day to encompass nineteen years.
Sleep you sound, little cat.
1. At Gareth's grandfather's memorial service (just a photo and some memories) I was treated to three-four earfuls about the utter and unspeakable barbarity of a viewing with the corpse present in the closed casket. Never mind an open casket viewing.
But see, how do you know they're really dead until you can feel that they're cold, can touch their hard cheek, and really get that there's no one in there? Ho wcan you grieve an image, a suit of empty clothes until you can perceive on a gut level that the entity you knew is gone, and this shell is all that's left?
But everyone everywhere eventually ends.
The night before, Rodentia was agitated, going from corner to corner throughout the house peering intently into the space between. Gareth said he saw a young tuxedo Jellicle cat outside looking in with big yellow eyes. Sounds like Jamara, I thought, the first cat who owned me.
Jamara was a cat of between spaces, always looking for just the right spot--in the middle of a doorway, in transitional spaces between the house and the out--the garage, the attic. Jamara would be happy as a psychopomp, escorting the living to the land of the dead. Leading her afterlife in the Between.
Jamara had come for Rodentia, and Rodentia was ready to follow.
Rodentia joined me for breakfast on that last day together. We were in the kitchen, and she got stuck on the other side of the water bowl. She wanted some moist cat food, could see and smell it, but could not piece together the way around the obstacle.
It seemed selfish to put her down. Whose suffering was I really ending this way? It seemed selfish to demand that she continue on a journey of drudgery--she was having trouble lying down. She would circle and circle, doddering and hunched.
I told her I wished she'd tell me what she wanted after I hung up with the vet's office. I asked her to tell me if she was ready to go, but tethered to a heart that just. Would. Not. Stop. Or, if on the other paw, she wanted every last scrap of good day that was left to her, even if she had to dig through a dungheap for them.
So, for the first time in weeks, she came out of hiding to sleep in line of sight, just as she used to do as a young adult.
When she turned her face to the wall, the way cats do when completely overwhelmed, I knew.
She slept the day away drowsing and nodding at my feet. She got up and drank copiously, but never left to use the litter box. It was clear what I was cutting short was not a matter of years, but of days, if that. And what I was cutting short was not long and lazy warm afternoons, but effortful existence--a burden on her narrow cat shoulders.
When I boxed her up to go to the vet, she complained about being lifted, but never said a word or tried to get out once inside. Usually I'm hearing threats to call an attorney before I've thrown the car in reverse. Not now.
The vet said that really, there was nothing to do for her--she was old, and what looked to be wrong was either kidneys, or thyroid, or both. While there are treatments, the question would be whether the few months we could buy her would be worth the discomfort. Whether we'd just be prolonging the inevitable, with the cost in pain.
We brought her home wrapped in a towel. I washed her feet and shaved the mats off her belly. Gareth walked in while I was handling her. His family does not handle physical death well1, and I come from a long line of country wimminfolk who would set the deceased's hair, clean and dress the body for the funeral at home. I've touched all my relatives goodbye at the viewing since I became old enough not to give a damn what anyone thought.
I said, "I bet this is creeping you out." I had a basin full of warm water, Rodentia laid out on two clean towels, and a washcloth I was using to soak the clumped litter from around her pads.
"No," he said, tears in his eyes, "I think that's really beautiful. You're so tender with her."
I buried her under the largest pine tree for a monument, her favorite three toys with her. A knitted catnip mouse between her forepaws, a catnip pillow my mother made her grandcat under her head, and a jingle ball by her ear. Very Egyptian.
One year ago today, I spent one last day with Rodentia. One last day to encompass nineteen years.
Sleep you sound, little cat.
1. At Gareth's grandfather's memorial service (just a photo and some memories) I was treated to three-four earfuls about the utter and unspeakable barbarity of a viewing with the corpse present in the closed casket. Never mind an open casket viewing.
But see, how do you know they're really dead until you can feel that they're cold, can touch their hard cheek, and really get that there's no one in there? Ho wcan you grieve an image, a suit of empty clothes until you can perceive on a gut level that the entity you knew is gone, and this shell is all that's left?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
En Open Letter to My Gnomon1
Vy hyu run avay from me? Ve so close to finish vat ve schtart, und den hyu stop talkink to me for mont’s. Hyu esk me to help hyu out vit’ some odder monsters–und Hy heppy to help!–but dat’s all Hy ever hear from hyu lately; es vhen hyu need help dreggink sumvun out from behind de door. Ve so close to done Hy ken feel it in my hends–ten, feefteen peges, mebbe. Und den hyu runs avay, hides on de Internet or in a book. Hides in hyu knittink. Und den hyu blames me for de leck of peges, says Hy don’ talk to hyu nummore.
Sveet, Hy tells hyu, mebbe hyu don’ listen nummore.
Hy onderstend hyu needed to breathe efter February-Merch und de big project ve ondertook. Vas huge! Hyu hesn’t written like dot . . .vell, never, really. Over a hundred t’ousand vords in eight-ten weeks. Ve didn’ write like dot in college. Heh–dot may be MORE dan we wrote in all four years of college es a Creative Writink major end an honors student.
But Hy esk hyu–how long hes it been since hyu set down and wrote like hyu hair vas on fire? Vere hyu saw de arc of de story right dere end snetched it out of de air like a peedgeon on de vink, to volf eet down right dere–no fire, no salt, schtill varm und bloody?
Hev hyu missed dot? Chure hyu hev. Hev hyu missed seeink me here in de chair, boots on hyu desk. Yah. Yah hyu hev–ken see it in hyu eyes. Hyu heart remembers vat dis ride vas, how hyu tried to make hyu hends keep up vit vat hyu saw end heard. Ho hyu gev up and settled for block kepital notes so hyu could go back and fill it all in. Vat heppen?
Hyu know vat heppen. Hyu lost hyu vay in, schtarted dot dem Don Music t’ink again vere it hed to be perfect, hed to be right. Hyu refused to try taking the beck doors in–or if de doors don’ vork, try a vindow! Chust write vat hyu hear und see und vorry about sounding like a fever dream later. Dot’s vat Chanuary es for–a re-write and edit of vat hyu accomplished de previous year. (Hy gev hyu a schedule, sveethott. All hyu hes to do is follow de directions.)
Hyu found hyu vay beck a couple times right here, didn’ hyu? Don’ lie to me–Hy ken read hyu mind, hyu know. Don’ try to tell me it’s gone end hyu ken’t get dere from here. Alla dot–alla dot is chust excuses for not doink. Veak lies, akin to “Hy try.” Sveethott–dere is no such t’ink es tryink. Hyu do. Hyu may not get vat hyu vant from de doink–hyu may fail!–but den hyu pick hyuself up and do some more.
Dis right here–dis right here is 484 vords. In vat–five, ten minutes? Ef hyu put fingers to de keyboard, vords come out. Ef hyu pick up de schtory end write–chust like hyu did vit me here–hyu get de missink peges and be ready to edit come de new year.
Don’ let de odder monschters vin.
-–Totenberg
1. Uf course hyu all er edyooketed pipple vit impeccable teste und know dot a "gnomon" es de tink on a sundial vat cests de schadow. But, dere are sctill dose who do not hev Google es a friend, end so ve hev endnotes.
Sveet, Hy tells hyu, mebbe hyu don’ listen nummore.
Hy onderstend hyu needed to breathe efter February-Merch und de big project ve ondertook. Vas huge! Hyu hesn’t written like dot . . .vell, never, really. Over a hundred t’ousand vords in eight-ten weeks. Ve didn’ write like dot in college. Heh–dot may be MORE dan we wrote in all four years of college es a Creative Writink major end an honors student.
But Hy esk hyu–how long hes it been since hyu set down and wrote like hyu hair vas on fire? Vere hyu saw de arc of de story right dere end snetched it out of de air like a peedgeon on de vink, to volf eet down right dere–no fire, no salt, schtill varm und bloody?
Hev hyu missed dot? Chure hyu hev. Hev hyu missed seeink me here in de chair, boots on hyu desk. Yah. Yah hyu hev–ken see it in hyu eyes. Hyu heart remembers vat dis ride vas, how hyu tried to make hyu hends keep up vit vat hyu saw end heard. Ho hyu gev up and settled for block kepital notes so hyu could go back and fill it all in. Vat heppen?
Hyu know vat heppen. Hyu lost hyu vay in, schtarted dot dem Don Music t’ink again vere it hed to be perfect, hed to be right. Hyu refused to try taking the beck doors in–or if de doors don’ vork, try a vindow! Chust write vat hyu hear und see und vorry about sounding like a fever dream later. Dot’s vat Chanuary es for–a re-write and edit of vat hyu accomplished de previous year. (Hy gev hyu a schedule, sveethott. All hyu hes to do is follow de directions.)
Hyu found hyu vay beck a couple times right here, didn’ hyu? Don’ lie to me–Hy ken read hyu mind, hyu know. Don’ try to tell me it’s gone end hyu ken’t get dere from here. Alla dot–alla dot is chust excuses for not doink. Veak lies, akin to “Hy try.” Sveethott–dere is no such t’ink es tryink. Hyu do. Hyu may not get vat hyu vant from de doink–hyu may fail!–but den hyu pick hyuself up and do some more.
Dis right here–dis right here is 484 vords. In vat–five, ten minutes? Ef hyu put fingers to de keyboard, vords come out. Ef hyu pick up de schtory end write–chust like hyu did vit me here–hyu get de missink peges and be ready to edit come de new year.
Don’ let de odder monschters vin.
-–Totenberg
1. Uf course hyu all er edyooketed pipple vit impeccable teste und know dot a "gnomon" es de tink on a sundial vat cests de schadow. But, dere are sctill dose who do not hev Google es a friend, end so ve hev endnotes.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Rock, Meet Hard Place
Today tastes like sand and loam, with a topping of caliche and a sprinkle of gravel.
When I was a kid, the worst worst worst punishment was when my folks turned to me and asked what form of punishment would be appropriate for this infraction. Can't you just spank me instead???
In college, the worst worst worst assignment was when the prof asked for a biiiiig semester summation of what we had learned--but you choose the format. Doesn't have to be a paper, could be a haiku. Or a dance. Or a meal. Whatever. Urk! Give me a forty-page paper with footnotes on every page and a six-page bibiography in the back, up to and including citations in freaky formats for graffiti under bridges and voices from UFO's because I forgot to wear my tinfoil beanie.
Now, the worst worst worst thing is when my boss screws up and acts . . . in a fashion that is not workplace friendly, and asks me "How can I, the BossMan1, fix it? How can I demonstrate that I'm not all that bad, but just have the impuls control of a toddler?"
I promised some time ago to be a better employee by telling BossMan when he'd shot himself in the foot. He was actually able to admit vulnerability to an underling, and that's a hard thing. He has indeed pulled that trigger into his tarsals YET AGAIN, and having a hippy-dippy chat might actually help him out. Or at least give him one more insight.
Then again, it's a hippy-dippy west coast fEEEEEEEElings talk with a guy who was raised in the East and has serious troubles with even the Little Chicago mindset that is Arizona, never mind the right out of Haight that will be this chat. He's very literal, and has trouble relating to me except in my most professional persona. I don't think he even sees my Whim of Iron, although he appreciates the results.
Do I even want to have that conversation? About how easy cheezy answers don't really address the root cause--about how anyone over six years old with half a brain can tell when they're being bribed to forgive one more time?
Or do I just want to tell him an easy cheezy lemon squeezy answer--lunch! Or money! Or lunch money!--and take my bribe and know that I can be bought for 30 pieces of silver?
Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger. Let's lay this out.
On the one hand: It's 30 pieces of silver more than I have right now. And isn't this an extension of the deal you make when you work for someone else? "I will rent you my brain and energy and everything that makes me unique and special; everything that I have and am. In return for pieces of my life and mind, you will give me money so I can live and eat while I support your agenda."
So when someone acts badly and harshes your groove, then offers to apologize in a meaningful way, should you accept that apology? How many times can he hit you if he always brings flowers and pays for the bills afterwards?2
On the other hand: Just writing the last paragraph makes me feel dirty. (TMI momentTM: I had to pause and answer nature's call before I could even write that last line. Body aligning with mind?) I want to take a shower and vomit; to purge filth inside and out. I want to be dead honest with BossMan and talk about trust and metal fatigue in relationships--about how you can only bend them back and forth so many times before they become brittle and break. And no amount of "I'm sorry" will put together a broken object again.
But BossMan won't get it. He is not a man of subtlety; he does not speak metaphor. He is very much a literalist and gets distracted by simile. He cannot follow a parable without getting caught up in detail. I don't believe he would be able to follow me, so we couldn't communicate at all. Like teaching a pig to sing.
And it's a pity, because this particular pig has a pretty good voice. He knows some good songs--filthy rolling in the muck songs, but still funny and appreciable. If only he could carry a tune.
On the gripping hand: Hell, I can't even find my gripping hand right now.
1. Now I'm even changing my nicknames for people in the eternal quest for anonymity. Sad, Spike, very sad that your paranoia has come this far. On the other hand, "Dooced" is a verb for a reason . . .
2. And no, I am NOT saying BossMan is physically or even verbally abusive. Abrasive and patronizing, yes. Condescending and egotistic, yes. Abusive . . . no, doesn't really rise to that level. I now have some empathy for Anita Hill, and understand better how she could continue to work for Justice Thomas for all those years. It's a good job, with good pay, particular benefits that don't come just anywhere, and the potential to open some doors later.
When I was a kid, the worst worst worst punishment was when my folks turned to me and asked what form of punishment would be appropriate for this infraction. Can't you just spank me instead???
In college, the worst worst worst assignment was when the prof asked for a biiiiig semester summation of what we had learned--but you choose the format. Doesn't have to be a paper, could be a haiku. Or a dance. Or a meal. Whatever. Urk! Give me a forty-page paper with footnotes on every page and a six-page bibiography in the back, up to and including citations in freaky formats for graffiti under bridges and voices from UFO's because I forgot to wear my tinfoil beanie.
Now, the worst worst worst thing is when my boss screws up and acts . . . in a fashion that is not workplace friendly, and asks me "How can I, the BossMan1, fix it? How can I demonstrate that I'm not all that bad, but just have the impuls control of a toddler?"
I promised some time ago to be a better employee by telling BossMan when he'd shot himself in the foot. He was actually able to admit vulnerability to an underling, and that's a hard thing. He has indeed pulled that trigger into his tarsals YET AGAIN, and having a hippy-dippy chat might actually help him out. Or at least give him one more insight.
Then again, it's a hippy-dippy west coast fEEEEEEEElings talk with a guy who was raised in the East and has serious troubles with even the Little Chicago mindset that is Arizona, never mind the right out of Haight that will be this chat. He's very literal, and has trouble relating to me except in my most professional persona. I don't think he even sees my Whim of Iron, although he appreciates the results.
Do I even want to have that conversation? About how easy cheezy answers don't really address the root cause--about how anyone over six years old with half a brain can tell when they're being bribed to forgive one more time?
Or do I just want to tell him an easy cheezy lemon squeezy answer--lunch! Or money! Or lunch money!--and take my bribe and know that I can be bought for 30 pieces of silver?
Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger. Let's lay this out.
On the one hand: It's 30 pieces of silver more than I have right now. And isn't this an extension of the deal you make when you work for someone else? "I will rent you my brain and energy and everything that makes me unique and special; everything that I have and am. In return for pieces of my life and mind, you will give me money so I can live and eat while I support your agenda."
So when someone acts badly and harshes your groove, then offers to apologize in a meaningful way, should you accept that apology? How many times can he hit you if he always brings flowers and pays for the bills afterwards?2
On the other hand: Just writing the last paragraph makes me feel dirty. (TMI momentTM: I had to pause and answer nature's call before I could even write that last line. Body aligning with mind?) I want to take a shower and vomit; to purge filth inside and out. I want to be dead honest with BossMan and talk about trust and metal fatigue in relationships--about how you can only bend them back and forth so many times before they become brittle and break. And no amount of "I'm sorry" will put together a broken object again.
But BossMan won't get it. He is not a man of subtlety; he does not speak metaphor. He is very much a literalist and gets distracted by simile. He cannot follow a parable without getting caught up in detail. I don't believe he would be able to follow me, so we couldn't communicate at all. Like teaching a pig to sing.
And it's a pity, because this particular pig has a pretty good voice. He knows some good songs--filthy rolling in the muck songs, but still funny and appreciable. If only he could carry a tune.
On the gripping hand: Hell, I can't even find my gripping hand right now.
1. Now I'm even changing my nicknames for people in the eternal quest for anonymity. Sad, Spike, very sad that your paranoia has come this far. On the other hand, "Dooced" is a verb for a reason . . .
2. And no, I am NOT saying BossMan is physically or even verbally abusive. Abrasive and patronizing, yes. Condescending and egotistic, yes. Abusive . . . no, doesn't really rise to that level. I now have some empathy for Anita Hill, and understand better how she could continue to work for Justice Thomas for all those years. It's a good job, with good pay, particular benefits that don't come just anywhere, and the potential to open some doors later.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Because Nobody Reads These Anyway . . .
Totenberg, would you please invite the little monster over there–no, over there–no, over THERE–gosh he’s a nebulous one!–to come over here for tea and biscuits? Thank you.
Tea? Cream? Sugar? Biscuit? What’s on your mind, Little Foggy Sadness?
You’re feeling . . . left behind. Abandoned. Okay, I can work with that. Tell me more.
You’re upset because we’ve got that first anniversary of suck coming up. I get that. Tell me more.
And because Mischief is playing the girly game of “If I wait long enough and play hard to get, you’ll forgive me when I finally come back to you.” You’re containing some frustration and feelings of being used, I see. And at the same time, you hate to see the relationship end.
Okay. So lemme ask you this–what do you value about Mischief?
She’s lively and full of fun things to go and do. She’s always got a party in her pockets. She’s always willing to chip in and lend a hand. She’s generous with her time and information. She’s very connected.
Okay. And why do you feel used?
Recently, she only calls to pick my brain–about terminology, about her new relationship with Latest Boy. When we make plans, something always comes up that cuts our time short–family emergencies, out of energy, out of dough. She used to be prompt about getting back to me, and now it feels like she’s ignoring my email and phone call. I refuse to play the girl game of “If I call you enough, you’ll call back to get me off your case.” I also don’t want to spend my life lurking Facebook and my webmail hoping for a response.
The ball is in her court–I left her a message, and called her cell so she knows I tried to contact her. Besides, she was the one who said we’d touch base last night to go over scheduling–and then *poof* nada.
She whines about being perceived as a flake–bitches about how Lynchpin poisons the well of all her relationships so she has to go elsewhere to get out of her sphere of influence–and then, of course, by her own behavior, demonstrates that she’s not trustworthy. That you have to take her “Yes” as a “Maybe.”
All right. I can understand the suckdom of being in limbo. But do you see that it’s her choice to pick the relationship back up–or not; and it’s your choice to let her–or not. It’s been what, ten years? More??? Babyface was a big kid/preteen when we became chummy, and now she’s 20 and will be 21 next summer. That’s a long time for us–you know we’re guy-like in our relationships. We do fun stuff together and bond over shared experiences–camping, dinner, conventions–and when the activity draws to a close or distance intervenes, well, we wave buh-bye and walk on. Xerhino is the ONLY person from our teen years that we’re still in any form of contact with–and that’s pretty limited. We read each other’s blogs, support each other’s art, comment when something moves us–but we don’t swap long essays via e-mail or even chatter on Twitter/Facebook.
We don’t tend to keep people for long. We pick them up like shiny smooth rocks, carry them in our pockets for a while, and then let them go. Maybe it’s time to let Mischief go.
Tea? Cream? Sugar? Biscuit? What’s on your mind, Little Foggy Sadness?
You’re feeling . . . left behind. Abandoned. Okay, I can work with that. Tell me more.
You’re upset because we’ve got that first anniversary of suck coming up. I get that. Tell me more.
And because Mischief is playing the girly game of “If I wait long enough and play hard to get, you’ll forgive me when I finally come back to you.” You’re containing some frustration and feelings of being used, I see. And at the same time, you hate to see the relationship end.
Okay. So lemme ask you this–what do you value about Mischief?
She’s lively and full of fun things to go and do. She’s always got a party in her pockets. She’s always willing to chip in and lend a hand. She’s generous with her time and information. She’s very connected.
Okay. And why do you feel used?
Recently, she only calls to pick my brain–about terminology, about her new relationship with Latest Boy. When we make plans, something always comes up that cuts our time short–family emergencies, out of energy, out of dough. She used to be prompt about getting back to me, and now it feels like she’s ignoring my email and phone call. I refuse to play the girl game of “If I call you enough, you’ll call back to get me off your case.” I also don’t want to spend my life lurking Facebook and my webmail hoping for a response.
The ball is in her court–I left her a message, and called her cell so she knows I tried to contact her. Besides, she was the one who said we’d touch base last night to go over scheduling–and then *poof* nada.
She whines about being perceived as a flake–bitches about how Lynchpin poisons the well of all her relationships so she has to go elsewhere to get out of her sphere of influence–and then, of course, by her own behavior, demonstrates that she’s not trustworthy. That you have to take her “Yes” as a “Maybe.”
All right. I can understand the suckdom of being in limbo. But do you see that it’s her choice to pick the relationship back up–or not; and it’s your choice to let her–or not. It’s been what, ten years? More??? Babyface was a big kid/preteen when we became chummy, and now she’s 20 and will be 21 next summer. That’s a long time for us–you know we’re guy-like in our relationships. We do fun stuff together and bond over shared experiences–camping, dinner, conventions–and when the activity draws to a close or distance intervenes, well, we wave buh-bye and walk on. Xerhino is the ONLY person from our teen years that we’re still in any form of contact with–and that’s pretty limited. We read each other’s blogs, support each other’s art, comment when something moves us–but we don’t swap long essays via e-mail or even chatter on Twitter/Facebook.
We don’t tend to keep people for long. We pick them up like shiny smooth rocks, carry them in our pockets for a while, and then let them go. Maybe it’s time to let Mischief go.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Still Working
Plucking on his lute, the seven foot monster I was pleased to call my muse sang softly, "De north wind doth blow, und ve schall hev schnow, und vat vill sveet robin do den, poor t'ink? He'll sit in a bern, und kip himself varm, und hide his head under his vink, poor t'ink." He fell to noodling with the instrument, trying out variations on the chord structure with various trills and arpeggios hung on the basic melody. I sighed, and cleared my throat.
He glanced up, humming a counterpoint, then went back to his music.
"I'm so glad one of us is creating," I grumbled. "I've been stuck for days, and all I get when I try to talk to you is nursery rhymes and fragments." I threw a pen at him. "What's the damn deal? We were pumping out the words, you and me, not so very long ago. I wanted to get fifty thousand words in thirty days, and we did that–hell, we did it in twenty-five days. Now I want to finish the book. I want to take the remaining arcs where I've told the story in hurried block capitals and flesh them out to show the story. I want to show Totenberg's plan, and Brescher's scheme, and Nyssa caught up in the middle of plots she doesn't understand. The poor girl barely knows herself, and the trip with the husband who marries her only to make his family shut up about his proclivities helps her to crystallize what she wants and where she belongs. I have notes–damn good notes, and a chronology, and the smarts to get it put together. So why won't you talk to me?"
"Em talking to hyu now," he said mildly, putting the lute down across his lap. His boots were up on the desk, as they always were when we sat in my office together.
"Sure. You'll talk to me now, when it doesn't really matter." I gestured at the broad old mission door that served as the desk, held up by two polished ironwood stumps. The gate of iron inset near the top was a handy place to drop the electrical cords for the monitor and printer. I had salvaged the door from a church that had been long abandoned and deconsecrated, and was being torn down to erect a new building–probably a Wal-Mart, I had thought at the time, grimacing. We had been on our way to Greer, had taken an unexpected detour through very rural Arizona due to traffic delays, and it had been an enormous piece of luck that brought us through that town on that day. We had wrestled that door into the back of the Explorer somehow, and I had ridden for hours with the fifty-quart cooler on my lap in order to get everything to fit. It hadn't mattered. I had bought the ironwood with an exchange of labor–a woodworker's wife fell in love with one of my shawls–an Estonian triangle of my own design–and I'd convinced her husband to finish these stumps out for me in exchange. Very southwestern and Spanish and queerly organic, this desk. I couldn't imagine writing at anything else.
"Hy talk to hyu now; Hy talk to hyu before–Hy talk to hyu all de time," he said. "Writers write, yah? Vat hyu t'ink hyu doink right now, dis very minute? Hyu writink. Hyu write about hyu desk–vich don' exist except in hyu mind–und hyu write about me sittink here playink de lute–und hyu write about vat hyu say to me und Hy say to hyu." He held up his broad hands, the size of shovel blades, claws tipping the fingers. (All the better to grab your attention with, my dear.) "Hyu writink, dollink. Vas de problem?"
"I'm not making any progress on the story I want to finish," I told him. "Every time I pick up the drive and plug it in, suddenly you go quiet. When I look at the places I've left off, I can't see where to pry at the corners or how to join the bits. And it feels like you go away and ignore me when I ask for your help. What can I do to help you help me through this dry spot?"
"Is chust a dry schpot, heverybuddy get dem–"
"I know that. I know that worrying about the dry spot isn't the solution. I know I can write–as you say, I'm writing now. My job is to write, and I do just fine there. I'm just wondering, since the flow of words on the big story has dried up–I mean, this little chat is more fiction than I've written in days–I'm just wondering if there's a problem between us."
He was silent for a long moment, then he picked up the lute again. "Am efraid," he said.
"Afraid? Of what?"
"Efraid uf disappointink hyu. Efraid dis von' be vhat hyu vant. Efraid it von' be . . . enough zumhow."
I stared at him. "We've been published before," I reminded him. "In real paper books and everything. They gave us money for our work–real money! This is the pinnacle of what a writer strives for–and I already know that it's still chop wood, haul water. How is this any different?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. Efraid dat hyu'll be sad und depressed vhen dis done–nummore Nyssa. Nummore story. All gone."
"Sure, that story; that project–all gone. But just like the eternal knitting, finishing one project allows me to start another. You know that. So work with me a little here. Let's finish this project–just the rough draft, so I can save it to a CD and it will be safe. We can discuss taking time off–and then docket the time on the calendar so I won't abandon it. Let's set aside the fear of doing it wrong, of being disappointed with the way it comes out, and just focus on the fun it is to tell the story. Let's get back to that heady schedule we were on for those twenty-five days, where the story unfolds under my fingers on the keyboard. Remember that?"
He nodded. "Vas like flyink," he said. "Op into de clouds, de vorld tumblink avay under hyu feet, only able to see bits und pieces but knowink dere vas a place for heveryddink dat vas heppenink."
"Is there anything I can do that will help you be less afraid? Remember how badly I hurt when the last computer took a dump and ate the two books I was working on? How I grieved for all the lost worlds and words? Could my sorrow and disappointment when we finish this book–and by that I mean when the rough is fully fleshed and I have the task of editing and picking and choosing the bits that make the story fly and those that hold it back–could that truly be any worse than when we found out that everything was word salad except for a writing exercise?" He shook his head.
"Okay, would it help if I save these conversations and bind them into a little book for your shrine? Would it help you to feel like I was promising that my work will remain special to me; important to me, regardless of who it's for? That I am making this for the world at large in a spiritual sense–that it doesn't matter if a specific book ever sees the light of day in more than a seriously limited edition. That I am simply following the precepts of the Nag Thomas and bringing forth that which will save me."
"But Nyssa–hyu von' be sad dot it's all over when hyu flesh out de rough; vhen hyu edit de rough und it's all over. Hyu kill her off at de end uf de book, in de epilogue. Hyu know hyu say es de only logical end, Totenberg wreppink her in his old greatcoat against de cold, buryink her in de town de Hundkin laid vaste to zo long ago vit an orange tree to mark her grave. But dot means no zequel, no comink beck."
"That's true–no more Nyssa. But Nyssa isn't the focus of the story, it's the Hounds I wanted to talk about. About what it would be to live at the intersection of strength and vulnerability; about honor and servitude and what happens when the one you serve becomes corrupt. And I wanted a raunchy slightly dark erotic story with some high adventure in it while I was at it. And I think I'm getting there.
"And see, I don't want to talk about Nyssa getting old and unlovely–about her waist thickening and her boobs sagging, about the cellulite forming on her ass. Totenberg loves her still, as much as ever he did, but I don't see Nyssa having adventures with the Hounds cum Wolfpack. Or being the female Achilles's heel that has to be rescued at the climax of every book–once is plenty, thanks!
"So that's why she dies at the end of the book, and that's why it doesn't really matter. Totenberg is in his prime when he meets Nyssa–he's a couple hundred years old, say late twenties equivalent. Old enough to have some experience and understand what he wants and young enough to have the energy and certitude of confidence to go get it. So Nyssa lives her whole life and dies when he's . . . what, in his early thirties? If that? In Oranges With Nyssa, I see him as being in his late forties equivalent–still vital and strong, but slower, more likely to think things through before he acts. He's not planning to come back in ten years and see what became of this Nyssa, or spirit her away on his airship. He's just enjoying the summer day with this kid who shares a name with his lost beloved, eating fruit under the tree and telling appropriate stories of love and loss. There's a lot to tell about Totenberg, and he's the character I really care about.
"For example, there's his life before becoming a Hound, the Change, his life before Nyssa–he's had other pets, Katarina and some unnamed ones. How did he get there? When did he decide to keep pets instead of one night stands (like the other Hounds, who will take whatever's offered). What was it like under Zerstorer? What about the wars that killed off so many Hounds before the dust settled? You could end this book with the decision to go get some fruit from the supply wagon, and the circuit back through camp when he hears someone crying.
"And then there's the time after Nyssa. What does he do then? Does he choose another pet? Is one chosen for him? What happens that kills Sascha? Why does Dmitri drift away from his friend after Sascha is no longer there? You see, we have more books about the Hounds if we want to write them. We can write short stories about Totenberg, we can write about his universe and flesh out his world more–or we can keep it in dialogue and exposition–kind of like this."
He smiled wryly. "Is dis de point vhere hyu laugh–mwah ha ha ha hah!–and threaten to crush me schlowly und elaborately? Hyu've certainly been monologink."
"Don't be silly–I would need a laboratory with the full five syllables, some henchmen, and some sort of death ray." He pointed silently at the computer monitor. "Okay, so I have the death ray." I put a hand on his shoulder. "Rather than crush you, I'd much rather work with you. I've had so much fun over the last few weeks–I think what I'm afraid of is that this will end, and I'll go back into that horrible depressing place where the only hurdles worth clearing are the ones set too high for any mortal to get over. Help me get through this project. It's important to me. I want to be done with this draft–all the arcs written out and the capital spaces removed–by November 1 so I can spend NaNoWriMo working on the story of Little Dinch and the Wild Wild West. I think we can get fifty thousand out of the burro, burro, burro."
"Hyu've written nearly six pages in the pest hour, dollink. Hy tink hyu could put zum of dat into de novel und get zumvere real fest, Hy do."
"I know. But I need some help. A place to start."
"Vell, how about tomorrow hyu schtart with Nyssa in de house vit her husband? Efter de veddink, efter the move-in, efter de discovery he ain't interested–ve ken cover dot later. Mebbe ve schtart vit de discovery uf de ‘fertitity statues' und Nyssa realizink dey might hev odder uses. Or Nyssa talkink to her doctor, de vun who prescribe de violet vand for hysteria?"
"I could do that . . . okay. As I promised, I'm going to save this as a chapter of our dialogues so I can commemorate these for you to preside over. Saving–now."
And I turned off the computer and went to bed, confident that in the morning I would fire up the flash drive and get going on the story that was frustrating me so badly.
And I did.
He glanced up, humming a counterpoint, then went back to his music.
"I'm so glad one of us is creating," I grumbled. "I've been stuck for days, and all I get when I try to talk to you is nursery rhymes and fragments." I threw a pen at him. "What's the damn deal? We were pumping out the words, you and me, not so very long ago. I wanted to get fifty thousand words in thirty days, and we did that–hell, we did it in twenty-five days. Now I want to finish the book. I want to take the remaining arcs where I've told the story in hurried block capitals and flesh them out to show the story. I want to show Totenberg's plan, and Brescher's scheme, and Nyssa caught up in the middle of plots she doesn't understand. The poor girl barely knows herself, and the trip with the husband who marries her only to make his family shut up about his proclivities helps her to crystallize what she wants and where she belongs. I have notes–damn good notes, and a chronology, and the smarts to get it put together. So why won't you talk to me?"
"Em talking to hyu now," he said mildly, putting the lute down across his lap. His boots were up on the desk, as they always were when we sat in my office together.
"Sure. You'll talk to me now, when it doesn't really matter." I gestured at the broad old mission door that served as the desk, held up by two polished ironwood stumps. The gate of iron inset near the top was a handy place to drop the electrical cords for the monitor and printer. I had salvaged the door from a church that had been long abandoned and deconsecrated, and was being torn down to erect a new building–probably a Wal-Mart, I had thought at the time, grimacing. We had been on our way to Greer, had taken an unexpected detour through very rural Arizona due to traffic delays, and it had been an enormous piece of luck that brought us through that town on that day. We had wrestled that door into the back of the Explorer somehow, and I had ridden for hours with the fifty-quart cooler on my lap in order to get everything to fit. It hadn't mattered. I had bought the ironwood with an exchange of labor–a woodworker's wife fell in love with one of my shawls–an Estonian triangle of my own design–and I'd convinced her husband to finish these stumps out for me in exchange. Very southwestern and Spanish and queerly organic, this desk. I couldn't imagine writing at anything else.
"Hy talk to hyu now; Hy talk to hyu before–Hy talk to hyu all de time," he said. "Writers write, yah? Vat hyu t'ink hyu doink right now, dis very minute? Hyu writink. Hyu write about hyu desk–vich don' exist except in hyu mind–und hyu write about me sittink here playink de lute–und hyu write about vat hyu say to me und Hy say to hyu." He held up his broad hands, the size of shovel blades, claws tipping the fingers. (All the better to grab your attention with, my dear.) "Hyu writink, dollink. Vas de problem?"
"I'm not making any progress on the story I want to finish," I told him. "Every time I pick up the drive and plug it in, suddenly you go quiet. When I look at the places I've left off, I can't see where to pry at the corners or how to join the bits. And it feels like you go away and ignore me when I ask for your help. What can I do to help you help me through this dry spot?"
"Is chust a dry schpot, heverybuddy get dem–"
"I know that. I know that worrying about the dry spot isn't the solution. I know I can write–as you say, I'm writing now. My job is to write, and I do just fine there. I'm just wondering, since the flow of words on the big story has dried up–I mean, this little chat is more fiction than I've written in days–I'm just wondering if there's a problem between us."
He was silent for a long moment, then he picked up the lute again. "Am efraid," he said.
"Afraid? Of what?"
"Efraid uf disappointink hyu. Efraid dis von' be vhat hyu vant. Efraid it von' be . . . enough zumhow."
I stared at him. "We've been published before," I reminded him. "In real paper books and everything. They gave us money for our work–real money! This is the pinnacle of what a writer strives for–and I already know that it's still chop wood, haul water. How is this any different?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. Efraid dat hyu'll be sad und depressed vhen dis done–nummore Nyssa. Nummore story. All gone."
"Sure, that story; that project–all gone. But just like the eternal knitting, finishing one project allows me to start another. You know that. So work with me a little here. Let's finish this project–just the rough draft, so I can save it to a CD and it will be safe. We can discuss taking time off–and then docket the time on the calendar so I won't abandon it. Let's set aside the fear of doing it wrong, of being disappointed with the way it comes out, and just focus on the fun it is to tell the story. Let's get back to that heady schedule we were on for those twenty-five days, where the story unfolds under my fingers on the keyboard. Remember that?"
He nodded. "Vas like flyink," he said. "Op into de clouds, de vorld tumblink avay under hyu feet, only able to see bits und pieces but knowink dere vas a place for heveryddink dat vas heppenink."
"Is there anything I can do that will help you be less afraid? Remember how badly I hurt when the last computer took a dump and ate the two books I was working on? How I grieved for all the lost worlds and words? Could my sorrow and disappointment when we finish this book–and by that I mean when the rough is fully fleshed and I have the task of editing and picking and choosing the bits that make the story fly and those that hold it back–could that truly be any worse than when we found out that everything was word salad except for a writing exercise?" He shook his head.
"Okay, would it help if I save these conversations and bind them into a little book for your shrine? Would it help you to feel like I was promising that my work will remain special to me; important to me, regardless of who it's for? That I am making this for the world at large in a spiritual sense–that it doesn't matter if a specific book ever sees the light of day in more than a seriously limited edition. That I am simply following the precepts of the Nag Thomas and bringing forth that which will save me."
"But Nyssa–hyu von' be sad dot it's all over when hyu flesh out de rough; vhen hyu edit de rough und it's all over. Hyu kill her off at de end uf de book, in de epilogue. Hyu know hyu say es de only logical end, Totenberg wreppink her in his old greatcoat against de cold, buryink her in de town de Hundkin laid vaste to zo long ago vit an orange tree to mark her grave. But dot means no zequel, no comink beck."
"That's true–no more Nyssa. But Nyssa isn't the focus of the story, it's the Hounds I wanted to talk about. About what it would be to live at the intersection of strength and vulnerability; about honor and servitude and what happens when the one you serve becomes corrupt. And I wanted a raunchy slightly dark erotic story with some high adventure in it while I was at it. And I think I'm getting there.
"And see, I don't want to talk about Nyssa getting old and unlovely–about her waist thickening and her boobs sagging, about the cellulite forming on her ass. Totenberg loves her still, as much as ever he did, but I don't see Nyssa having adventures with the Hounds cum Wolfpack. Or being the female Achilles's heel that has to be rescued at the climax of every book–once is plenty, thanks!
"So that's why she dies at the end of the book, and that's why it doesn't really matter. Totenberg is in his prime when he meets Nyssa–he's a couple hundred years old, say late twenties equivalent. Old enough to have some experience and understand what he wants and young enough to have the energy and certitude of confidence to go get it. So Nyssa lives her whole life and dies when he's . . . what, in his early thirties? If that? In Oranges With Nyssa, I see him as being in his late forties equivalent–still vital and strong, but slower, more likely to think things through before he acts. He's not planning to come back in ten years and see what became of this Nyssa, or spirit her away on his airship. He's just enjoying the summer day with this kid who shares a name with his lost beloved, eating fruit under the tree and telling appropriate stories of love and loss. There's a lot to tell about Totenberg, and he's the character I really care about.
"For example, there's his life before becoming a Hound, the Change, his life before Nyssa–he's had other pets, Katarina and some unnamed ones. How did he get there? When did he decide to keep pets instead of one night stands (like the other Hounds, who will take whatever's offered). What was it like under Zerstorer? What about the wars that killed off so many Hounds before the dust settled? You could end this book with the decision to go get some fruit from the supply wagon, and the circuit back through camp when he hears someone crying.
"And then there's the time after Nyssa. What does he do then? Does he choose another pet? Is one chosen for him? What happens that kills Sascha? Why does Dmitri drift away from his friend after Sascha is no longer there? You see, we have more books about the Hounds if we want to write them. We can write short stories about Totenberg, we can write about his universe and flesh out his world more–or we can keep it in dialogue and exposition–kind of like this."
He smiled wryly. "Is dis de point vhere hyu laugh–mwah ha ha ha hah!–and threaten to crush me schlowly und elaborately? Hyu've certainly been monologink."
"Don't be silly–I would need a laboratory with the full five syllables, some henchmen, and some sort of death ray." He pointed silently at the computer monitor. "Okay, so I have the death ray." I put a hand on his shoulder. "Rather than crush you, I'd much rather work with you. I've had so much fun over the last few weeks–I think what I'm afraid of is that this will end, and I'll go back into that horrible depressing place where the only hurdles worth clearing are the ones set too high for any mortal to get over. Help me get through this project. It's important to me. I want to be done with this draft–all the arcs written out and the capital spaces removed–by November 1 so I can spend NaNoWriMo working on the story of Little Dinch and the Wild Wild West. I think we can get fifty thousand out of the burro, burro, burro."
"Hyu've written nearly six pages in the pest hour, dollink. Hy tink hyu could put zum of dat into de novel und get zumvere real fest, Hy do."
"I know. But I need some help. A place to start."
"Vell, how about tomorrow hyu schtart with Nyssa in de house vit her husband? Efter de veddink, efter the move-in, efter de discovery he ain't interested–ve ken cover dot later. Mebbe ve schtart vit de discovery uf de ‘fertitity statues' und Nyssa realizink dey might hev odder uses. Or Nyssa talkink to her doctor, de vun who prescribe de violet vand for hysteria?"
"I could do that . . . okay. As I promised, I'm going to save this as a chapter of our dialogues so I can commemorate these for you to preside over. Saving–now."
And I turned off the computer and went to bed, confident that in the morning I would fire up the flash drive and get going on the story that was frustrating me so badly.
And I did.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Shadow Work (Accccckkkk)
Today tastes like the perfect peppermint mocha--that amazing alchemy of espresso, steamed half and half, peppermint schnapps, chocolate, and whipped cream. With a side of fried plantains, garlic, and crayons.
It would be easy to start out with an apology for not being here lately, but I'm sure you've read your fill of those already, so I won't waste eyeball space with another one. There's plenty I need to fill in before the rest of this post will make sense, so if you feel the need--sorry. Done.
Work on the book proceeds apace. We are coming up on 100,000 words--probably crack that barrier by the end of the week/weekend. Yes, I've slowed down some. Right now the Evil Plan is to complete the first edit by Halloween so I can do NaNoWriMo this year and replace the story I was telling about Rodentia that I lost in the Great Computer Cataclysm of Whatever Year That Was (and Finally Learned the Value of BACKING SHIT UP).
The knitting continueth, as always. I was able to hit a personal goal and have a shawl ready for EasterBirthday this year (being born in early April means an interesting convocation sometimes. As Li'l Brah says--Hallelujiah, the KNITTER is RISEN!) Pictures later, maybe. I'll have to look at the Pile of Finished Objects cross-reference it with the blog, and see where I left off.
Hokay, where to start this thing? If I start at the beginning, we'll be here all night with you scrolling down and down and down and wondering if Spike ever shuts up. If I cut to the chase, then you'll be sitting there totally lost and mourning the waste of bandwidth.
There is a genius woman by the name of Havi Brooks. If you haven't yet met her, click on the link and read her blog. Amazing. She's done me more good than an equivalent period in therapy. If I'd spent that long on the couch, which I probably wouldn't because sheesh, at $90 for a fifty-minute hour . . . and three years . . . that's a lot of moolah.
I joke that one day I'll go to the bead store and get some sterling beads (a W, H, a D, and a ?) and some Savarowski crystals and make a bracelet that reads "WWHD?" What Would Havi Do?
The thing that's got me going is the shadow work (ok, eeeeewwww, Jungian shrinkology. Deal, buttercup.) that she's been modeling on her blog for a while and now has a learning packet for. She thinks of it as "talking to your monsters."
See, all the talk about "embracing your monsters" just adds more should to the pile of bullshould. Monsters are . . . monstrous. Big and hairy with fangs and claws, or cold and slimy and tentacular, or wearing facepaint and handing out glowing skull balloons (wanna FLOAT?). And they're that way for a reason.
And then there's the other school which talks about crushing your monsters, conquoring them, vanquishing them, smashing them into itty bitty bits and then jumping up and down on the pieces and peeing on the dust. And that's not good either, because these monsters are just a part of you. That's cutting off a part of yourself and making it not be anymore. Which is where your shadow came from, after all, when you split off the parts of you that you decided were not acceptable and shoved them out into the dark away from the light of your attention . . . and set monsters to keep you out of there.
That's why monsters are scary, and you just want them to go away. They're there to keep you safe, from taking risks, from feeling pain when what you want and what you can get from where you stand are separated by the learning curve.
Problem is, of course, all the stuff you need in order to grow and become complete once more? That's out there in the dark, waiting for you to get past the monster and retrieve it.
So what do you do? You sit down and talk with your monsters. You find out what shape they are. You find out why they think they're doing the best job they can to keep you safe by doing what they do. You tell them what you need in order to take those steps into the dark to get the treasure there, and discuss how they can help you get there. And you renegotiate their job terms so they can do a good job (everyone needs to be proud of the work they do, even monsters) and you can work on integration with your shadow, the bright and the dark.
I've already thrown up a couple of conversations with my muse--who's shifted a lot since we started the book. He's less grabby, less likely to put a fist in my hair and haul me bodily to the appropriate forum. In return, I listen to him better, and am rewarded by having more flow, more ease in my work. Less of the tormented artist bit; less blood on the keyboard.
And yes, there's more to follow. Watch this space for details.
It would be easy to start out with an apology for not being here lately, but I'm sure you've read your fill of those already, so I won't waste eyeball space with another one. There's plenty I need to fill in before the rest of this post will make sense, so if you feel the need--sorry. Done.
Work on the book proceeds apace. We are coming up on 100,000 words--probably crack that barrier by the end of the week/weekend. Yes, I've slowed down some. Right now the Evil Plan is to complete the first edit by Halloween so I can do NaNoWriMo this year and replace the story I was telling about Rodentia that I lost in the Great Computer Cataclysm of Whatever Year That Was (and Finally Learned the Value of BACKING SHIT UP).
The knitting continueth, as always. I was able to hit a personal goal and have a shawl ready for EasterBirthday this year (being born in early April means an interesting convocation sometimes. As Li'l Brah says--Hallelujiah, the KNITTER is RISEN!) Pictures later, maybe. I'll have to look at the Pile of Finished Objects cross-reference it with the blog, and see where I left off.
Hokay, where to start this thing? If I start at the beginning, we'll be here all night with you scrolling down and down and down and wondering if Spike ever shuts up. If I cut to the chase, then you'll be sitting there totally lost and mourning the waste of bandwidth.
There is a genius woman by the name of Havi Brooks. If you haven't yet met her, click on the link and read her blog. Amazing. She's done me more good than an equivalent period in therapy. If I'd spent that long on the couch, which I probably wouldn't because sheesh, at $90 for a fifty-minute hour . . . and three years . . . that's a lot of moolah.
I joke that one day I'll go to the bead store and get some sterling beads (a W, H, a D, and a ?) and some Savarowski crystals and make a bracelet that reads "WWHD?" What Would Havi Do?
The thing that's got me going is the shadow work (ok, eeeeewwww, Jungian shrinkology. Deal, buttercup.) that she's been modeling on her blog for a while and now has a learning packet for. She thinks of it as "talking to your monsters."
See, all the talk about "embracing your monsters" just adds more should to the pile of bullshould. Monsters are . . . monstrous. Big and hairy with fangs and claws, or cold and slimy and tentacular, or wearing facepaint and handing out glowing skull balloons (wanna FLOAT?). And they're that way for a reason.
And then there's the other school which talks about crushing your monsters, conquoring them, vanquishing them, smashing them into itty bitty bits and then jumping up and down on the pieces and peeing on the dust. And that's not good either, because these monsters are just a part of you. That's cutting off a part of yourself and making it not be anymore. Which is where your shadow came from, after all, when you split off the parts of you that you decided were not acceptable and shoved them out into the dark away from the light of your attention . . . and set monsters to keep you out of there.
That's why monsters are scary, and you just want them to go away. They're there to keep you safe, from taking risks, from feeling pain when what you want and what you can get from where you stand are separated by the learning curve.
Problem is, of course, all the stuff you need in order to grow and become complete once more? That's out there in the dark, waiting for you to get past the monster and retrieve it.
So what do you do? You sit down and talk with your monsters. You find out what shape they are. You find out why they think they're doing the best job they can to keep you safe by doing what they do. You tell them what you need in order to take those steps into the dark to get the treasure there, and discuss how they can help you get there. And you renegotiate their job terms so they can do a good job (everyone needs to be proud of the work they do, even monsters) and you can work on integration with your shadow, the bright and the dark.
I've already thrown up a couple of conversations with my muse--who's shifted a lot since we started the book. He's less grabby, less likely to put a fist in my hair and haul me bodily to the appropriate forum. In return, I listen to him better, and am rewarded by having more flow, more ease in my work. Less of the tormented artist bit; less blood on the keyboard.
And yes, there's more to follow. Watch this space for details.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Knitalongs 2010--The Ravelympics Post
Today tastes like ice and coffee, wet wool and fabric softener, fingernails and gold medals.
I loves me a time-bound knitalong (KAL), as all y'all know, where the participants select a project and then click away in an attempt to beat the clock. I'm the world's worst participant in a KAL where we're all making the same thing--I don't think I've ever managed to start at the start or finish near the finish--but give me a deadline and I'm golden.
So when Ravelry annonced the Ravelympics (winter 2010) I was so there. A chance to join a team and win some pixels? Count me in.
So I signed on for Team MmarioKknits (Mmario is an internet famous designer of amusing lace shawls--come join the beta-knitting fun at MmarioKknits) and planned my project--a double-down triangle in a variegated purple with the sober appellation of Li'l Bunny Foo-Foo. Yes, as in hare today, goon tomorrow.
17 days to knit a lace shawl, starting with the lighting of the Olympic torch and ending at midnight the day of closing ceremonies. Made it, with time to spare:
And, by virtue of completion before the deadline, won the following:
Next up, a personal challenge to knit a shawl for Lent. (Why yes, I know we're two weeks through the season. When has common sense ever stopped me? Have I told you about the lace stockings I plan to knit for the World Cup? I tell ya, Christmas knitting projects may be a piece of cake after this year of intensive training.)
I loves me a time-bound knitalong (KAL), as all y'all know, where the participants select a project and then click away in an attempt to beat the clock. I'm the world's worst participant in a KAL where we're all making the same thing--I don't think I've ever managed to start at the start or finish near the finish--but give me a deadline and I'm golden.
So when Ravelry annonced the Ravelympics (winter 2010) I was so there. A chance to join a team and win some pixels? Count me in.
So I signed on for Team MmarioKknits (Mmario is an internet famous designer of amusing lace shawls--come join the beta-knitting fun at MmarioKknits) and planned my project--a double-down triangle in a variegated purple with the sober appellation of Li'l Bunny Foo-Foo. Yes, as in hare today, goon tomorrow.
17 days to knit a lace shawl, starting with the lighting of the Olympic torch and ending at midnight the day of closing ceremonies. Made it, with time to spare:
And, by virtue of completion before the deadline, won the following:
Next up, a personal challenge to knit a shawl for Lent. (Why yes, I know we're two weeks through the season. When has common sense ever stopped me? Have I told you about the lace stockings I plan to knit for the World Cup? I tell ya, Christmas knitting projects may be a piece of cake after this year of intensive training.)
Friday, February 12, 2010
50,017 You Can't See Plus 55 You Can
Is it just me, or do I hear "Fanfare for the Common Man" ringing out already?
Must be me; it's another 14 hours and 45 minutes to the lighting of the torch.
55,017 by my processor's count--in 25 days. And a lot of filling in to do before we have the first glorious imperfect draft. < goosebumps >
Here's 55 for the hell of it--not an excerpt, just a bitty bit.
I was working on a story, beads of blood forming on my forehead. My muse slouched in, dropped into a chair. He gestured with the apple in his hand. "Vat's wrong?"
"I've picked all the low-hanging fruit."
He took out his boot knife, cut off a slice. "Eventually, sveethott," he said, "Ees all low-hengink fruit."
Must be me; it's another 14 hours and 45 minutes to the lighting of the torch.
55,017 by my processor's count--in 25 days. And a lot of filling in to do before we have the first glorious imperfect draft. < goosebumps >
Here's 55 for the hell of it--not an excerpt, just a bitty bit.
I was working on a story, beads of blood forming on my forehead. My muse slouched in, dropped into a chair. He gestured with the apple in his hand. "Vat's wrong?"
"I've picked all the low-hanging fruit."
He took out his boot knife, cut off a slice. "Eventually, sveethott," he said, "Ees all low-hengink fruit."
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Mixed Favors From Sesame Street
Today tastes like Swiss archetypes, like bright shadows, like plaster dust and unused rooms.
I've always subscribed to the "tortured artist" theory of creation. Probably got that from when I was a wee impressionable tadlet watching Sesame Street. There was a sketch where Kermit the Frog was doing his frog in the street interviewing schtick with a pianist who was attempting to work out the lyrics to "Mary Had a Little Lamb." The melody was fine, but he was having trouble finding a rhyme for "snow."
Remember that? Here, I'll help you:
So yeah, of course my takeaway was NOT the helpful bit about "if it ain't working, change it" but the whole wallowing in frustration because if you aren't frustrated then you're not really creating.
Therefore, if you're not frustrated, then you need to add some . . . hurdles!!! Because it's all about the getting bent out of shape and wacking your head on the keyboard. Hence, this has been my M.O. for many many many trips around the sun.
Of course, this didn't ever stop me from envying those who were able to create effortlessly. I would moan about how it looked so easy for so-and-so, and how I wished I could make that happen so gracefully, and cry about how hard it was for me and how the olny reward was that my product was pretty darn spiffing.
But seriously, when you've convinced yourself you need to bind yourself up in knots worthy of a yogini who's into japanese bondage before you can even put pen to paper (I must have an idea--no, an IDEA--in order to start, and it must be a WORLD-SHAKING IDEA, with complexity and subtlety and originality. And then I'll need chocolate, and a foot massage and a purring cat and some orange tea--and oh, look. It's bedtime already. At least I'll be ready to start in the morning.) then, no, it's not so surprising that your output is very very small.
Enter Christopher (Saint) Batty and NaNoWriMo. For years I've sat on the sidelines, wishing I could play--but copuldn't because after all, I'm creatively hobbled, right? Need to be able to work the whole thing from the top down, (even when I get stuck, even when I can't find my way into the hotel in the first place, never mind track down the Hospitality Suite where the story is waiting for me) can't skip forward to the bits I can see and hear as vividly as real life around me, can't do anything to make it easy because IF YOU'RE NOT BLEEDING ON IT, IT ISN'T A PROJECT. Ahem.
And o, was that ever fodder for the green-eyed monster. I lost two novels when a computer died and my files all turned to word salad. Gareth suggested I re-create them from what I could remember, and I turned him down because I had birthed every word of those pages (200+ and 400+) through my eyeballs (not even my forehead! Take that, Jove!!!) and there was no way I was going through all that again. That did not stop me from sitting in my sub-volcanic lair hating everyone during the month of November. Just so you know, in case you felt a scorching wave of rage and envy go boiling past you the week before Thanksgiving some year. That wasn't your mother-in-law.
So I got a wild hair this January (Abundance!) and decided I would write a 50,000 word story in 30 days. Of course I was going to fail miserably--I'm a delicate wittle fwower what can mebbe put out 50K words in three years, yah? But wotthehell, at last I'd have given it a running whack and I'd be able to retire any dream of writing anything bigger than a blog post and be done with it. (BONG, as she smacks her head on the keyboard.)
I pulled out my pristine copy of No Plot, No Problem, St. Batty's seminal work on writing a short novel in one month. I'd bought it, leafed through it, laughed hysterically, and put it away. Hey, wait. Lookee here. 50,000 words in 30 days is 1,667 words per day. That's not so much . . . that's like three-four pages a day. Hmmm . . .
But EVERY DAY? For a WHOLE MONTH? That's a lot of chocolate and foot massages. < clutches chest, staggers about the room wringing handkerchief, gasps for smelling salts, collapses upon the fainting couch with hair arranged just so >
So I'm now 25 days in, with 2 days' output left.
Uhm.
The whole rough is drafted all the way to the end. I have plenty of broad arcs that need to be filled in, and in the process of filling, I'm finding other bits that need a bit more specificity than "and then a miracle occurs."
Carl Jung believed that we were all created as happy heathy fully integrated beings who then learned to disown parts and pieces of ourselves as we grew up--and then spent the rest of our adult lives searching for those parts and pieces, yearning for integration.
Some parts were too dark and ugly to have running free; our shadows. Other parts were too intense, focused like sunlight through a lens; our bright shadows. This past fortnight plus nine has been an exercise in reclaiming a bright shadow.
I only thought I was showing up for the work before. For three weeks and four days, I have sat down at the keyboard with nothing else in mind than getting my 1,667 words for the day out--and hopefully, not cheating by writing "I can't do this" 417 times.
This changes everything.
This changes nothing.
I've always subscribed to the "tortured artist" theory of creation. Probably got that from when I was a wee impressionable tadlet watching Sesame Street. There was a sketch where Kermit the Frog was doing his frog in the street interviewing schtick with a pianist who was attempting to work out the lyrics to "Mary Had a Little Lamb." The melody was fine, but he was having trouble finding a rhyme for "snow."
Remember that? Here, I'll help you:
So yeah, of course my takeaway was NOT the helpful bit about "if it ain't working, change it" but the whole wallowing in frustration because if you aren't frustrated then you're not really creating.
Therefore, if you're not frustrated, then you need to add some . . . hurdles!!! Because it's all about the getting bent out of shape and wacking your head on the keyboard. Hence, this has been my M.O. for many many many trips around the sun.
Of course, this didn't ever stop me from envying those who were able to create effortlessly. I would moan about how it looked so easy for so-and-so, and how I wished I could make that happen so gracefully, and cry about how hard it was for me and how the olny reward was that my product was pretty darn spiffing.
But seriously, when you've convinced yourself you need to bind yourself up in knots worthy of a yogini who's into japanese bondage before you can even put pen to paper (I must have an idea--no, an IDEA--in order to start, and it must be a WORLD-SHAKING IDEA, with complexity and subtlety and originality. And then I'll need chocolate, and a foot massage and a purring cat and some orange tea--and oh, look. It's bedtime already. At least I'll be ready to start in the morning.) then, no, it's not so surprising that your output is very very small.
Enter Christopher (Saint) Batty and NaNoWriMo. For years I've sat on the sidelines, wishing I could play--but copuldn't because after all, I'm creatively hobbled, right? Need to be able to work the whole thing from the top down, (even when I get stuck, even when I can't find my way into the hotel in the first place, never mind track down the Hospitality Suite where the story is waiting for me) can't skip forward to the bits I can see and hear as vividly as real life around me, can't do anything to make it easy because IF YOU'RE NOT BLEEDING ON IT, IT ISN'T A PROJECT. Ahem.
And o, was that ever fodder for the green-eyed monster. I lost two novels when a computer died and my files all turned to word salad. Gareth suggested I re-create them from what I could remember, and I turned him down because I had birthed every word of those pages (200+ and 400+) through my eyeballs (not even my forehead! Take that, Jove!!!) and there was no way I was going through all that again. That did not stop me from sitting in my sub-volcanic lair hating everyone during the month of November. Just so you know, in case you felt a scorching wave of rage and envy go boiling past you the week before Thanksgiving some year. That wasn't your mother-in-law.
So I got a wild hair this January (Abundance!) and decided I would write a 50,000 word story in 30 days. Of course I was going to fail miserably--I'm a delicate wittle fwower what can mebbe put out 50K words in three years, yah? But wotthehell, at last I'd have given it a running whack and I'd be able to retire any dream of writing anything bigger than a blog post and be done with it. (BONG, as she smacks her head on the keyboard.)
I pulled out my pristine copy of No Plot, No Problem, St. Batty's seminal work on writing a short novel in one month. I'd bought it, leafed through it, laughed hysterically, and put it away. Hey, wait. Lookee here. 50,000 words in 30 days is 1,667 words per day. That's not so much . . . that's like three-four pages a day. Hmmm . . .
But EVERY DAY? For a WHOLE MONTH? That's a lot of chocolate and foot massages. < clutches chest, staggers about the room wringing handkerchief, gasps for smelling salts, collapses upon the fainting couch with hair arranged just so >
So I'm now 25 days in, with 2 days' output left.
Uhm.
The whole rough is drafted all the way to the end. I have plenty of broad arcs that need to be filled in, and in the process of filling, I'm finding other bits that need a bit more specificity than "and then a miracle occurs."
Carl Jung believed that we were all created as happy heathy fully integrated beings who then learned to disown parts and pieces of ourselves as we grew up--and then spent the rest of our adult lives searching for those parts and pieces, yearning for integration.
Some parts were too dark and ugly to have running free; our shadows. Other parts were too intense, focused like sunlight through a lens; our bright shadows. This past fortnight plus nine has been an exercise in reclaiming a bright shadow.
I only thought I was showing up for the work before. For three weeks and four days, I have sat down at the keyboard with nothing else in mind than getting my 1,667 words for the day out--and hopefully, not cheating by writing "I can't do this" 417 times.
This changes everything.
This changes nothing.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Nano WHAT Mo M.O.
“Huy need talking to?” He propped his boots up on my desk, quirked a furry eyebrow at me. A lolling, goggle-eyed, comic monster with a funny accent. A killing machine with claws and fangs. Who played the lute, and was tender of pets.
“I have no idea what’s going on,” I told him. “None. I can’t see your world right now; it’s like a door has been slammed shut.”
“Ho! Dat’s because hyu hung op again. Hyu hung op on control. Relax! Lemme tell hyu vat heppen next.” He plinked several desultory notes on the old beetle-backed lute with its tarnished brass fretwork. “Effen now, hyu tryink to find vat heppen vit me here. Tryink to mek story heppen. Hyu chust need to let characters schpeak in dere own voices, and plot vill heppen on its own.”
“Zo.” He dropped his feet back to the floor, walked around behind me, and set my fingers gently on the keyboard. “Tevnty-two days left. Siddown and tell schtory.”
“I have no idea what’s going on,” I told him. “None. I can’t see your world right now; it’s like a door has been slammed shut.”
“Ho! Dat’s because hyu hung op again. Hyu hung op on control. Relax! Lemme tell hyu vat heppen next.” He plinked several desultory notes on the old beetle-backed lute with its tarnished brass fretwork. “Effen now, hyu tryink to find vat heppen vit me here. Tryink to mek story heppen. Hyu chust need to let characters schpeak in dere own voices, and plot vill heppen on its own.”
“Zo.” He dropped his feet back to the floor, walked around behind me, and set my fingers gently on the keyboard. “Tevnty-two days left. Siddown and tell schtory.”
Monday, December 07, 2009
To Wish For a Christmas Miracle
" . . . he was allowed to wish for a Christmas miracle." The teacher closed the book and surveyed the silent classrom with satisfaction. Reading Christmas stories to the kids for the last hour of the day before the Winter Holiday Break had been one of her better ideas. She could sneak in some vocabulary and grammar under the sugar coat of holiday lore; it was the top subject on every kid's mind; and the ptomise functioned as a bribe to keep them on task the rest of the day. We won't be able to have story time unless you quiet down and pay attention, she'd say, and the whole class would settle down. More like snowflakes in a snow globe--a drifting, dreamy, rustling quieting; but she'd take what she could get.
"So, who can tell me what it is to wish for something?" Rhubarb ensued, but consensus was arrived at. You wished when you hoped really, really, really hard for something, hoped with everything you had.
"And a miracle?" After some discussion, they all agreed that a miracle was something that you wanted badly, but was not likely to happen. Like living at Disneyland, or getting a pony.
"So what would a Christmas miracle be like?" Well, that would have to be an extra-special miracle, wouldn't it? Like getting to walk on the moon, or being able to fly like Superman.
Morgan sat rapt in the back of the room. A Christmas miracle, he thought. A really special miracle, as opposed to the everyday, run of the mill miracles, like walking on water. He knew exactly what he'd wish for.
When the bell rang, signalling the end of the day and the semester all at the same time, Morgan put on his coat and mittens, and began the walk home in the late afternoon gloom. It would be dark barely an hour after he got home from school. Normally he loved the winter--seeing the warm lights coming on as he walked home, some of the Christmas lights lit up, the chill in the air. But now it all seemed dead and dry like the last leaves of October. Dust under his feet.
That July, two men in uniform had come to his house to talk to his mother. Morgan had been fascinated by the array of coloful ribbons on thier right breast, and wanted to ask about them, but Mother had turned pale and sent him outside to play while the grownups talked. When he came back in, sweaty and grass-stained, Aunt Christina had been sitting at the table. She told him Mother had gone to lie down for a nap, and he was going to come with her for a week--wouldn't that be fun?
And it was, in an odd way. Aunt Christine let him stay uop watching television after his bedtime came and went, let him have seconds of dessert (even wnen he didn't finish his vegetables), and never ever declined a game of Hearts, Morgan's favorite card game ever.
But sometimes he'd look up, and Aunt Christine would be looking at him thoughtfully. Once he saw her wipe her cheek quickly. like she'd been crying and didn't want to be caught. He'd asked what the matter was, and she said, "You look so much like your father when he was your age, that's all." And then she'd told about catching frogs in the creek behind the house where she and her younger brother had grown up, and then about how proud he'd been when he joined the Army, and then about when he'd married Morgan's mom.
When he went home form Aunt Christine's, his mother looked like she needed another nap. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she moved slowly. She sighed a lot. She'd packed up and put away some of the family pictures, and his father's things weren't hanging in the closet any more. He asked what happened, and she sat down with him at the kitchen table. He knew it was serious then. That was the place they had their serious talks, when Daddy had been sent overseas, or when Morgan had gotten in trouble at school.
"Daddy . . . daddy can't . . . well, he won't be coming home again. He loved you very much, and you should remember that, but he won't be with us any more." Tears filled her eyes, and she hugged him tight. Morgan wanted to ask why, but he didn't want to make his mother cry any more than she was already crying. "Go play in your room, okay?" Her voice stretched high and thin, breaking on the last word. So Morgan did as he was told, and tried not to think about it too much, even thought it hurt that Daddy didn't at least call on his birthday, or the first day of school.
But now school was coming to a close, and Christmas was just around the corner, close enough to taste. Morgan thought about the story, and wishes, and miracles. He thought about things to wish on.
When he helped hang the wreath on the door, he closed his eyes and let his wish bubble up inside him until his ears rang with wishing. "What are you doing?" his mother asked. "Wishing," he said. "Oh. Well, don't tell me, because then it won't come true."
When Aunt Katherine took him shopping for presents and they stopped for pie and coffee, Morgan noticed how she turned her pie around to start at the crust and not the tip. "Why are you doing that?" he asked.
She smiled. "Making a wish," she said. "Save the best bite for last, and make a wish on it." Morgan immediately spun his plate around, even though he often left the crust uneaten. "Pie bones," his father would say, laughing his rough laugh. "Bury it in the yard, son, and grow a pie tree!" Morgan ate every last bite of the crust even though it tasted like dry crumbly salted flour, and as he ate the last bite of the pointed tip, he closed his eyes and wished as hard as he could.
And the days fell away as he opened the tiny drawers on the Advent calendar to reveal tiny candy canes, tin soldiers, miniature cars and somewhere between astonishingly sudden and heartbreaking never, it was Christmas Eve. Morgan put his boots and coat on after dinner and went outside into the cold dark, looking for the first star so he could cast one last extra-hard wish at it.
The chiming of the clock striking midnight woke Morgan up, but what sent him flying out of his warm nest of covers and down the stairs was the crunching squeak of footsteps in the snow. His mother heard something too, as she joined him in the hallway, and they bumped into each other at the head of the stairs.
Mother frowned. "Who on earth could be calling at this hour?" she grumbled, re-tying her bathrobe sash. There was a hollow knocking at the door, clods of dirt falling on an empty coffin.
Morgan grinned gleefully. "I know, I know!" he announced. "It's --" Mother stopped with her hand on the doorknob, flipping the porch light on.
"Honey," she said, "Maybe you should go back to bed . . ."
"No, it's okay. Santa's for babies, but this is real." He pulled on her hand, turning the knob, and the door creaked open. He saw once-shiny shoes, now scuffed and caked with mud and ice there on the mat. His father's shoes. As the chill wind blew the scent of earth and Old Spice over his mother's white face, into the house, Morgan announced, "Daddy's come home. Just like I wished."
"So, who can tell me what it is to wish for something?" Rhubarb ensued, but consensus was arrived at. You wished when you hoped really, really, really hard for something, hoped with everything you had.
"And a miracle?" After some discussion, they all agreed that a miracle was something that you wanted badly, but was not likely to happen. Like living at Disneyland, or getting a pony.
"So what would a Christmas miracle be like?" Well, that would have to be an extra-special miracle, wouldn't it? Like getting to walk on the moon, or being able to fly like Superman.
Morgan sat rapt in the back of the room. A Christmas miracle, he thought. A really special miracle, as opposed to the everyday, run of the mill miracles, like walking on water. He knew exactly what he'd wish for.
When the bell rang, signalling the end of the day and the semester all at the same time, Morgan put on his coat and mittens, and began the walk home in the late afternoon gloom. It would be dark barely an hour after he got home from school. Normally he loved the winter--seeing the warm lights coming on as he walked home, some of the Christmas lights lit up, the chill in the air. But now it all seemed dead and dry like the last leaves of October. Dust under his feet.
That July, two men in uniform had come to his house to talk to his mother. Morgan had been fascinated by the array of coloful ribbons on thier right breast, and wanted to ask about them, but Mother had turned pale and sent him outside to play while the grownups talked. When he came back in, sweaty and grass-stained, Aunt Christina had been sitting at the table. She told him Mother had gone to lie down for a nap, and he was going to come with her for a week--wouldn't that be fun?
And it was, in an odd way. Aunt Christine let him stay uop watching television after his bedtime came and went, let him have seconds of dessert (even wnen he didn't finish his vegetables), and never ever declined a game of Hearts, Morgan's favorite card game ever.
But sometimes he'd look up, and Aunt Christine would be looking at him thoughtfully. Once he saw her wipe her cheek quickly. like she'd been crying and didn't want to be caught. He'd asked what the matter was, and she said, "You look so much like your father when he was your age, that's all." And then she'd told about catching frogs in the creek behind the house where she and her younger brother had grown up, and then about how proud he'd been when he joined the Army, and then about when he'd married Morgan's mom.
When he went home form Aunt Christine's, his mother looked like she needed another nap. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she moved slowly. She sighed a lot. She'd packed up and put away some of the family pictures, and his father's things weren't hanging in the closet any more. He asked what happened, and she sat down with him at the kitchen table. He knew it was serious then. That was the place they had their serious talks, when Daddy had been sent overseas, or when Morgan had gotten in trouble at school.
"Daddy . . . daddy can't . . . well, he won't be coming home again. He loved you very much, and you should remember that, but he won't be with us any more." Tears filled her eyes, and she hugged him tight. Morgan wanted to ask why, but he didn't want to make his mother cry any more than she was already crying. "Go play in your room, okay?" Her voice stretched high and thin, breaking on the last word. So Morgan did as he was told, and tried not to think about it too much, even thought it hurt that Daddy didn't at least call on his birthday, or the first day of school.
But now school was coming to a close, and Christmas was just around the corner, close enough to taste. Morgan thought about the story, and wishes, and miracles. He thought about things to wish on.
When he helped hang the wreath on the door, he closed his eyes and let his wish bubble up inside him until his ears rang with wishing. "What are you doing?" his mother asked. "Wishing," he said. "Oh. Well, don't tell me, because then it won't come true."
When Aunt Katherine took him shopping for presents and they stopped for pie and coffee, Morgan noticed how she turned her pie around to start at the crust and not the tip. "Why are you doing that?" he asked.
She smiled. "Making a wish," she said. "Save the best bite for last, and make a wish on it." Morgan immediately spun his plate around, even though he often left the crust uneaten. "Pie bones," his father would say, laughing his rough laugh. "Bury it in the yard, son, and grow a pie tree!" Morgan ate every last bite of the crust even though it tasted like dry crumbly salted flour, and as he ate the last bite of the pointed tip, he closed his eyes and wished as hard as he could.
And the days fell away as he opened the tiny drawers on the Advent calendar to reveal tiny candy canes, tin soldiers, miniature cars and somewhere between astonishingly sudden and heartbreaking never, it was Christmas Eve. Morgan put his boots and coat on after dinner and went outside into the cold dark, looking for the first star so he could cast one last extra-hard wish at it.
The chiming of the clock striking midnight woke Morgan up, but what sent him flying out of his warm nest of covers and down the stairs was the crunching squeak of footsteps in the snow. His mother heard something too, as she joined him in the hallway, and they bumped into each other at the head of the stairs.
Mother frowned. "Who on earth could be calling at this hour?" she grumbled, re-tying her bathrobe sash. There was a hollow knocking at the door, clods of dirt falling on an empty coffin.
Morgan grinned gleefully. "I know, I know!" he announced. "It's --" Mother stopped with her hand on the doorknob, flipping the porch light on.
"Honey," she said, "Maybe you should go back to bed . . ."
"No, it's okay. Santa's for babies, but this is real." He pulled on her hand, turning the knob, and the door creaked open. He saw once-shiny shoes, now scuffed and caked with mud and ice there on the mat. His father's shoes. As the chill wind blew the scent of earth and Old Spice over his mother's white face, into the house, Morgan announced, "Daddy's come home. Just like I wished."
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