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!
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