Forests of the Heart

Bettina had thought to only stay in the house for as long as it took her to find an apartment in the city. She was given one of the nooks to make her own--a small space under a staircase that opened up into a hidden room twice the size of her bedroom at home.

... She felt welcomed and blessed.

The one week turned into a month. Adelita had been right. The artists were delighted to have her in residence, constantly vying for her time in their studios. They were good company, as were the writers who only emerged from their quarters at odd times for meals or a sudden need to hear a human voice."

- Forests of the Heart, Charles de Lint

This is my second de Lint, having read Someplace To Be Flying two months ago, and it's making me think that I need to read all of his books. This one is just as warm and cozy as Flying was, featuring an equally interesting a rag tag group of people, as well as incorporating myths and tales from all over the world into one coherent story. It's perfect to curl up with when the weather is bleak and cold outside.

Augh!

Violet has been grudgingly been getting into the Christmas spirit. Also, the winter has taken away her curiosity.



I will return shortly. I am trying to do things that keep me happy in this bleak winter light, such as reading new books, revelling in the two unexpected days of shortsleeve weather, drinking tea, and trying not to lose my mind over making last-minute stockings (?!) for Christmas. Christmas, which happens to not be "the most wonderful time of the year," as it turns out. I've always felt that way, but this is the first year I am being openly Scrooge-like. I'll try to return to my normal self when it's all over and done with.
Until then...

When I Have Lost My Voice

[Hunt for Hi tech - Bart Hess]

When I have lost my voice you will know I'm gone

When I have lost my voice

There will be no one to speak on my behalf

When I have lost my voice I will be no more

When I have lost my voice

I will cease to be what I have been

And begin to become what others saw instead

When I have lost my voice I will be no more

And you will be here,

To carry on

Werewolves, Witchery, and the Inquisition

Or: What I Am Reading Now

"Beauty and Delicious [the cousins about whom the family did not speak] were twins, the only children of Marwis, the Thane's youngest brother who had died some years ago in a plane crash. As Marwis's wife was also long dead, the twins were left parentless. They coped with this bravely, and some years later arrived in London a pair of cheerful, drunken, drug-taking degenerates who had started abusing their bodies when they were young and carried on happily ever since. After accidentally burning down the family home in Scotland they decided it was time to seek new challenges and had moved south to start a band and see what fun they could have. Now twenty-two, the twins spent most of their time in an alcohol-induced haze in their house in Camden in North London, listening to music and practising guitar.

... They flatly refused to move back to Scotland. Much as the Thane and Verasa might like to drag them back to the family estates, there was no way to do this short of kidnapping. The family had considered this."

- Lonely Werewolf Girl, Martin Millar

The whole book is narrated like this, in short, choppy sentences delightfully filling you in on the many details that could have been dropped in here and there throughout the actual story. I'm waiting for it to get good, but nearly 600 pages is too much to suffer through. Perhaps I should have headed the reviews on Amazon.

The Witch of Cologne is a much less quotable book, but infinitely better. One of the few books with an unhappy ending that I actually approve of. I'm just not a real fan of endings. When I reread a book I usually read everything up until the big, dramatic finish, but this one I'm actually planning on rereading all the way through. (Granted, I usually read fantasy books that have something to do with a huge, epic battle that I couldn't care less about--give me my characters dammit! I don't care about the rest of the world as we know it.)

An Honest Conversation

I tend to latch onto a handful of songs at a time and listen to them over and over again until I get tired of them. Sometimes I feel guilty about it, like I'm indulging in an extra scoop of ice cream, and I try to pace myself, but I always end up doing the same thing: listening to the same three songs on repeat until they're worn thin. It's never more than five songs and no less than two. They are songs that just catch me in some way, that I connect with on some level. Sometimes the words are exactly what I'm thinking, sometimes I just like the way the words sound strung together, their juxtaposition. It could be the rhythm, or that it sounds exactly like sunshine or a moody grey day. Sometimes they're brooding, but always they're meaningful.

These are the songs that characterize periods in my life, that can't possibly be separated from certain memories. Spring semester was extremely stressful, marked with periods of peace while driving in the early summer heat or sitting in the sun. The three songs that sounded like sunshine and tiredness were Jon Foreman's cover of "Boxing" (originally by Ben Folds Five), "Champagne Supernova" by Oasis, and "Praise You" by Fatboy Slim. My first semester was exhausting and I listened to Counting Crows' Across A Wire disc one on repeat while I took naps. Senior year was "Hey There Delilah" by the Plain White T's and driving to design class.

This is the reason I'm always a bit hesitant whenever someone asks what kind of music I listen to. I'm starting to hone in on a general genre that I like, but mostly I just attach myself to a group of songs and don't let go until I'm done, and I'd rather not tell a perfect stranger what they are. They aren't just songs that I can tap my foot to, they are a little part of me, capturing a specific thought or a frame of mind. That's the funny thing about songs, the expected honesty and freedom in them. Jon Foreman has said that he marvels at this, how it's expected that you will speak honestly of the most personal things that you couldn't bring up in an everyday conversation. You put a little piece of yourself into chords and notes and lyrics and then you hand it out, and everyone who listen, who connects with it, finds a bit of themselves it it, an honesty and a truth. And that's not something I'm going to discuss with the bored extrovert sitting next to me before class.

The songs that are playing in my ear right now are:
Murder in the City - The Avett Brothers
Worn Me Down - Rachael Yamagata
Jealous of the Moon - Nickel Creek
June on the West Coast - Bright Eyes

Murder In the City

- The Avett Brothers


If I get murdered in the city
Don’t go revengin in my name
One person dead from such is plenty
No need to go get locked away


When I leave your arms
The things that I think of
No need to get over alarmed
I’m comin home


I wonder which brother is better
Which one our parents love the most
I sure did get in lots of trouble
They seemed to let the other go


A tear fell from my father’s eyes
I wondered what my dad would say
He said I love you
And I’m proud of you both
In so many different ways


If I get murdered in the city
Go read the letter in my desk
Don’t worry with all my belongings
But pay attention to the list


Make sure my sister knows I loved her
Make sure my mother knows the same
Always remember, there is nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name
Always remember, there is nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name

Off To Rob A Bank

While waiting for my sister to get out of class.

Voila!

These are the earrings I made with my colored newspaper beads. You will soon be able to buy them on my Etsy shop.

Necessity Is the Mother of Invention

My rather ADD approach to crafting (I try one thing only to get bored and move on once I've mastered the basics) means I'm always wanting to try new things and that I usually don't have the proper materials to start. Instead of just giving up, I usually find a way jury-rig, jerry-build* something that suits my purposes.

When I was assigned a jewelry making project in a highschool design class and I had very little money for buying beads (as I tend to want things like tigers eye, turquoise Czech glass...), I started making them out of newspaper. The results were so good (even if the process is a little... sticky and difficult) that I've made a couple more batches since then.

It's a simple process in theory--cut out stripes of newspaper, dip them in some diluted glue, roll them around a toothpick and slide them off to dry--the actual execution can be a little... disheartening. It's a simple process with many opportunities for it go awry. They do look rather nice when you're finished, so if you'd like to try making some of them on you're own you can follow my somewhat vague directions here:

(Sorry, no in-process pictures at the moment 'cause you're hands get completely covered in glue when you're rolling the beads, and my camera is not partial to glue.)

1. The first thing that you do is cut out strips of newspaper. I tend to go by the measurements of the columns because it's easier. In general, a good length for your strip is the length of one column on half the page (or the size of the newspaper when it's laying folded), or about 9-10 1/2" long. The width of your strip determines the length of your bead, so be careful. When you wind them up it'll get wider, so no wider than 1 1/2", which makes a very long bead, like these. For medium sized beads I usually take a column and cut it in half, so my strip is about 1 1/8" wide. Just make sure that it will actually fit on the toothpick, which is important. Oh, and make sure to taper the ends of the strip a little, so it wraps up nice at the end.

2. (You'll want to put down a large piece of waxed paper to work on.) Next mix up some diluted glue in a wide shallow bowl of some sort. (The lid to an old Gatorade mix container also works really well.) This is where the directions get a bit vague. The glue needs to be thin enough that you can rolls your bead up easily, but thick enough to actually make the paper stick. I use a straw with my finger suctioned over the top to fill it with water as a dropper to mix it in with the glue. If you try to just drop a little bit of water over the rim of a glass you will have trouble, honest. (That is, if you're anything like me.)

3. Now take a toothpick and smear it with a little Vaseline. I have a really old pot of it that I dip the toothpicks straight into then gently wipe off the excess, but getting a little dollop on a separate piece of waxed paper and twirling it through that also works well. The key word here is to gently wipe off the Vaseline. You just want to get the extra bits that are sticking off while keeping it slick enough that your bead will come off when you want it to. If you don't have enough you'll have an unusable bead permanently dried on a toothpick, but if you have too much your paper will slip-slide every which way and you'll go mad. You also probably won't be able to get it started rolling in the first place either.

4. Take you paper and dip it in the diluted glue, then wipe off the excess with your fingers. Too much glue is just like too much Vaseline, it will keep your bead from sticking just enough to roll it. Too little glue and it will start to dry as you're rolling it and it won't stick. If you find you don't have enough glue, you can always just dip and wipe it again. You'll get glue all over your hands at this point, so make sure to have a wet paper towel on hand.

5. Hold the now-gluey strip of paper with the right side towards you and carefully press the edge onto the toothpick. This is the point at which you will start swearing profusely. The strip has to straight on the edge of the toothpick or it will get a cockeyed and won't roll. With the strip pressed onto the toothpick, gently start to roll the edge under, keeping it steady any way you can (fingers, toes, elbows....). You'll probably get it wrong the first time, so try again. You'll probably also get it all too loose and crooked the second time too, so... well, you know. You want to roll it tightly against the toothpick or you won't get enough traction to finish rolling it up. If you can't get it tight enough to start, you may have a little too much Vaseline on your toothpick. If yours looks like mine you'll probably have excess glue being squished out the ends, but don't worry, it just means you're rolling it good and tight.

6. Once you have it all rolled up, wipe off the excess glue and slip it off the toothpick. If you used a lot of glue the layers of the bead might be a tad loose and movable, which may be a problem when slipping it off the toothpick, so be careful. If you're having trouble sliding it off you can hold the toothpick with the point against your work surface and use your fingernails butting up against the end of the bead to slide it down. If the toothpick is too slippery to hold you can use the gluey, wet paper towel to hold the end and slip the bead off that way.

7. Now just leave them alone to dry. While they're drying the top edge will want to peel away from the rest of the bead and dry sticking up. It's not a big deal, so just leave it until the bead is relatively dry, then take another toothpick and dab some straight glue on it to tamp it down. Some people use Modge Podge to seal their beads once they're dry, but I just use a light coat of undiluted glue to hold them and I haven't had a problem.

So there are my slightly fuzzy directions. I'm sure there are improvements to be made, but so far the system seems to be working for me.

*Please note that jerry-rigged is not a word. I know, I looked it up.

And on a side note, I now have footnotes on my blog. Makes me feel all McKinley-ish.

Matthieu Dessudo

"That's zen too, isn't it?"

Overheard while walking in to school:

Dude 1: "How do you stay in the moment for 36 hours?"
Girl: "You don't--"
Dude 2: "Dude, you'd have to like, makeout!"

America

I watch myself watching them argue. It's a social worker, a lawyer for me, a lawyer against me, a cop, a judge, and some people.
...
"The kid can't keep his hands off lighters, Your Honor," the lawyer against me says. "Not to mention that the kid confessed here."
"Is the boy wanted for a crime in Nyack or not?" the judge asks.
"He is not, Your Honor," the lawyer for me says.
"However, it would be prudent to reexamine the case, given the boy's recent confession," the lawyer against me says.
"You're repeating yourself, McKinsey," the judge tells him. "I heard you the first time." Then he looks at the cop. "Is the family of the deceased asking for a reopening?"
"No, Your Honor," the cop says.
"Is the guardian asking for a reopening?"
"No, Your Honor," the cop says.
"Is Nyack asking for a reopening?"
"No sir."
"Where is the guardian?" the judge asks.
"She's unable to care for the boy, Your Honor." the social worker says. "But she's expressed the desire for him to return. She expresses a strong attachment to the boy."
"I believe I asked where she is," the judge says.
"In a nursing home, Your Honor," the social worker answers. "In Nyack."
"The guardian is in Nyack?" the judge says. His voice gets louder. "How long was this boy detained at R and D?" I see the quiet and the way the judge's face turns red. "Why is this boy in Manhattan?" Nobody answers. "Why is this boy in front of me?" Nobody answers. "Anyone?" the judge says.
"I got lost in the system," I watch myself say.
"Jesus Christ," the judge says.
- America, E.R. Frank

The Story of An Artist

listen up and i'll tell a story
about an artist growing old
some would try for fame and glory
others aren't so bold

and everyone in friends and family
sayin "hey go get a job
why do you only do that only
why are you so odd?"

and we dont really like what you do
we dont think anyone ever will
we think you have a problem
and this problem's made you ill"

the artist walks among the flowers
appreciating the sun
he's out there all his waking hours
oh and who's to say he's wrong

but the artist walks alone
and someone says behind his back
"he's got some gall to call himself that
he doesn't even know where he's at"

and they sit in front of their tv
sayin "hey isn't this a lot of fun"
and they laugh at the artist
saying "he don't know how to have fun"

listen up and i'll tell a story
about an artist growin old
some would try for fame and glory
others like to watch the world
- M. Ward (Daniel Johnston cover)

Petrouchka

Dark things appeal to me, they always have. So when my dance appreciation teacher introduced us to Petrouchka, I immediately felt an affinity for the sad, mistreated clown with a crooked painted mouth who ends up getting hacked to death (!) by a Moore. I especially liked this photograph of a 1970 production of the ballet. If only it ended a little happier.

The Moral Calculus

"The most illuminating way to percieve the shoddiness of your own ideals is to witness someone else practicing them."

- William T Vollman, Rising Up and Rising Down

Today Is A Book Day

Three bought
Two borrowed
One stolen
Today is a book day

- Pliney the Dreamer

After a very long dry period, I now have a gloriously tall stack of books on my bookshelf waiting to be read. Some of them are being reread, some are being brought to a sick game of college show and tell, some are borrowed from the library, and some were bought there today (for $3 a piece!).

My sister and I have a special relationship...

Violet: [Sees Pliney looking up pictures of Janice the Muppet online] You're blogging about me aren't you!

The Gargoyle

"While I'm not claiming that I now feel great love for all people, I can state with some confidence that I hate fewer people than I used to. This may seem like a weak claim to personal growth, but sometimes these things should be judged by distance traveled rather than by current location."
- The Gargoyle

"I thought that common sense would prevail, but you can't argue with a monastery of elated nuns."
- The Gargoyle


One of those books that just gets better and better the farther into it you get until you realize it's just too good of a book to have a happy ending. But by then you're too sucked in to do anything about it. Knocked down to three stars out of five by virtue of its ending. But all in all, a very good book.

Geoff Benzing

"Porch Song"

"Rain Walk"

Goeff Benzing

Fringe

Peter: The man who was just released from the mental institution, he wants to give you a drug overdose, then stick a metal rod into your head and put you naked into a rusty tank of water.

Walter: No, I don’t want to. No, I’d rather not. I’m just saying I can.

- Fringe, Pilot

In Honor of Misfortune

Misfortune has been one of my very favorite books since I picked it up at the library one day. I've since acquired my own copy from the library's book sale for the price of $1, and have enjoyed it every since. It's one of those very rare books (I know, people say things like that when talking about books, especially when they're getting paid for it, but I really mean it) that is both hysterical and meaningful.

On my last library trip I was browsing the new books shelf and happened to discover that Misfortune has now been released as a paperback, with quite an interesting cover.

I'm a bit torn as to which one I like more, this one or the hardcover version I have:

I definitely don't like the UK cover (you can see both the American and the UK covers on Stace's website, www.wesleystace.com/misfortune.html), and had really thought that the hardcover version was absolutely perfect for the book, but seeing the paperback, I'm a little torn. Of course if it doesn't have the adorable little illuminations at each chapter I will be very disappointed.

Books!

To continue my book theme, here is a little blank book I finished for myself this weekend:

After seeing a post on Angrychicken.typepad.com, a craft blog I keep up with, about homemade books, I decided to make one of my own.

I cut two sturdy pieces of cardboard into two (roughly) 8X6" rectangles and covered them in painted packing paper. I also pasted a piece of contrasting paper on the inside to cover the folds and glue smears of the white paper. (Painted packing paper is one of my best discoveries. I have a huge box of these sheets that I just paint up with acrylic paints. You can get custom sized sheets of paper in any color your heart desires!) I cut a bundle of sketch paper to fit the cardboard (10 pieces, folded in half for twenty pages), and used another piece as an inside binding to attach the rest of the paper to by gluing it (the binding paper) to the outsides of the cardboard covers leaving a 1/4" space between them. In retrospect, I should have left more than a 1/4" because my book won't close properly, but oh well.

After I glued the functioning binding (to be covered with the green so the stitches won't show), I used an awl to punch holes through all the layers of paper to create holes to sew it together with. I sewed it all up with some nice heavy duty thread that felt like it was waxed. Perhaps I'll use a lighter color next time... :-P Now, in the post she said that she just uses a sewing machine for hers, but I realized that my book was not going to fit in the sewing machine, and I wasn't sure it could handle 11 sheets of paper at a time, so I just sewed it all by hand, which actually worked really well. I think I would use a heavier paper for the functioning binding though. Also, the painted packing paper was not a good idea, it gets scuffed and torn way too easy. I might use card stock of scrap booking paper next time.

You're Such A Dissapointment

Or: Books I Have Not Finished


I find that the more I read, the pickier I get, and the less I am compelled to finish a book if I don't absolutely like it. Lately this has resulted in a large stack of books sitting on my bookshelf that have not been finished. Here's a list of the latest disappointing books:

Truancy - Isamu Fukui
A book about government control and the public school system? With a really dark, amazing looking cover? Yes! I'm right there! Well, I only got six pages into it before I gave up on it. Great premise, not so great characters, and an obvious agenda. We get it! You're pissed at the school system - get over it! A seventeen-year-old with an axe to grind? No thank you.

Of Saints and Shadows - Christopher Golden
I keep telling myself that I'm going to finish this one, but I'm really not sure that I am. It's not the worst vampire book I've ever read, but not the best either. It skips around a lot to different characters, which is one trait in a book I've never really liked (with a few exceptions, of course). It has to do with a conspiracy in the Catholic church and magic and stuff. I'll probably return it to the library tomorrow.

Nothing to Lose - Lee Child
I love Jack Reacher. Love. I think he's funny as hell and is one of the best quirky characters I've ever come across. (His propensity for violence, for always stumbling into the wrong situations, his rules and sense of justice--priceless.) That being said, it felt like Lee Child just got bored and a little jaded with politics and took it out on Reacher. That and it's slow. Really slow. Usually I read these books in two days or so, which is very fast for me, but this one has taken me over a week and I'm maybe 3/4 of the way through it or more. We're getting to the stage where Reacher is proving all of his theories, but I'm just not interested. Hell, Echo Burning was better and I hated that book. This one also goes back to the library tomorrow. I sincerely hope the next one is better.

The Vampire Shrink - Lynda Hilburn
I've read some truly awful vampire books but this one takes the cake. Kismet (I'm sorry--Kismet?) is supposedly a psychologist and yet she is incredibly shallow and mocks her patients in her head. She has that Laurell K Hamilton girly squeamishness down pat (And I'm not feeling too friendly towards LKH right now either), her vampires and their world are shallow, stereotypical, and flat out boring, not to mention the lead vampire's name is Devereaux and is described as "yummy" and a "Greek god." Like hell. (I actually did finish this one today just to see how it would end, and it was just as bad as I thought it would be.)

Sleeping Dogs - Thomas Perry
I may actually finish this one, but I'm not sure. I had picked it up for my dad at the library a week or so ago and it looked interesting so I took it after he was done with it, after all I love books about assassins. This one, however, is a little slow. After reading Nothing to Lose though my sense of "slow" may differ a little. Fascinating premise, but maybe not heavy enough on the psychology to hold me? We'll see.

Penelope

"You!"

Max: Oh God! He licked me!

Lemon: Edward... Don't lick Max.

- Penelope

It's Lust

A chance meeting at Barnes and Noble... And so dark and twisted. It's lust.

Raindrops

Bookshelf

My pile of books is getting dangerously low. I sense a library run coming on.

The Art of Balance

Or: I have always loved dark and twisted things.

These are ballet boots designed by Christian Louboutin, photographed by David Lynch for his "Fetish" exhibit. Not only are the shoes absolutely gorgeous, but I am in love with these photographs as well.

Chapter 13: In which I contemplate the sheer amount of paper in my possession

You know that question that pops up in those inane 'send these to all your friends' quizzes, if your house was on fire and you could only grab one thing, what would it be? Well, I have gradually become obsessed with answering it, and in the process have become aware of just how many unique and irreplaceable things are contained in my single little room.

Take for instance, my handmade angel treetopper that I made in kindergarten at church. It's a paper snowcone holder with a paper doily folded in half to form wings and a head made of a Styrofoam ball. The only thing that has prompted me to keep this little artifact instead of just letting go of it like any normal sane person is that it is my one manifestation of my stubbornness and my love of all things sparkly. I was a painfully shy kid who only wanted to be plopped in a corner somewhere and completely ignored thank you very much, and yet I could not finish my angel until she had glitter somewhere about her person. There was no glitter to be had on the table, and so I did something completely unthinkable for me: I asked a teacher. And this teacher had to go and get out some glitter specifically to appease me. That's my one stick-it-to-the-damn-baptist-church moment, and it makes me smile.

I wouldn't, however shed a tear over the loss of that particular piece of workmanship, and I might even be a little grateful for an excuse to finally let it go. But what about all of the other things that couldn't be replaced? I love my admittedly small music collection, but even that can be gotten again if absolutely necessary. The files on my computer would be missed very dearly, but still, there's nothing of absolute value stored on my hard drive if it were damaged beyond repair. No, the thing that worries me the most is not even my books. They would be loudly and thoroughly mourned, but I could still buy copies of them if need be. The thing that keeps me up at night wondering if it would be too paranoid to invest in an oversized fireproof container--hell, a room even, a bomb shelter--is the thought of losing my notebooks.

I have kept a journal since the moment I began to think independently at the age of 12 or 13. I have over 22 spiral bound notebooks chronicling my every thought in the past seven years. In them are not only my most private musings and the evidence of an ever-expanding mind and viewpoint, but quotes and song lyrics that illustrated my feelings and gives a sort of timeline for all of my emotions and conclusions. You'll find my huge looping letters giving way to small neat rows, and back again to a more matured loop-de-loop scrawl that most still find hard to decipher. It is these things more than any other--more than family photographs--that are completely and utterly irreplaceable.

And it is the thought that maybe just maybe something actually will happen that leaves me running through this scenario. Will someone be there to herd our neurotic, high-strung puppy dog out the door? Will people be yelling for me to get out as quickly as possible while I holler back a glib "Just a minute!" dashing into my room and rummage under the bed for the two separate boxes stuffed with the chronicles of my adventures? Stopping then to also grab the three other journals currently residing on my bookshelf along with the two notebooks of old (and really bad) poetry that equally expresses the timeline of my mind.

That is the image and the answer that I had all sewn up in my mind, until lately when I began to realize that I have yet another notebook that is just as equally precious, one that was not in existence when I planned out this escape route: the white binder holding the rough ideas and drafts for the story currently known as "Walking in the Dark." The story it has taken me seven years to work up the courage to write. And then, with another stab of panic, I realize that is not the only binder that needs to be saved. The black one sitting right next to it on the shelf, the one with the cute little holographic skull and brain sticker on the front, the one with every story idea that I have ever written down.

So now, instead of grabbing the one item this question's author imagines, I am laden instead with two heavy boxes full of spiral bound notebooks, having stopped to stuff the larger and more empty one with three more single-subject notebooks and two three-subject ones, grab the two stuffed-to-the brim binders as well as the three-subject notebook with the beginnings of the first draft of the story.

But why stop there? As long as we're down there, why not grab the four binders filled with carefully selected and inspiring magazine pages which weigh about a pound and a half each? And then that old history book that I've converted into a book of poetry, pasting in the pages myself? And what about all of that one-of-a-kind artwork that I've made for my walls, not to mention my entire drawer of drawings, ranging from eight years ago to the present? And then there's that hand-written, hand-illustrated, hand-bound, single-copy-ever-made book that my sister made especially for me for Christmas.

Will I ever get out of this burning house? Or by now have I made so many trips that the front lawn is strewn with items, and I am now suffering third-degree burns? Will people have to restrain me so I don't run back into the house with its roof caving in, while I wail about my stacks (and stacks, and stacks) of folders full of articles and interviews and useful information burning up right now in my dresser drawers? How many people would it take to hold me down so that I don't bolt in order to retrieve my little box of bookmarks, all of those little paint samples and sketches of my sister's and random quotes and found things, not to mention my even larger box full of even more paint samples (The reason why I am blacklisted from Lowe's)? And who would be there to stop me when my love of books finally won out over the thought that I can just buy new ones, running back through those flames, dodging falling timbers and suffocating on smoke?

I've always loved the zen idea of detachment from things, from owning so much stuff, but somehow I've just never been able to manage it. All of these objects, these individual possessions, are not merely things to me, but irreplaceable artifacts of myself. They are the physical manifestations of my consistently chaotic mind. They are not things, they are me. And so I am reduced to risking my (metaphorical) life and limb to rescue them. Either that or just build my own bomb shelter. That idea is looking better and better...

It Rained Today

I woke up this morning wondering why I had slept in so late, then opened my eyes to see that it was still gloomy outside because of the rain. Ah, glorious rain. Rain can turn the worst days into good ones and always makes me smile.

As most rainy days go, this one has been filled with music. I turned on my Yahoo music station as soon as I got up and just sat there playing Mahjongg with the window open. *sigh.* So far I have also made up some chicken for lunches, which went splendidly; I made an imitation of Subway's sweet onion sauce, which went disastrously (Altering someone else's alterations to an original recipe does not bode well, but then neither does balsamic vinegar). And now that all of that mess has been cleaned up I am settling down to reread Blue Moon (Laurell K Hamilton) which I got at the library yesterday. I am happy.

The Sound of Settling

Quite simply put, I want perfection.

I can organize any information into folders, labels, themes. I can organize anyone--anyone--but myself.


*sigh*

CSI Miami

"They're looking for me, you know."

"Me, too. Me, too. What do you say we sit here and get found together?"

-- Sasha Rittle and Horatio Caine (Cross Jurisdictions)

Witch-child

"Put me down, Prothvar!" Jaenelle cocked her knee and pistoned her leg back into Prothvar's groin.
Prothvar howled and dropped her.
Instead of falling, Jaenelle executed a neat roll in the air before springing to her feet, still a foot above the floor, and unleashing a string of profanities in more languages than Saetan could identify.
Saetan forced himself to look authoritatively neutral and decided, reluctantly, that this wasn't the best time to discuss Language Appropriate for Young Ladies. "Witch-child, kicking a man in the balls may be an effective way to get his attention, but it's not something a child should do."
- Daughter of the Blood, Anne Bishop

Progress

I met my wonderful writer friend for coffee the other day (which I did not partake of, as I sadly have some very bad reactions to any amount of caffeine and even decaf coffee has more of the evil stuff in it than chocolate) and we discussed the usual things: writing, progress, entertainment, media, etc. She is currently writing a very funny sounding screenplay (which she just may hand over to me to edit--one of my most favorite activities in the world. I even constantly edit the books I read I'm that bad) which I am very excited to see. I love our conversations partly because we always end up discussing writing, which gives me an excuse to rant either joyously or woefully on the state of my own writing, which I take full advantage of.
This time my endless chatter was of the joyous sort. Because, you see, I am making progress. More progress than I have ever made on anything I have ever written in my life. When I first started this story (who knows how long ago that was...) I had not written anything in a good 5-7 years. For someone who considers herself inextricably attached and irrevocably in love with the written word, that is a long time. I had stopped writing because I was convinced that I could not write, that I was terrible at it and had no experience or knowledge to write about. I was completely convinced of this despite a very supportive friend who was three years older than me and a considerably better writer. I routinely printed off my current attempts at storytelling, marveling when they reached multiple pages, and handed them over to her for critiquing at youth group. She was so supportive, never had a bad thing to say about what I wrote, instead gently complimenting the few things that I was good at. Eventually I lost contact with her and I gave up writing. I remember the two disastrous attempts that finally convinced me that I was no good: A story about a runaway girl living in another girl's tree house unbeknownst to her parents which meandered around before it finally became painfully obvious that I had no plan and it was going nowhere, and an astoundingly long (for me) story called "Anything But Plain Jane," which was incongruously tragic and quirky in turns.
I can't remember at what point I began to give myself permission to even think about writing again, but I began keeping a notebook of ideas. I would write down titles and characters and plot lines that popped into my head, trying to suppress the instinct to squash them right away. At this point I was not actually even thinking about writing, just generating ideas for books that would be nice to read. And slowly but surely I began to get more ideas until I couldn't just leave them alone.
I'm not even sure how I got this idea, to write a rainy vampire novel focusing on our heroine's adventures within a rather large and gloomy library. How this image materialized in my mind, why i decided to pursue it in the first place. It's been interesting to explore the process of writing again. To see what others say about "how you should be doing it" and then promptly dismissing it. That's been one of the most liberating things of the whole project. People say that you should write a little every day, that you should persevere even when you're not inspired. Common sense tells me that if I've left it alone for three consecutive weeks I will never pick it up again. But instead I've learned to let it be and let the inspiration find me on its own. I avoid a lot of frustration and self-doubt by ignoring the whole damn thing until it comes and searches me out on its own. And surely enough, a scene will present itself. I get no inspiration from messing with and tweaking it, from trying to make it tell me where it's going, to make it go where I want it to go. If it went where I wanted it to go we'd all be in trouble.
In trying to write and actually finish a story I've learned the most valuable lesson about inspiration: Mine works differently from those writers who try to give you advice. It does not come from regular practice or little exercises. It comes from dreaming, from freeing my mind up to think about nonsense, to let it wander around picking up scraps of this and that and piece them together in odd combinations until it finds one that I can't let go of. And write everything down as soon as you think of it--for heaven's sake write it down! Don't listen to people who say that if it's good enough your mind will hold onto it, it's FOLLY!
I get the most interesting thoughts and inspirations from watching TV. Seems counter intuitive, doesn't it? But I get the greatest things from watching CSI and Criminal Minds. I love anything dark and scenes dealing with people and messy things give my mind plenty to chew over. Seeing a beautiful scene, how the lighting is just so, how that one line was delivered beautifully, how that one person reacted, gives me the most interesting things to think about. It makes me say, "What if..?" What if these two kinds of people came in contact, what then? What if a person was in this kind of situation? What if instead of getting angry, this character did this instead? The what ifs are the most productive thoughts my mind ever thinks.
And so here I am now, with a notebook full of scenes, a diagram of beginning, climax, and resolution (who thought I would ever do that?), and a stack of 32 note cards, most of which contain fully developed scenes, and another notebook stuffed with ideas. I have another story in line which I have slowly been developing in my mind and the idea of which is almost completely developed. I have a handful more of ideas, one line concepts that mostly consist of a relationship between two people. That's the stuff I love.
Another important lesson I've learned: Never let anyone read it while you're still writing it. Period. I implemented this one much to my sister's dismay. Too bad.
And that is where I am now. I couldn't be any happier with the way things are shaping up--and that's a first.

The Care and Feeding of Introverts

"We can only dream that someday, when our condition is more widely understood, when perhaps an Introverts' Rights movement has blossomed and borne fruit, it will not be impolite to say 'I'm an introvert. You are a wonderful person and I like you. But now please shush.'"
- Jonathan Rauch, "Caring for Your Introvert," The Atlantic (.com)

Long-Haired Child

When I go outside to mingle in the snow
My head looked like a globe
Ain't no hair on it at all
Do I buy a wig?
Should I grow a beard
And comb it upwards
And around my ears?

When the snow it hits my temple
I want to rush home
Put on the kettle now
And warm my little brain
And bald head
I'm too cold to know if I'm alive or dead
- Devendra Banhart


Illustration by Shel Silverstein for the poem "My Beard"

The Cell Block Tango

"And now the six merry murderesses of the Crookem County Jail in their rendition of "The Cell Block Tango."


Pop.
Six.
Squish.
Uh uh.
Cicero.
Lipshitz.

Sharp Objects

"How do you keep safe when your whole day is as wide and empty as the sky? Anything could happen." - Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn

This book is CREEPY, but in all the best ways. At first it seems cliche (It felt like a mix of Blood Memory and Like Being Killed to me), but after a while it just sucks you in. Talk about one creepy family.

Shadows

Summer Reading

I've never been a big fan of summer, but one of its redeaming qualities is that there's more time to read. Here are some of the books I've been reading:

Ender's Game and Ender's Shadow - Orson Scott Card
The Bourne Identity - Robert Ludlum
As Nature Made Him - John Colapinto
Look For me By Moonlight - Mary Downing Hahn
Conversations with Anne Rice - Michael Riley

So far, so good.

Is this good for me or is it bad?

I love lists. Love them. I just usually don't actually take the time to write them down because I always end up abandoning them. But recently I have started lists of books. I started one to keep track of which Lee Child books I've read, and another one for Laurell K Hamilton's The Anita Blake series. This went over so well I reexamined my library list which I compiled in a notebook from many different sources then promptly abandoned. On the page after the general library list was a list of vampire books--with only one book listed. So I decided to indulge my curiosity and list out exactly which vampire books I had read and consequently rate them on a scale of 1-5 stars. As I was compiling this list with my sister (With a separate column for her rating on the books that we had both read) I commented that I'd always wanted to make a list of every book that I'd ever read, but the task was too daunting. I'd never actually started it because I knew there was no way to remember the books I had previously read, and so I abandoned that particular list before it even began. "That's not necessarily a problem," My sister told me. "You can just list the ones you remember and start from there." So what else was I supposed to do but spend the majority of the day (The first half being completely used up in being absorbed in a book, or course) compiling a list of every book that I can remember reading in the past three years, complete with ratings and multi-line comments? I mean, honestly.
And so I have it. Fifty-two of the many books I can remember reading, all but two or three complete with in depth comments about the quality of the book, the depth of the characters, the nature of the plot and so on. What has come over me?

Magazines

I love magazines. I look through them, cut them apart, and throw them away. I cut out every picture that appeals to me--because I like the colors, because the shadows just make it perfect, because I love the dress, because it's about a life I'll never understand--and keep them in a (very fat, overflowing) folder, one for full pages, another for smaller pictures. I take them out and look at them, arrange them on a page, and paste them in a book. I love the squares all arranged together, big ones next to small ones, I love picking out a handful and seeing how all their colors go together. I love photography, but mostly it's just the colors. I love color.

The Witch of Cologne

"Rest assured, Sir, I never jest. I just have a fatal curiosity."
- Ruth, The Witch of Cologne, Tobsha Learner

Apart from having a gorgeous cover, this book was good. More than good. It was one of those books that surprises you--I just picked it up on a whim, and didn't think too much of it, but it got me. It felt like a movie to me, third person present tense, scene by scene. I generally hold historical fiction in contempt, unless it's done right and this was. It even made me cry in the end... and I rarely do that ;-).

Experiments in Black and White

Self portrait, '07

Sparkles