Good morning lovely readers. Those of you with more than an ounce of perception may have noticed the slightly morbid tone of a few of my posts. I'd like to go ahead and apologize for this tendency, it's hardly intentional and really quite unbecoming after a while. I never intended for this blog to become some dread dirge, but rather a more lighthearted vessel for my airier musings. Alas it seems instead to be sinking further and further into the quagmire of morose self-reflection, having taken on too weighty and serious a ballast.
Such habits are far from baseless though - it's simply that until these last few years, all I really knew within the sanctum of self were these darker moods, so putting such things to word has become a well-practiced art. Happiness, on the other hand, I am new to. Its soaring pinnacles, giddy heights, its endless seas of inspiration I have scarce begun to explore, a frightened child in a bright new land. I feel a deep joy, as deep as any sorrow's roots within my soul. It is there as often, if not more so, that I spend my days internal. I've yet to put words to most of the wonders found there, to the giddy childish glee I feel nearly every day. Looking back through my posts I see I've not done this part of me justice in the slightest.
To be completely fair, I have been under a decent bit of stress as of late. Playing 'shoulder-to-cry-on' for so many at a time without considering myself worthy of letting myself feel... It ended poorly the other night. I managed to hurt not one but both men I love most in this world, and then all I could do was weep and break down, making them feel bad and in turn making me feel even worse. Something snapped in me that night, and I'm glad my friends are as forgiving as they are - I'm not sure I would be, but I suppose that's why they're my betters, through and through. I aspire to be like them - to be as good, as loyal and loving. Their selflessness that night touched me in a way I cannot describe, and I know It will be one of those bittersweet memories I will carry with me for all my life. For a while the next day even, I feared I had cut short a beautiful friendship, though looking at it now I see how foolish I was - such a staunch and steadfast cohort would hardly cast me aside for such an idiotic offence as mine that night.
Still, that dread of loss awoke in me realizations, good ones - fear not, I'm not about to go into another of my moribund laments this early in the day. I realized how dear these companions are to me, how much of my heart and mind they take up, and how lucky I am to have them. They are a blessing I never earned - somehow I must have curried some sympathy from on high (or even the saints and gods lack the patience to put up with my morose mumblings and toilsome whines.) One way or another I am certain that without them mine would be a sorry world indeed. Even typing about them's enough to bring a silly smile to my often too-serious face. They bring out the very best of me, and stoke the fires of passions that without such joy lay smoldering, banked and forgotten. Truly they are the greatest friends anyone could ever ask for.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Post Somewhere Between The Eighth And Ninth: Void
I'd like to go ahead and give my sincere appy-polly-loggies in advance sweet readers as my mind seems to be slightly askew this lovely night, so if you notice an increased inclination toward verbal meandering, well, don't be too terribly surprised. It's nothing to fret or fuss over, I've never been right in the head - tonight simply happens to be the epitome of wrong-headedness on my part, what between the spinning fluttering dimness of the room; the worried stress-filled bite-marks that grace my fingers like rings of rubies; the way overheard sentences seem to end themselves before beginning , swallowing up whole clauses or suddenly changing meaning and measure completely... The world giddily jiggles by before my eyes, too fast to catch hold of, but so painfully boringly slow! And in my head the cacophony swells and swells in some grandiose maddening opus of discordant voices all screeching to be heard over one another in this quiet little room. Past regrets roar belicosely at idealistic daydreams, while manic and ardent inspirations leap and bound about, blind to all else, rolling forth like some ecstatic juggernaut crushing reason and sense beneath its holy wheels. Such a scene is set in my mind as it tries to grasp the real world unfolding around it.
All of the above said, I find the overall theme of the mercurial mental symphony tonight is of the void, that slippery formless thoughtless bleak between thoughts, between even dreams. I find myself constantly rolling towards its brink, its gaping maw of nothingness. I can think of no more terrifying hell, no more maddening torment, and so I allow the chaotic inner chorus to continue in the hope that it will keep me wary, or at least afloat above that murksome deadly calm. I feel like Odysseus, bound to the mast to keep me from ecstatic surrender to that Siren of pure nothingness. As much as I fear it, I must also admit a deep fascination with it. To think of what may lay there, unknowable to the mind, or at least to that of humans; to someday past life be free to plumb its veiled depths, to hear the whispers that lie now silent; to know thought beyond thought, and dream what even in dreams we dare not dwell on. Gods but to know! Even now I feel its bleak pull at the bottom of my mind, that tugging at base curiosity that drives our species to create and destroy. I feel a gravity to that nothing, and I know one day I'll fall too close to that night, and never wake. One day I'll sink past that hallowed liminality, into the waiting arms of oblivion. Yet I still feel a thrill, a shiver of terrified ecstasy as I brush against it accidentally, leafing from thought to thought; like a paper cut earned from carelessly turning a page. Yes, even now I hear you - lightless you beckon, voiceless you call, mindless you reach to my deepest self. I feel your fingers brush the back of my eyes, hear your whispers in the breath of corpses in my dreams - corpses with my names. I know, sweet waters of Lethe, that godless amnesty you mete out to all man. I know, and I brush my fingers across your glassy surface as I dive nearer every night. I know one day I'll dive too low, and you'll swallow me up into obscurity.
Void, if you hear, I know all this and less. When you do take me into your stillness, I will feel no more, perhaps even think no more. Mine will be one more whisper on the breath of corpses, one more body in the cold earth, or ashes upon the wind. Perhaps this is what it is to be at peace, though I never thought to feel a euphoric terror at such prospects. Nothing - enemy to man and his creation, no? Good void, wicked void, soulless sucking emptiness, why must you constantly remind me of your presence? Why must you dance and slide your way about my thoughts, like oil upon water? Why must you tickle the backs of my eyes and pull at their lids; why must you cradle my dreams in your unliving embrace? Is this the only way you can be, the only way you can know yourself - by tormenting and teasing the fragile minds of my kind? Is it a mindless searching of our souls, or is there some design to your probing - an answer you are looking for? If so, I pray to never know the question. Such thoughts weren't meant for minds like mine.
I fear I've dwelt on these musings too long already. The choir of shallower thoughts - my mental armor - seems to grow quieter by the minute. Should their voices fade completely, I shudder to to think of what consequences there could be, especially with such grim notes already creeping their ways into their songs. Perhaps they feel what I'm about, perhaps they've their own wishes concerning that void. I think I've said enough. It does not do to dwell too long on that abyssal blank.
All of the above said, I find the overall theme of the mercurial mental symphony tonight is of the void, that slippery formless thoughtless bleak between thoughts, between even dreams. I find myself constantly rolling towards its brink, its gaping maw of nothingness. I can think of no more terrifying hell, no more maddening torment, and so I allow the chaotic inner chorus to continue in the hope that it will keep me wary, or at least afloat above that murksome deadly calm. I feel like Odysseus, bound to the mast to keep me from ecstatic surrender to that Siren of pure nothingness. As much as I fear it, I must also admit a deep fascination with it. To think of what may lay there, unknowable to the mind, or at least to that of humans; to someday past life be free to plumb its veiled depths, to hear the whispers that lie now silent; to know thought beyond thought, and dream what even in dreams we dare not dwell on. Gods but to know! Even now I feel its bleak pull at the bottom of my mind, that tugging at base curiosity that drives our species to create and destroy. I feel a gravity to that nothing, and I know one day I'll fall too close to that night, and never wake. One day I'll sink past that hallowed liminality, into the waiting arms of oblivion. Yet I still feel a thrill, a shiver of terrified ecstasy as I brush against it accidentally, leafing from thought to thought; like a paper cut earned from carelessly turning a page. Yes, even now I hear you - lightless you beckon, voiceless you call, mindless you reach to my deepest self. I feel your fingers brush the back of my eyes, hear your whispers in the breath of corpses in my dreams - corpses with my names. I know, sweet waters of Lethe, that godless amnesty you mete out to all man. I know, and I brush my fingers across your glassy surface as I dive nearer every night. I know one day I'll dive too low, and you'll swallow me up into obscurity.
Void, if you hear, I know all this and less. When you do take me into your stillness, I will feel no more, perhaps even think no more. Mine will be one more whisper on the breath of corpses, one more body in the cold earth, or ashes upon the wind. Perhaps this is what it is to be at peace, though I never thought to feel a euphoric terror at such prospects. Nothing - enemy to man and his creation, no? Good void, wicked void, soulless sucking emptiness, why must you constantly remind me of your presence? Why must you dance and slide your way about my thoughts, like oil upon water? Why must you tickle the backs of my eyes and pull at their lids; why must you cradle my dreams in your unliving embrace? Is this the only way you can be, the only way you can know yourself - by tormenting and teasing the fragile minds of my kind? Is it a mindless searching of our souls, or is there some design to your probing - an answer you are looking for? If so, I pray to never know the question. Such thoughts weren't meant for minds like mine.
I fear I've dwelt on these musings too long already. The choir of shallower thoughts - my mental armor - seems to grow quieter by the minute. Should their voices fade completely, I shudder to to think of what consequences there could be, especially with such grim notes already creeping their ways into their songs. Perhaps they feel what I'm about, perhaps they've their own wishes concerning that void. I think I've said enough. It does not do to dwell too long on that abyssal blank.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Poetic Collection 1
Being A Collection of Writings By A Certain Endiry Shade
Hours
Hours, lives, time seems to pass,
Or maybe pass him by -
The one who sits there waiting for naught,
Compulsively checking his watch
Whose filigree hands had long stopped spinning,
Whose gears rot rusted and jammed.
He taps his foot in nervous impatience,
Keeping some parody of tempo
That his heart has long since lost.
He may not even live yet -
The late white rabbit,
Waiting on a queen who died long ago,
Waiting on Alice,
On his Godot,
But the years they seem to slide through him,
And leave - like dust in the road -
A burning itch at the corner of his blind eye,
For he knows it is too late to die
And has besides forgotten how.
He waits there stiller than death yet tapping,
A timeless relic of a non-era,
A curio that has lost its curiosity,
No longer of interest,
A smudged footnote on a worm-eaten page,
Simply existing there at the rim of time,
Where even death has yet to be.
What is it that could keep him so -
Is it madness or mindless loyalty,
Where do the rabbit's lost thoughts go,
What colour do hours bleed?
originally written June 13, 2010; rewritten December 19, 2012
inspired by Jan Svanmajer's 'Alice'
An Invitation
Oh come ye madmen and messiahs,
You pariahs and high-kings,
Come and see what unknown wonders
This grand new world now brings.
This, your new land all bedecked
In glorious splendours rare and wild,
Willful, wide-eyed, well alive -
A wondrous newborn child.
Oh gods and kings and lowly whores,
Though hopeless all may seem,
Fly fast beyond this sea of life
And to my isle of dreams.
A landscape shaped from raw emotion,
An endless hall of unlocked doors,
A chance to learn what lies there hidden
Past the grey of sanity's shores.
A galaxy of pure sensation,
A form formed of sheer delight,
A world not bound by sense or logic -
You'll find your true self in that night.
written sometime in 2011; edited December 19, 2012
written as part of a wall-hanging
Beneath the Knowing Snake
(version one)
...and our minds will follow falling
like stars from a sickly foreign sky
dead things not dead but dreaming
lay crushed beneath Leviathan
the petals of a rose that screamed
and in the night with thought arose
a silent mouthless weeping god of hate
an idea wrought in godless hearts
and in the hands of Chaos's children
a dagger; ready always to be plunged
into the eyes of birds that flew
and sang in the gardens of delight
till mute they 'came with grief
and knowingly they sang laments
for their own blindness they had seen
in the pools of knowing they'd sipped
and which all man choke and rasp
their throats still remembering
the bitter taste of that old knowledge.
(version two)
...and our minds will follow, falling,
Like stars from a sickly foreign sky.
Dead things not dead but dreaming
Lay crushed 'neath things that cannot die.
The petals of a rose that screamed,
And in the night with thought arose
A mouthless weeping god of hate,
An idea wrought in sleep that knows,
And - in the hands of Discord's children -
A dagger ready to be plunged
Into the eyes of birds that flew
And in gardens of delight had lunged,
Till mute they had become with grief,
And knowingly they sang laments,
For their own blindness they had seen
And drank in pools of wise torrents.
'Tis from these pools all thirst derives,
And why all men still choke and rasp,
Their throats all still remembering
The taste of knowledge they once grasped.
written October 7, 2011
inspired by the writings of H. P. Lovecraft
Hours
Hours, lives, time seems to pass,
Or maybe pass him by -
The one who sits there waiting for naught,
Compulsively checking his watch
Whose filigree hands had long stopped spinning,
Whose gears rot rusted and jammed.
He taps his foot in nervous impatience,
Keeping some parody of tempo
That his heart has long since lost.
He may not even live yet -
The late white rabbit,
Waiting on a queen who died long ago,
Waiting on Alice,
On his Godot,
But the years they seem to slide through him,
And leave - like dust in the road -
A burning itch at the corner of his blind eye,
For he knows it is too late to die
And has besides forgotten how.
He waits there stiller than death yet tapping,
A timeless relic of a non-era,
A curio that has lost its curiosity,
No longer of interest,
A smudged footnote on a worm-eaten page,
Simply existing there at the rim of time,
Where even death has yet to be.
What is it that could keep him so -
Is it madness or mindless loyalty,
Where do the rabbit's lost thoughts go,
What colour do hours bleed?
originally written June 13, 2010; rewritten December 19, 2012
inspired by Jan Svanmajer's 'Alice'
An Invitation
Oh come ye madmen and messiahs,
You pariahs and high-kings,
Come and see what unknown wonders
This grand new world now brings.
This, your new land all bedecked
In glorious splendours rare and wild,
Willful, wide-eyed, well alive -
A wondrous newborn child.
Oh gods and kings and lowly whores,
Though hopeless all may seem,
Fly fast beyond this sea of life
And to my isle of dreams.
A landscape shaped from raw emotion,
An endless hall of unlocked doors,
A chance to learn what lies there hidden
Past the grey of sanity's shores.
A galaxy of pure sensation,
A form formed of sheer delight,
A world not bound by sense or logic -
You'll find your true self in that night.
written sometime in 2011; edited December 19, 2012
written as part of a wall-hanging
Beneath the Knowing Snake
(version one)
...and our minds will follow falling
like stars from a sickly foreign sky
dead things not dead but dreaming
lay crushed beneath Leviathan
the petals of a rose that screamed
and in the night with thought arose
a silent mouthless weeping god of hate
an idea wrought in godless hearts
and in the hands of Chaos's children
a dagger; ready always to be plunged
into the eyes of birds that flew
and sang in the gardens of delight
till mute they 'came with grief
and knowingly they sang laments
for their own blindness they had seen
in the pools of knowing they'd sipped
and which all man choke and rasp
their throats still remembering
the bitter taste of that old knowledge.
(version two)
...and our minds will follow, falling,
Like stars from a sickly foreign sky.
Dead things not dead but dreaming
Lay crushed 'neath things that cannot die.
The petals of a rose that screamed,
And in the night with thought arose
A mouthless weeping god of hate,
An idea wrought in sleep that knows,
And - in the hands of Discord's children -
A dagger ready to be plunged
Into the eyes of birds that flew
And in gardens of delight had lunged,
Till mute they had become with grief,
And knowingly they sang laments,
For their own blindness they had seen
And drank in pools of wise torrents.
'Tis from these pools all thirst derives,
And why all men still choke and rasp,
Their throats all still remembering
The taste of knowledge they once grasped.
written October 7, 2011
inspired by the writings of H. P. Lovecraft
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Post The Eighth:On Soul And Shadow
A discussion on morality.
"I am grey. I stand between the candle and the star. We are grey. We stand between the darkness and the light." - Sacrament of The Grey Council (Babylon 5 reference guys. If you didn't catch it, I'm sorry...for you.)
After all my lazy picture posting I thought I might as well jump right in, so here goes: there is no such thing as perfection. There is no true good, no pure evil; there isn't something mystical about the soul of man that makes it impervious to impiety. There is light and there is dark, and between the two we all may fall - though light and dark are nothing without one another, and yes, I know I'm simply stating what those who've busied themselves in the moil of defining morality for millenia have said countless times before me to the point that even long before my birth such words had lost any philosophical grandeur and pride and became a dull banality, a platitude sadly wheezed out with a voice as dry and rasping as the pages upon which they were first penned. But vapid and commonplace as that phrase has become, it is the basis for the thoughts I am about to put to you, dear readers, so please try to bear with me as I go on. As I was saying, there is no light without darkness, and no dark without light. It is the absence of one that defines the other, the presence of one that emphasizes its fellow by contrast. To describe one without the other would be to explain sight to the blind, to teach music to the deaf.
But it was in talking with a friend today that I realized something - between the two is shadow. I had always taken shadow as simply more darkness, until he pointed out to me it was not. It was the liminality of man; the twilight of our souls; the spot we fall upon this metaphorical spectrum of light and dark, where we draw a line and say ' this is us. This is who we are. What falls above this line is good, and what falls below is wicked.' It is the line, the in between, that which each of us are - neither good, nor evil; dark or light - human.
Long ago my mentor, my Chiron if you will - a sagely thoughtful man - made an analogy of man's soul with a pillar, and that as you walk around it, your view of light and dark change. With your back to the sun, it would seem completely illuminated, from the back it would be a pitch silhouette against the sun, a blackness blocking out even the brightest light. He said that man's soul was such, that those who look at their own in the light let it blind them to their flaws, while those who view it from behind saw no good in themselves. He told me I must leave myself and circle my soul sometimes, to see what really lies there - a girl neither wicked nor perfect.He said as surely as man's body casts a shadow, so too does his soul. Being a temperamental adolescent at the time I (loudly and with a few nasty expletives) disagreed, saying mine was a soul that hid in the darkness behind others, that no light might fall upon it. He simply smiled in an infuriating manner and went back to grading papers.
Now no longer a mouthy adolescent (but a needlessly verbose young adult), I do see the wisdom in his words. Perhaps I did even then though I'd never admit it, seeing as it was through honest self appraisal that I eventually gained control of myself, and a self-awareness the likes of which few can boast, though to be fair while most children were at their play or watching cartoons, I could often be found arguing morality or philosophy with my father,so i suppose I did have something of a head start in such areas. But back to my point - this friend I mentioned pointed out to me as I was saying darkness needs light that light needs shadow, that darkness and light come together to make shadow. I began to understand what he meant; I'd always simply considered shadow to be darkness - the absence of light - but he was looking at it another way. Shadow wasn't light's absence but light but the creation of darkness through light; what cannot be without both; the proof of light. If light and darkness were two sides of a coin, it was the coin. Just like two parents come together to make a child, so the two sides come together as shadow, who shares traits of both and attests to each.
I believe still that man's soul must be walked around, examined from all sides before we choose where to rest, from what angle we're most comfortable with seeing it at. I've noticed mine change much from a young age, how I view myself and where I draw my line on that field, at what angle I watch the pillar of my soul. I think watching how I see that shadow change, the angles and geometries of right and wrong wax and wane, slowly winding their ways around that fixed point, that center marks my growth and awareness in life, the way a shadow's progress around a sundial marks the passage of time. The soul, that pillar, the gnomon of our moral sundial is still, unmoving. Where ever we fall between light and dark, it is there - our sign post, our beacon. It is our origin, the zero in the middle of our quadrants, our reference point, our Polestar. No matter how far we go, no matter how lost we may become, we can always find our way back to the place, that core of what we are. It is our soul.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
At Caesar's Behest
About that fan page I mentioned..? This a request from one of it's admins. Enjoy!
drawn and coloured 12-15-12
pen, pencil, sharpie, markers
---------UPDATE--------
Since posting this it's been viewed by quite a few folks (some here but mostly on facebook) including the man whose site is responsible for me getting back into drawing - 'Ask Lord Caesar' (check it out here.)
my general reaction was such:
-that most amazing of feels when web artist/personality you WORSHIP (and is true to Caesar) actually sees your drawing.
-that even more amazing feel when he likes it.
-that even MORER (sorry English) amazing feel when he compliments it!!
-that dropdead holy-****ing-****-i-just-got-a
-that even more amazing feel when he likes it.
-that even MORER (sorry English) amazing feel when he compliments it!!
-that dropdead holy-****ing-****-i-just-got-a
Just so you all know. And yes, I am a silly, silly person but you probably already knew that if you've read this much.
Post The Seventh:There Is No Seventh Post
ONLY KIDDING.
well sort of
Greetings once more friends, family and fiends. I hope I find you all in good health this lovely benighted morning, and that you're enjoying yourselves as much as I've been lately. It's 5:00 or so in the morning, one of those lonely hours where I'm the only living thing up and moving (well besides the occasional kitty and/or Arte), and the silence is something of a mixed blessing. I often wind up writing at such times, the quiet is admittedly conducive to such thought, allowing me to hear myself rather than those around me. Within me there is a sort of hum, a kind of constant inner dialogue between my many selves. Silence outside lets me better hear each voice and what it has to say, though sometimes this can lead to a state of turmoil as my conflicting natures begin to quarrel rising into a state of hellish mental cacophony - and a rather splitting headache (though not one a hot cup of aniseed tea can't relieve.) Another downside is the loneliness of that still saturninity that rests upon those wee hours like a gloomish pall. There is a kind of despair bred only by solitude, and I fear I find myself more susceptible to this poison than most. I can say with all honesty that I'd rather be locked in a room with my worst enemy for a day than be alone for a night.
Still it is only through exploring those taciturn doldrums that I come to better know myself, and to fully appreciate the presence of others once they wake. Waiting for them to rise each day makes me think of our ancestors, how each winter they awaited the spring and every night, the day. The change of seasons and the sun were what ruled their existence, determining the harvest and year. For me, it is my friends, my family I await, not the spring or sun or light of day. It is not the harvest I take pains to secure but their smiles, laughter and hearts. They are my world, callous as I may act towards them at times. The thought of them is the only thing that can calm the flames of inner strife when my thoughts run wild; one of the few things that lets me keep my quiet vigil in those still, lifeless hours before dawn.
Even now my mind wanders as my hands halfheartedly type, thinking of Artemus and his surprisingly conspicuous absence. He's been here less than half a year and already he's become a fixture of the family. In that brief time he's managed to evolve from vague acquaintance to dearest friend - perhaps mentor - even becoming something of a confidant at times, quite an achievement when one considers my paranoid distrust of almost all things. Even though he's only gone till Tuesday I miss him. I find myself running to his room to tell him something I just thought of or a funny joke only to find it empty. I suppose I feel his absence so sharply because he's often the only other person awake or home half the time. Plus without him around to mock me I start to take myself too seriously in a dreadful way - Endiry the stoic, forlorn creature! O how she suffers so! Nathan of course does his best to keep me honest too, but unfortunately he's at school or work (or sleeping) a good bit of the time I'm awake. Tomorrow (well really today I suppose) I go with him to the church he and Arte work at to see them sing. Arte in particular has an upcoming solo I wouldn't miss for the world (he has such a lovely baritone voice).
On a slightly lighter and mostly unrelated matter (mostly), I've become utterly enthralled and consumed by Fallout: New Vegas. Well, Caesar's Legion to be more precise. I love its characters - I can't help it, I've always had a weakness for antagonists (and a soft spot for crucifixion, said the girl going to church in a few hours), plus Romans. ROMANS. How could a history and empire lovin' gal like me resist? It does put me at odds with pretty much everyone, though - I've yet to run across a single friend who plays Legion, though I'm hoping to maybe make some new ones on some of the fan sites. I've already endeared myself on one page, becoming something of the de facto artist (see self-ish portrait below). This game has even sparked a small miracle - I'm learning to roleplay (something I never had the nerve to do before) and write fan-fiction (something I stopped doing over half a decade ago and never took seriously.) Thankfully Arte's there to show me the ropes, being a seasoned veteran of both. There's even been talk of him, Nat, and I (and a few friends) doing an online series. Hell, I've already begun work on my character Sejanus (once more see below), though the Legion's attitude towards women makes things .... interesting, to say the least.
Well, I believe tha-th-tha-th-tha-tha-that's all folks, for now anyways. Nathan want's to be woken up at 5:30 and I've no intention of cutting it close. There's coffee and breakfast to be made, and I'm all that's awake to do the making, not that I mind. I love doing things for loved ones. Oh, and just in case I'm not on by tomorrow (the 17th, that is) io Saturnalia amicis meis! (Sorry if that's off - my Latin's always been iffy at best being self-taught as a kid, and it's further degenerated due to lack of use.)
'True To Caesar', portrait of Decanus Sejanus
drawn and coloured 12-15-12
pen, pencil, sharpie, markers
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Post The Sixth: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Saturnalia
Ave friends and followers (all two of you!) Well December seems to be flashing by at light speed for some reason, odd as November seemed to never end. Already the 13th though it feels like the 1st - then again that could possibly be due to a distinct lack of vitamin D (you win this one, sunlight.) It's a shame seeing how December's always been one of my favorite months - cold, dark, and filled with good company (and baking - gods let's not forget the baking!) It also helps that my birthday is coming up, along with Yule so presents are imminent, and I really can't wait for Arte and Nat to see what they're getting - Stella and I've done a lot of online shopping to find the greatest (realistically affordable) gifts for everyone this year. Another reason I love the holidays is because all my friends who've gone off into the wide world or who are otherwise too busy get to relax, slack off, and stop by for tea, snacks, and the occasional session of Bowie worship. Yes Lizzy, that was mostly directed at you dear. Actually for this break in particular I've been planning a rather grand tea party, bordering on hedonistic feast, for a few of my best friends that I haven't seen in ages. There will be cookies, fudge, cookies, tea, and maybe even cookies! (In case you can't tell I'm rather excited by some of the new cookie recipes Stella and I have been perfecting.) I'm also excited about cleaning up, boring as it sounds. I've finished up quite a few projects I'd been working on and now I'm ready to tackle the biggest one of all - this wretched thing we call a house. If you all never hear from me again it'll be because some stack of rubbish or old clothes has fallen on me and either killed me outright or pinned me long enough for me to starve (alas, with all the wicked baking I've been doing I think I could probably last to next December on body fat alone.) Hopefully it won't come to that but there you have it.
Another thing that has me so sickeningly chipper at this eleven at night is the fact that Arte has started his own blog right here at Second Sight - Ordainment of the Gifted Mind. He's such a quiet soul that it's nearly impossible to tell what's going on in that stormy mind of his, hopefully this will allow me some small window into the thoughts of one I consider among my closest friends. He rarely opens up (torture to someone like me who always wants to know what's on someone's mind) so hopefully this'll give him a much needed outlet (as well as keeping me from hair-pulling levels of stress every time he so much as frowns.)
Still I feel a bit justified in worrying about my friends' states of minds - one recently attempted suicide. It's no secret I'm drawn to troubled individuals - like attracts like and all that - but I didn't see it coming at all. To be fair we haven't spoken much recently, so she and her issues were sort of out of sight and out of mind until she told me what she'd tried to do to herself. I couldn't believe it - she was the last person I'd have thought, always there for me when I was ready to do myself in, talking me down, keeping me company and taking care of me. Yet there it was, and I had to face it. I had to face that I wasn't there for her, wasn't even worried for her until she told me. You'd think after losing enough friends to depression and such you'd be able to know when to be there, when to worry, but I had no idea. Still, she says she won't try again - she's taking her survival as a sign that she's not done yet (considering it's a miracle - a word I don't use lightly - that she survived at all I don't blame her), and that she's cleaning up her act a bit - and frankly I believe her. I'll say no more on this - I doubt she'd even want me to say this much but I thought I should give some context to the zeal with which i worry about all my friends.
But morbid news and thoughts aside, I am still quite happy with life at the moment - those hickory nuts I mentioned in my last post make an exquisite butter (though sadly I lack any kind of homemade jams or preserves to go with them - no hickory nut butter and jelly sandwiches for me); Mimi the adorable tortie kitten is fast becoming Miette the gorgeous tortoiseshell cat; there is talk of making boxty, delicious potato pancakes I've craved since the day I flew back from Eire; it's nearly a tolerable temperature outside (a rare thing in Houston); I should soon be able to replenish my supplies of cardamom and caraway; and above all Nat will finally have some time off of school to spend with me! I guess it really is the most wonderful time of the year, you know, except for all the insufferable music, and with that thought I say pleasant nights to you all friends and loves.
Oh, and sorry about taking so long between last update and this - with a little nudge of encouragement I've decided to start finally writing again (well writing stories to be precise) so I've been setting up another blog to serve as an archive for a collection of short stories and vignettes I've been meaning to write for ages now. I'll of course let you all see it once it's ready!
Another thing that has me so sickeningly chipper at this eleven at night is the fact that Arte has started his own blog right here at Second Sight - Ordainment of the Gifted Mind. He's such a quiet soul that it's nearly impossible to tell what's going on in that stormy mind of his, hopefully this will allow me some small window into the thoughts of one I consider among my closest friends. He rarely opens up (torture to someone like me who always wants to know what's on someone's mind) so hopefully this'll give him a much needed outlet (as well as keeping me from hair-pulling levels of stress every time he so much as frowns.)
Still I feel a bit justified in worrying about my friends' states of minds - one recently attempted suicide. It's no secret I'm drawn to troubled individuals - like attracts like and all that - but I didn't see it coming at all. To be fair we haven't spoken much recently, so she and her issues were sort of out of sight and out of mind until she told me what she'd tried to do to herself. I couldn't believe it - she was the last person I'd have thought, always there for me when I was ready to do myself in, talking me down, keeping me company and taking care of me. Yet there it was, and I had to face it. I had to face that I wasn't there for her, wasn't even worried for her until she told me. You'd think after losing enough friends to depression and such you'd be able to know when to be there, when to worry, but I had no idea. Still, she says she won't try again - she's taking her survival as a sign that she's not done yet (considering it's a miracle - a word I don't use lightly - that she survived at all I don't blame her), and that she's cleaning up her act a bit - and frankly I believe her. I'll say no more on this - I doubt she'd even want me to say this much but I thought I should give some context to the zeal with which i worry about all my friends.
But morbid news and thoughts aside, I am still quite happy with life at the moment - those hickory nuts I mentioned in my last post make an exquisite butter (though sadly I lack any kind of homemade jams or preserves to go with them - no hickory nut butter and jelly sandwiches for me); Mimi the adorable tortie kitten is fast becoming Miette the gorgeous tortoiseshell cat; there is talk of making boxty, delicious potato pancakes I've craved since the day I flew back from Eire; it's nearly a tolerable temperature outside (a rare thing in Houston); I should soon be able to replenish my supplies of cardamom and caraway; and above all Nat will finally have some time off of school to spend with me! I guess it really is the most wonderful time of the year, you know, except for all the insufferable music, and with that thought I say pleasant nights to you all friends and loves.
Oh, and sorry about taking so long between last update and this - with a little nudge of encouragement I've decided to start finally writing again (well writing stories to be precise) so I've been setting up another blog to serve as an archive for a collection of short stories and vignettes I've been meaning to write for ages now. I'll of course let you all see it once it's ready!
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Post The Fifth: Looking Down
Guten Abend loves and lovees. Well it's a lovely three something in the morning over here, and I sit enjoying a piece of home-made sweet bread still warm from the oven, listening to the harmony of click-a-clack as Artemus and I productively type away at our various online endeavors. I enjoyed a trip out to Kingwood today complete with a bit of foraging (more on that fun later!), lunch with friends, and the treat of sitting and listening to Arte on the piano. I always have so much fun with him, despite making a complete idiot of myself on a sadly regular basis, but what else would one expect from a fool like me. Even on the rare occasion when we actually manage to have a serious discussion I go and screw it up some how, but I believe I've already into enough depth on this topic in my second post.
Anyways, as I was saying I managed to do a bit of foraging while Nat was giving a recital. I had noticed some interesting nuts on the ground around the path on our way inside and made a note to check them out later as we walked around the campus killing time. Arte and Nathan laughed at me but I went ahead and gathered up all the unbroken ones I could lay my hands on. Doing a bit of research later revealed them to be hickory nuts, a relative of pecans - and a damn delicious relative at that. (I also learned that hickory trees can be tapped for sap to make into syrup like maple, and might be looking into that later, though I'm not sure if the college would be entirely pleased with me doing so...) Now getting at the meat inside these little fiends is a rather painstaking process involving a hammer, pick, and a hell of a lot of patience, though it's definitely worth the effort. Once I had enough shelled (I also used the shells on the fire for our grilled burgers tonight - they gave off a really rich, sweet smoke like nothing I've ever used) I set about baking, grinding, and baking again until i had a fine meal, which I used as the base for what I believe to be the tastiest bread I've ever made. The recipe I based it on was my favorite pulla recipe plus a few elements stolen from a potica recipe or two, filled with a buttery center and raisins, and sprinkled over with more hickory nuts, caraway, and a few choice spices. I can tell you no one's laughing now!
All of this because I'm too shy to look up as I walk around. It's something people've fussed at me for since I was a very small child, to no avail. People say you'll miss so much life if you don't look up from your feet, but I think they don't realize how much they miss from looking up all the time. We tend to ignore the things at our feet, choosing instead to gaze into the unreachable stars, never knowing the precious things so close, without our grasp. It's the same with friends and love I fear. We idolize legends we'll never meet, fall in love with people who don't even know we exist, while there're friends around us who love us more than we realize, friends whose very familiarity and constant presence make us overlook them, just like the ground we walk on, taking them for granted, never looking down. I guess that's all I really have to say for tonight - I'm actually feeling rather tired even though it's just turned four in the morning. I guess I'll leave you with this friends - look down, you'll be surprised just who and what have been at your feet all along. Tschüs loves!
Anyways, as I was saying I managed to do a bit of foraging while Nat was giving a recital. I had noticed some interesting nuts on the ground around the path on our way inside and made a note to check them out later as we walked around the campus killing time. Arte and Nathan laughed at me but I went ahead and gathered up all the unbroken ones I could lay my hands on. Doing a bit of research later revealed them to be hickory nuts, a relative of pecans - and a damn delicious relative at that. (I also learned that hickory trees can be tapped for sap to make into syrup like maple, and might be looking into that later, though I'm not sure if the college would be entirely pleased with me doing so...) Now getting at the meat inside these little fiends is a rather painstaking process involving a hammer, pick, and a hell of a lot of patience, though it's definitely worth the effort. Once I had enough shelled (I also used the shells on the fire for our grilled burgers tonight - they gave off a really rich, sweet smoke like nothing I've ever used) I set about baking, grinding, and baking again until i had a fine meal, which I used as the base for what I believe to be the tastiest bread I've ever made. The recipe I based it on was my favorite pulla recipe plus a few elements stolen from a potica recipe or two, filled with a buttery center and raisins, and sprinkled over with more hickory nuts, caraway, and a few choice spices. I can tell you no one's laughing now!
All of this because I'm too shy to look up as I walk around. It's something people've fussed at me for since I was a very small child, to no avail. People say you'll miss so much life if you don't look up from your feet, but I think they don't realize how much they miss from looking up all the time. We tend to ignore the things at our feet, choosing instead to gaze into the unreachable stars, never knowing the precious things so close, without our grasp. It's the same with friends and love I fear. We idolize legends we'll never meet, fall in love with people who don't even know we exist, while there're friends around us who love us more than we realize, friends whose very familiarity and constant presence make us overlook them, just like the ground we walk on, taking them for granted, never looking down. I guess that's all I really have to say for tonight - I'm actually feeling rather tired even though it's just turned four in the morning. I guess I'll leave you with this friends - look down, you'll be surprised just who and what have been at your feet all along. Tschüs loves!
Friday, November 30, 2012
Post The Fourth: In Which Yummy Secrets Are Revealed
Well after yesterday's morbidly bitter dose of melancholic ranting I think we could all use something a little more on the sweet (if woefully bad for you) side! That's right all - it's time for our first and gods willing not last edition of -
And there you have it, loves. Two of my favorite recipes, a gift from yours truly to anyone out their with the patience to put up with me and read this!
COOKING WITH ENDIRY! ( Endiry not liable for fires or heart failure)
Well here goes! The following recipes are both huge hits around my house and pretty easy to make (as in pretty hard to screw up)! First I'll be teaching you lovely folks to make my wonderful sweet cranberry corn bread, and then I'll be sharing my tea and chocolate cookie creations the I swear are simply to die for! Ready? Okay.
Izzy's Sweet Cranberry Cornbread
for the cranberries (optional really, even without them this recipe makes lovely sweet and fluffy cornbread)
ingredients:
- 1 1/2 or 2 cups fresh or frozen cranberries
- 3 tablespoons sugar (I use brown sugar as a personal preference though it probably doesn't matter that much)
- a pinch of ground cinnamon and cloves (optional)
- water or cranberry juice as needed (see below)
for the cornbread
ingredients:
- 3 cups all purpose flour
- 2/3 cups white sugar
- 2/3 cups brown sugar (again a personal preference, feel free to substitute white sugar if desired)
- 1 cup yellow cornmeal
- 2 tablespoons baking powder
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 2 1/2 cups milk
- 4 large eggs, beaten
- 2/3 cup vegetable oil
- 6 tablespoons of melted butter
Once you've let your berries soak for long enough, go ahead and preheat the oven to 350degrees f. Mix together all the dry ingredients in a large bowl before adding the milk, oil, egg, and butter. Mix well. Next you're going to want to strain the cranberries from their bowl (possibly several times if they've been soaking longer) since you don't want to add too much of the juice in the mix. Add them to the batter and stir well, then pour into a 16inch baking pan. bake it for 35 to 40 minutes. Let it cool a bit, slice it up, and enjoy!!
Izzy's Tea Cookie Chocolate Sandwiches
ingredients:
- 2 cups all purpose flour
- 1 cup white sugar
- a pinch of salt
- 3-5 teabags worth of tea, finely ground (black teas work best I've found, but experiment! find what you like!)
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- a dash of milk or cream
- 1 cup butter, melted
- half a bag or so of semisweet chocolate chips
(I also added the tiniest bit of caraway and aniseed - sort of a family tradition. "Caraway for the devils, aniseed for the angels" like I was told, but both are an acquired taste so be warned.)
In a large bowl mix the dry ingredients well before adding the rest. Stir till the dough no longer sticks to the sides of the bowl. Lay down wax paper and shape into one or two long logs and freeze for at least an hour. Once the dough is hard enough to start slicing preheat the oven to 375degrees f. Start slicing cookies as thin as possible, placing on foil - covered cookie sheets (I usually rotate between 3 cookie sheets - while one's in the oven and one's cooling, I keep placing more cookies on the third.) Bake each batch for 5-10 minutes (keep a very close eye on them - they like to burn quickly!!!!!) and let them cool for about five before moving them to cool. Once you've baked all the cookies the fun starts.
Take the chocolate chips and melt them, making sure to check on them and stir as you do (something I wish I'd known the first time!) Once completely liquid, start spreading a thin layer of chocolate on a cookie, and sandwiche it together with another cookie, or if you'd prefer, simply edge each individual cookie with the chocolate for a slightly lighter treat. Either way finish and put your magnificent creations in the fridge to cool for a bit before serving.
And there you have it, loves. Two of my favorite recipes, a gift from yours truly to anyone out their with the patience to put up with me and read this!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Post Not-Quite-The-Third-But-Who's-Counting: Memento Mori
Hello once more fellow lurkers of the wee hours and haunters of late night loneliness. Oddly enough when I'm not looking for more recipes for tea cookies or Finnish pulla; when I'm not rummaging about looking for some particular project I've just remembered from months ago; when I'm not playing the lute or crocheting up some new monstrosity - I guess I should put it simply and say "when I'm not keeping myself busy enough," my mind wanders. It can wander down many paths, some pleasant, most....not. Mine is a mind riddled with traps and pitfalls and treacherous neural footing along many pathways, even some of the most well trodden (perhaps them especially), that can snare my unwary consciousness in the morose quagmire of bitter memories, regrets, and all around depression. If I'm not careful I can find myself lost in its labyrinthine depths for weeks, feeling myself shrinking ever smaller as its ghostly monolithic walls slowly creep up around me, choking me, crushing my will to exist. Eventually I remember my way out, or in most cases nowadays I'm rescued by my Nathan, or by one of my other wonderful friends. Without them I may never have made it out, and I owe them my life at the very least.
But more to the point. So as some of you may know, I lost someone incredibly dear to me a few years back. Actually I lost several somebodies, three to themselves, others to drugs (whether or not it was intentional, I'll never know), and others simply disappeared. We all came from bitter backgrounds, shared a rather melancholic nature, shunned and were shunned by most (as gauchely cliche as it sounds) and I'm sure these are the things that held us together as a group while it tore us apart one by one. What I'm trying to get at is loss, and lots it. More than someone of a mere twenty years ought to know. It become a part of me so thoroughly that I cannot look at something without realizing it's fragility, it's impermanence. I can't look at a friend without picturing their corpse, a city without seeing it as ruins, the world without knowing it must one day end. I can't even look at my beloved Miette, my precious little tortie kitten without the knowledge of her impending mortality biting at the corners of my eyes. This morbid tendency was something I would fight and fight for years. Even as a very small child I knew of death and it's inescapable finality. I wondered why my parents would so cruelly create something they knew would simply be destroyed one day. I knew that everything I did would be as forgotten as the innumerable majority of mankind who vanishes into obscurity within a generation or less. These realizations filled me with a a maelstrom of agonizing feelings - anger, terror, hopelessness - things no child should know.
The loss of that special someone I mentioned cemented these feelings, put a face on that abstract heap of bad thoughts and etched its wretched mark on my mind and heart forever. I did things I regret, but it's the things I didn't do I regret the most. They're the things that always revisit me, pursue my empty thoughts and dreams like the Furies, chastening me, raking my soul over bitter coals and visiting upon me hells the likes of which the Old Testament would have been proud of. They're those nasty whispers that sometimes creep from the back of my head as I try to sleep.
Walking around with these monsters eating at your heart and mind kills you slowly and painfully. I'd also like to take this moment to mention that I divulge all this not looking for pity, but rather to give context to what I'm about to go into - the beauty of loss. The incredible, awe-inspiring, all-around-you-all-the-time beauty that only tremendous loss seems to reveal. There's a certain aesthetic appeal in skeletons and trees in winter - in things that have had everything stripped from them, revealing the stark and honest beauty of itself. As there is a beauty in these physical things, these ugly things, there is a joy in bitter loss. There are things beyond any words of my humble knowledge that only those who have lost can know. They show up in the smiles of widows, the laughter at wakes - a sort of poignant truth, a richer, fuller emotion than either joy or grief in their own right could ever be. It's odd but telling stories about our exploits and hijinks makes me laugh twice as hard now she's gone. It's more than a deeper appreciation - it's something I can't put words to, and doubt I'll ever be able to even if I were to live to see ninety.
This overwhelming beauty in everything, the fleetingness that makes life that much more precious, the knowledge of being damned if you do or don't - those are what let me chase off the Furies of my regrets. They're the thoughts that pick me up as I'm being crushed by the looming walls of depression, the wings that fly me over the morass of woe-mongering and hopelessness that those foul recesses of my mind try to catch me in. They, along with all the other wonderful things and people in my life are what keep me going, what let me hope, what make me know that I will one day face death serenely and not fear it nor go rushing headlong for it. They are the blessing laid upon the curse of mortality, and for them, for that beauty, that fleetingness, and all the people alive and dead and yet to be born who loved, love, may one day love me, I am grateful.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
found poetic fragment
In his eyes you could see
He was lost in the night,
You could see that he'd been
At the end of all things,
And when a man goes
To that edge of the night,
He must leave behind
A part of himself
That he never knew he had.
So all that is left for him
Is to dwell forever,
A shade among shades
In the whispering night,
To wander without reason
Through that blackened library
Of all endings, justified by no means,
No eyes to weep, no voice to scream
To the unhearing starless skies,
The dead night of dead worlds.
found in a box of old sketches I was giong through last night
He was lost in the night,
You could see that he'd been
At the end of all things,
And when a man goes
To that edge of the night,
He must leave behind
A part of himself
That he never knew he had.
So all that is left for him
Is to dwell forever,
A shade among shades
In the whispering night,
To wander without reason
Through that blackened library
Of all endings, justified by no means,
No eyes to weep, no voice to scream
To the unhearing starless skies,
The dead night of dead worlds.
found in a box of old sketches I was giong through last night
Sunday, November 18, 2012
The Beauty of Ugliness, The Liveliness of Death
pen on sketch paper, drawn sometime around April or May
Post The Second: In Which I Bitch About Things And Think About Lunch
Hello again internet (and a gracious thank you to a certain Theo as my first and hopefully not last follower) on this fine Sunday. Nathan and Artemus have gone to their job as singers at a church and I'm sitting in the back room next to Stella in the spot on the bed I managed to usurp from Jerry, staring at the celery and wishing it would chop itself for tuna salad. Anyways, yesterday was the day I had dreaded for about a month or two as the day Nathan and friends had decided to go to the Renaissance Festival in costumes which I had been so kindly "asked" to provide and had of course put off making until the night before. I finished around 7 or 8-ish something in the morning and finally broke down and decided to go myself despite having sworn I wouldn't this year. I actually had a pretty fun time for the most part despite being the only one out of costume (a strange reversal of norms) and of course I didn't get to do the kind of shopping I would have liked. I did wind up getting a pair of lovely troll ears made to match my skin and everything - they looked AMAZING! It was all going wonderfully until the end when poor Arte ran into his parents.
I should explain - there's some rather nasty history there I won't go into and wouldn't know half of even if I did since the poor dear doesn't speak of it much. All I'll say is it must've been ghastly enough for him to move here of his own accord. Jokes aside though I felt utterly terrible for him - I still do. Making matters worse is the fact that I can never seem to say the right things around him - it's like my brain turns to jelly and all I manage to do is guffaw and spout idiotic catchphrases and the like. I wish I knew how to tell him that I really do care about him, that he's family to me. I wish I could explain myself to him sometimes, or that I knew what he was thinking and knew how to comfort him. I love him - something I do not say lightly - and I wish I knew how to say it without making it some awkward nightmare or making him miserable or uncomfortable.
Truth be told he reminds me a lot of myself when I first managed to get away from my mother, when I first moved in with Nathan. I was 16, sick, practically shell-shocked. It took me years before I learned to trust people, before I realized that not everyone was only looking out for themselves. It took me so long to realize that his family really cared about me, that I was allowed to be human, allowed to be happy. I remember spending much of my first year in silent dread, wondering when they would've had enough of me, when they were going to kick me out on the street, or send me back to my mum's. I barely spoke to anyone, ate either nothing or too much, slept only about 3 hours a night. Being around my mum would make me physically ill to the point I'd often throw up.
Seeing the look on Arte's face when he saw his parents reminded me of that feeling - that confusing, twisting, gut-wrenching tangle of miserable emotions ranging from hatred and fury to self-loathing guilt. I'd have given anything to spare him from that. Anything. He was silent the whole ride home until Nathan and James had stopped for something at a Walgreens. I tried to talk to him and found out that it was his mother's birthday making matters even more painful. I wish I'd known how to respond, what to say if anything even could be said. If he didn't hate physical contact so much (someting else I remember from my less than happy past) I would have hugged the bastard till he couldn't breathe. Instead we sat in a bitter awkward silence until the others came back.
Other than that life's been good since Friday or Thursday or whenever it was I last posted. I was supposed to get my ears pierced today but my mum (who I've been trying to get along with once more) is sick and so I have no ride or money. I suppose that's nearly everything for now, and lunch is nearly ready so I believe I shall bid you all good day and enjoy some tuna sandwiches while watching Battlestar Galactica. Tschüs!
I should explain - there's some rather nasty history there I won't go into and wouldn't know half of even if I did since the poor dear doesn't speak of it much. All I'll say is it must've been ghastly enough for him to move here of his own accord. Jokes aside though I felt utterly terrible for him - I still do. Making matters worse is the fact that I can never seem to say the right things around him - it's like my brain turns to jelly and all I manage to do is guffaw and spout idiotic catchphrases and the like. I wish I knew how to tell him that I really do care about him, that he's family to me. I wish I could explain myself to him sometimes, or that I knew what he was thinking and knew how to comfort him. I love him - something I do not say lightly - and I wish I knew how to say it without making it some awkward nightmare or making him miserable or uncomfortable.
Truth be told he reminds me a lot of myself when I first managed to get away from my mother, when I first moved in with Nathan. I was 16, sick, practically shell-shocked. It took me years before I learned to trust people, before I realized that not everyone was only looking out for themselves. It took me so long to realize that his family really cared about me, that I was allowed to be human, allowed to be happy. I remember spending much of my first year in silent dread, wondering when they would've had enough of me, when they were going to kick me out on the street, or send me back to my mum's. I barely spoke to anyone, ate either nothing or too much, slept only about 3 hours a night. Being around my mum would make me physically ill to the point I'd often throw up.
Seeing the look on Arte's face when he saw his parents reminded me of that feeling - that confusing, twisting, gut-wrenching tangle of miserable emotions ranging from hatred and fury to self-loathing guilt. I'd have given anything to spare him from that. Anything. He was silent the whole ride home until Nathan and James had stopped for something at a Walgreens. I tried to talk to him and found out that it was his mother's birthday making matters even more painful. I wish I'd known how to respond, what to say if anything even could be said. If he didn't hate physical contact so much (someting else I remember from my less than happy past) I would have hugged the bastard till he couldn't breathe. Instead we sat in a bitter awkward silence until the others came back.
Other than that life's been good since Friday or Thursday or whenever it was I last posted. I was supposed to get my ears pierced today but my mum (who I've been trying to get along with once more) is sick and so I have no ride or money. I suppose that's nearly everything for now, and lunch is nearly ready so I believe I shall bid you all good day and enjoy some tuna sandwiches while watching Battlestar Galactica. Tschüs!
Friday, November 16, 2012
Greetings!
Hello people of the internet. I guess I should go ahead and do a bit of introduction seeing as this is my first post. I am Endiry. I am femaleish. I am 20, marriedish, and running out of things to say about my self. Hmm. I'm part English, German, Swedish, and Algerian (something few people would guess), I like cardamom in my coffee and caraway in my tea. I love baking and made some delicious tea cookies yesterday, which were quickly devoured. I currently lack a computer and thus am forced to rely upon my out-dated ipod touch in all of my dealings with the world-wide web. I am currently looking for a goat to give to my father as a 'brideprice' to see if that'll finally get him to talk to me. I have a kitty in my lap and half a toasted turkey sandwich near my left elbow. Oh, and I find the very fact that I can express these things to you with nothing more than 30 or so repeating shapes on the other side of the planet completely awe-inspiring.
The written language - this is one of man's greatest treasures and here I sit prattling on about cats and ipods and spices in drinks. The ability to read little squiggles of letters and compose them into words in our brain, the way someone with enough talent can transfer thought from their mind to others, the incredible way we can take an abstract sound and give it meaning, not just to ourselves but to others, to millions - it's beyond astounding. Human beings fascinate me. The way they interact, communicate, create, the ways they have found to express their thoughts - hell, the fact that we're capable of thought - it's one of those realizations that really fills me with a deep admiration for our species, as well as a faint regret that I could never learn everything there is to know about us, even if I lived to be a thousand.
The stunning complexity of man, the mystery of him and his creations, these things are the things that haunt me at this 4:30 in the afternoon, as I sit here with half-sandwich forgotten, and cat purring away in my lap. These are the basic things whose facets I ponder endlessly everyday at the back of my mind as I make my tea with caraway, or coffee with cardamom. These are the things that spark so many questions without answers in reach as I make my cookies or turn-overs, as I crochet my blanket or watch my shows. These are the thoughts that form the backdrop of my life, and my perception of the world around me. I am Endiry, I am human, I am hopelessly rambling, and I am pleased to meet you all.
The written language - this is one of man's greatest treasures and here I sit prattling on about cats and ipods and spices in drinks. The ability to read little squiggles of letters and compose them into words in our brain, the way someone with enough talent can transfer thought from their mind to others, the incredible way we can take an abstract sound and give it meaning, not just to ourselves but to others, to millions - it's beyond astounding. Human beings fascinate me. The way they interact, communicate, create, the ways they have found to express their thoughts - hell, the fact that we're capable of thought - it's one of those realizations that really fills me with a deep admiration for our species, as well as a faint regret that I could never learn everything there is to know about us, even if I lived to be a thousand.
The stunning complexity of man, the mystery of him and his creations, these things are the things that haunt me at this 4:30 in the afternoon, as I sit here with half-sandwich forgotten, and cat purring away in my lap. These are the basic things whose facets I ponder endlessly everyday at the back of my mind as I make my tea with caraway, or coffee with cardamom. These are the things that spark so many questions without answers in reach as I make my cookies or turn-overs, as I crochet my blanket or watch my shows. These are the thoughts that form the backdrop of my life, and my perception of the world around me. I am Endiry, I am human, I am hopelessly rambling, and I am pleased to meet you all.
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