Because Athene did this with Pesky Stefen Rhymer. On the basis of 'why not?'
This will be updated erratically. Whenever they are particularly on form.
__________
“Fuck biology, we’ll just buy you a pair of kitty ears. On a headband, you know. No-one will notice the difference!”
“Puppy.”
“Puggle.”
“…you two are conspiring against me.”
“We’re conspiring for you, and don’t forget it.”
“You can’t see the Floating Island with those eyes.”
“I’m not going to tell you what I believe. You’ll only try to imitate it.”
“The Universe can always use another pair of helping hands, especially if they have spikes on and are not above dealing out a few punches.”
“There’s always something worth guarding.”
“What?! You’re my guardian angel not my libido! Are angels even meant to get-”
“Ahem…Geburah, dear.”
“Being different is one thing, being unique is another. Being unique sucks, so it’s a good thing no-one really is.”
(while dancing about at the bus-stop to a song they were looping in my head, and trying to get me to join in) “Dignity? I’m a cartoon animal! You can’t get much more undignified than that.”
“You can and should feel guilty for anything you did that made the situation worse. But feeling guilty for there being a situation at all is ridiculous. It’s just being masochistic. And not in the fun way.”
“You can’t ask a demon why it destroys stuff-well, you can, but you won’t get a straight answer and you probably won’t get a truthful one either.”
(I have a skin allergy that makes trouble if I don’t take medicine for it regularly. I’d missed a few doses, and I was sitting at the computer and scratching my belly.) “You’ll scratch off all your fur if you carry on like that.”
“I don’t have fur!”
“…Which proves my point!” (yeah, I walked into that one…)
(discussing Athene’s cohorts)“All [Vanyel’s] plans sooner or later come down to ‘blow stuff up’. Usually sooner.”
“Also, we killed binary. I think Knux stabbed it.” (Knux, I should mention, has taken to wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the message BINARY IS FOR BADNIKS. He doesn't need to wear t-shirts, so I assume he is only doing it for the lolz.)
"It never was, because it always is!"
(in response to the line ‘hanging upside-down like a bat and playing the ocarina’, in ‘out’)“Add that to the list of ‘things we haven’t done yet, but must do someday for the shock value’.”
(while talking with Athene about the fact that half the world freaks out if you Believe in anything, while the other half freaks out if you don't Believe exactly what they do)"So basically there's no room in the world for people like me. But I knew that already."
*headshake*"It means that if you want space you have to carve out your own."
"If packing is such a fucking depressing chore, what is unpacking?"
(when I got the idea that the Master Emerald must Never Be Touched In Any Circumstances)"That sounds like the sort of 'cosmic' bullshit Tigris would come up with."
Sunday 30 November 2008
Monday 24 November 2008
The Huntingdon flop
So apparently I cannot crossdress. I don’t know what it was exactly, probably my voice, maybe the aforementioned doe eyes, but everybody in Huntingdon yesterday knew me for a double-X-chromosome at once.
I have also learned something. If a man tries to crossdress, and cannot do this convincingly, then he is likely to get, in the best case scenario, a lot of funny looks, and in the worst case scenario, a great deal of grief. If, however, a woman tries to crossdress, and cannot do it convincingly, then absolutely nobody will notice that she was trying in the first place unless she has gone to false-moustache lengths.(I didn’t.)
It makes the whole business with the duct tape seem like a lot of unnecessary pain, I must say. Whatever else I do with my life, I’m NOT doing that again.
It’s all somewhat annoying.
The day wasn’t a total loss, however. I had fun pottering about a couple of streets in Huntingdon, got a copy of Hotel Dusk and ate a very nice meal at the George Hotel.(A sort of platter consisting of a warm baguette and ham and cold roast chicken and a whole gooey baked Camembert cheese and cherry tomatoes and two sorts of pickle and olive-oil-and-vinegar dip on the side, and afterwards a suet pudding with blackberry-and-apple filling and custard.)I also liked the way I looked, dressed as a boy. I verged on androgynous, and that pleased me. If only it wasn’t so painful to bind my breasts…
Ah, well.
I have decided something, though, as a result of all this ruminating on the problem. Every Thursday there is a market in St Neots town square, selling normal markety things-food and drink, sweets, electrical goods, and clothes.
One of the clothes stalls sells shirts. Black button-up ones with pictures on them-skulls and roses, wolves, dragons both European and Asian, motorbikes, wizards…The fellow that runs it is a long-time marketgoer, he’s been coming to St Neots every Thursday for years. I’ve always rather admired those shirts, but I’ve never bought one. Because they are men’s shirts. Or rather, geek-boys’ shirts. But the boy bit stands. So, up till now, I’ve just sort of looked wistfully at them, and walked on.
But now there’s the echidna stirring under my skin, and I’m conscious all of a sudden of the bone spikes on my fists. Breaking boxes has to start somewhere.
I’ll buy the wolf shirt, or maybe the one with the purple dragon, or whatever one looks prettiest when I see what’s on offer. I’ll wear it with my skirts-that’ll cause some second looks-and I’ll get some glitter gel to put in my hair, because I like things that sparkle. Maybe I’ll spike it up. Maybe I’ll pull it back into a tail again; I rather like the way it looks when I do that, I realised today. It’s not exactly a rat-tail; it has far more aplomb than that.
There’s ways and ways to genderfuck.
Only that makes it sound like the payoff is counted in other people’s confusion and embarrassment, and it isn’t-or not mostly.
Really, it’s about having a bit more elbow room, carving out a little space for me to choose what I want and not cut off any limbs that might hang over the edges of the Procrustean bed. It’s a small thing, of course; just a choice of clothes. But every little helps.
I have also learned something. If a man tries to crossdress, and cannot do this convincingly, then he is likely to get, in the best case scenario, a lot of funny looks, and in the worst case scenario, a great deal of grief. If, however, a woman tries to crossdress, and cannot do it convincingly, then absolutely nobody will notice that she was trying in the first place unless she has gone to false-moustache lengths.(I didn’t.)
It makes the whole business with the duct tape seem like a lot of unnecessary pain, I must say. Whatever else I do with my life, I’m NOT doing that again.
It’s all somewhat annoying.
The day wasn’t a total loss, however. I had fun pottering about a couple of streets in Huntingdon, got a copy of Hotel Dusk and ate a very nice meal at the George Hotel.(A sort of platter consisting of a warm baguette and ham and cold roast chicken and a whole gooey baked Camembert cheese and cherry tomatoes and two sorts of pickle and olive-oil-and-vinegar dip on the side, and afterwards a suet pudding with blackberry-and-apple filling and custard.)I also liked the way I looked, dressed as a boy. I verged on androgynous, and that pleased me. If only it wasn’t so painful to bind my breasts…
Ah, well.
I have decided something, though, as a result of all this ruminating on the problem. Every Thursday there is a market in St Neots town square, selling normal markety things-food and drink, sweets, electrical goods, and clothes.
One of the clothes stalls sells shirts. Black button-up ones with pictures on them-skulls and roses, wolves, dragons both European and Asian, motorbikes, wizards…The fellow that runs it is a long-time marketgoer, he’s been coming to St Neots every Thursday for years. I’ve always rather admired those shirts, but I’ve never bought one. Because they are men’s shirts. Or rather, geek-boys’ shirts. But the boy bit stands. So, up till now, I’ve just sort of looked wistfully at them, and walked on.
But now there’s the echidna stirring under my skin, and I’m conscious all of a sudden of the bone spikes on my fists. Breaking boxes has to start somewhere.
I’ll buy the wolf shirt, or maybe the one with the purple dragon, or whatever one looks prettiest when I see what’s on offer. I’ll wear it with my skirts-that’ll cause some second looks-and I’ll get some glitter gel to put in my hair, because I like things that sparkle. Maybe I’ll spike it up. Maybe I’ll pull it back into a tail again; I rather like the way it looks when I do that, I realised today. It’s not exactly a rat-tail; it has far more aplomb than that.
There’s ways and ways to genderfuck.
Only that makes it sound like the payoff is counted in other people’s confusion and embarrassment, and it isn’t-or not mostly.
Really, it’s about having a bit more elbow room, carving out a little space for me to choose what I want and not cut off any limbs that might hang over the edges of the Procrustean bed. It’s a small thing, of course; just a choice of clothes. But every little helps.
Sunday 23 November 2008
Some random rambly shit about bodies & sexuality, & my weird head
I have pretty eyes. Big and deep brown, with long eyelashes. Bambi eyes. People have complimented me on them before now. Sometimes they say I should swap my glasses for contacts(no thank you; the thought of floating something on my eyeball just grosses me out and anyway I’ve worn glasses so long they feel like part of my body now)so as to render my eyes more visible, make the most of them.
I remember looking in a mirror, aged about thirteen or fourteen, and not liking what I saw. This was of course commonplace. But it wasn’t always about imperfection in my face and figure…Sometimes I’d look, and see those big Bambi eyes. They looked like they belonged on some baby creature. They looked vulnerable.
And I thought, ‘I hate that. I don’t want to look that vulnerable.’
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, sometimes, be in that space, be the small thing held in warm arms, and be comforted. But I didn’t want it all the time, and I didn’t want it to be the thing people saw when they saw me-regardless of what I wanted.
I was hanging out with some of the Final Fantasy spirit folk at this point in time, so I had no shortage of pretty girls to observe. I never really thought the thought in so many words, but I sort of formed an assumption-sexiness is something your body does to you. If your features add up in a certain way you’re ugly and there’s nothing you can do about it; if they add up in another way you’re pretty and there’s nothing you can do about that.
That girl I talked to back then, for instance; my friend in the blue wool cardigan. She’s pretty; by her world’s standards she’s what everyone would think of immediately if someone said ‘pretty’, slim dark-eyed and dark-haired. That’s always there, whenever anyone looks at her. It’s like she’s always in some sense on show. Not that she flaunted herself or anything, or revealed anything much. Her clothing was otherworldly of course, since she was too, but basically it was a cardy and bike shorts and a top no more revealing than the sort every Thulc girl in town was wearing. But her prettiness was always on display, even if her tits weren’t. She was an attractive woman, and people could see that straight out whenever they saw her. Her attitude didn’t have anything to do with it. Didn’t matter whose pants she actually wanted to get into, didn’t matter what she thought about people looking at her. She was on show, and everyone could see. She could have dressed in sackcloth and ashes and she’d still have been pretty, and she’d have gotten a lot of ‘what the fuck?’ comments on top of that.
Of course prettiness didn’t make her a weak person-and anyone who thinks beautiful women have to be weak should go to a dozen worlds I could name, make an observation like that to a hundred deadly and determined ladies. Go on, I dare you-but it did inject a quality into her strength, a kind of defensiveness. Don’t look at me like that-I’ll show you what a pretty woman can do…But that didn’t stop them from looking. Touching, yes. But not from looking.
She was a powerful being and a sexual being. She could offer or withhold as she liked. And she was with folk who respected that she had the choice of it, decent folk. And she dated, and the relationships went their way, and lasted for a while, or not, though sometimes she was turned down, and sometimes she turned other people down, but for the most part she had a pretty good time…
…but that prettiness. That bit of her that was there for anyone to see, a free sample of her. That vulnerability. A bit of her given away before any interaction even started. And yes, with some people she wanted to give that away, there’s one boy I know she wanted to give that to, wanted to give him the sight of her, wanted him to want it-
-but she didn’t get the choice about that bit, and nobody asked.
She was sexy. It was the way her body was. It was a fact that she simply could not get away from.
She didn’t seem to have any problems with this, didn’t even think about it probably. Like I wasn’t consciously thinking about it. But I was noticing. Somewhere, I was noticing.
And time passed, and my hormones kicked in, and I begin to notice something that puzzled me a little. The thing that seemed to make the difference about whether I was attracted to someone or not wasn’t physical. It was…well, it was a whole lot of things, different in every person, but all mental. Mind, I could appreciate physical beauty just fine, but it was just…stuff. Like how a waterfall or a sunset is beautiful. It was when I noticed an interesting mind in a well-formed body that I would start getting interested. And I don’t mean interested in a relationship, I just mean horny! I could not, and still cannot, muster up any attraction for a physically good-looking person who I know nothing about.
Hmm, I thought. Interesting.
Recently I’ve been puzzling this out a bit, and it’s been prompted by noticing a spirit or two(most of my friends are spirits)who seem to do this whole sexiness thing differently to how I saw it.
Spirits who, on pure physicality and according to my tastes at least, are not attractive. Just plain, or even a bit ugly or grotesque.
But I’ve seen them being sexy…It’s strange. I wasn’t turned on myself, but I could see the intention and the power that they could call up, an attitude, a way of moving differently, a look about them that’s just impossible to pin down…It was sexy, though it wasn’t aimed at me, wasn’t meant to be, and didn't register on my internal radars. Does it make sense to say that I could see the sexual power that they had even if it wasn’t one that touched me? And even though they weren’t doing anything overtly sexual, like stripping or whatnot?
I’ve seen them, and for them sexiness isn’t something their bodies do to them. It’s something they do to their bodies. Or with their bodies. And there’s no defensive air, no feeling of vulnerability-though they weren’t always doing it, calling up that power, for someone who they wanted to see them! Sometimes they seemed to just be doing it for the sheer joy of it.
It’s hard to put words round all this. I keep typing and then deleting things, trying to capture the concepts shifting in my head.
It’s just, sexuality always seemed to me to be a sort of vulnerability.
But I’ve read stuff people’ve wrote, about sexuality being power, being empowering. And I never really understood that. Only now I think I start to get some idea of what they meant…
I remember looking in a mirror, aged about thirteen or fourteen, and not liking what I saw. This was of course commonplace. But it wasn’t always about imperfection in my face and figure…Sometimes I’d look, and see those big Bambi eyes. They looked like they belonged on some baby creature. They looked vulnerable.
And I thought, ‘I hate that. I don’t want to look that vulnerable.’
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, sometimes, be in that space, be the small thing held in warm arms, and be comforted. But I didn’t want it all the time, and I didn’t want it to be the thing people saw when they saw me-regardless of what I wanted.
I was hanging out with some of the Final Fantasy spirit folk at this point in time, so I had no shortage of pretty girls to observe. I never really thought the thought in so many words, but I sort of formed an assumption-sexiness is something your body does to you. If your features add up in a certain way you’re ugly and there’s nothing you can do about it; if they add up in another way you’re pretty and there’s nothing you can do about that.
That girl I talked to back then, for instance; my friend in the blue wool cardigan. She’s pretty; by her world’s standards she’s what everyone would think of immediately if someone said ‘pretty’, slim dark-eyed and dark-haired. That’s always there, whenever anyone looks at her. It’s like she’s always in some sense on show. Not that she flaunted herself or anything, or revealed anything much. Her clothing was otherworldly of course, since she was too, but basically it was a cardy and bike shorts and a top no more revealing than the sort every Thulc girl in town was wearing. But her prettiness was always on display, even if her tits weren’t. She was an attractive woman, and people could see that straight out whenever they saw her. Her attitude didn’t have anything to do with it. Didn’t matter whose pants she actually wanted to get into, didn’t matter what she thought about people looking at her. She was on show, and everyone could see. She could have dressed in sackcloth and ashes and she’d still have been pretty, and she’d have gotten a lot of ‘what the fuck?’ comments on top of that.
Of course prettiness didn’t make her a weak person-and anyone who thinks beautiful women have to be weak should go to a dozen worlds I could name, make an observation like that to a hundred deadly and determined ladies. Go on, I dare you-but it did inject a quality into her strength, a kind of defensiveness. Don’t look at me like that-I’ll show you what a pretty woman can do…But that didn’t stop them from looking. Touching, yes. But not from looking.
She was a powerful being and a sexual being. She could offer or withhold as she liked. And she was with folk who respected that she had the choice of it, decent folk. And she dated, and the relationships went their way, and lasted for a while, or not, though sometimes she was turned down, and sometimes she turned other people down, but for the most part she had a pretty good time…
…but that prettiness. That bit of her that was there for anyone to see, a free sample of her. That vulnerability. A bit of her given away before any interaction even started. And yes, with some people she wanted to give that away, there’s one boy I know she wanted to give that to, wanted to give him the sight of her, wanted him to want it-
-but she didn’t get the choice about that bit, and nobody asked.
She was sexy. It was the way her body was. It was a fact that she simply could not get away from.
She didn’t seem to have any problems with this, didn’t even think about it probably. Like I wasn’t consciously thinking about it. But I was noticing. Somewhere, I was noticing.
And time passed, and my hormones kicked in, and I begin to notice something that puzzled me a little. The thing that seemed to make the difference about whether I was attracted to someone or not wasn’t physical. It was…well, it was a whole lot of things, different in every person, but all mental. Mind, I could appreciate physical beauty just fine, but it was just…stuff. Like how a waterfall or a sunset is beautiful. It was when I noticed an interesting mind in a well-formed body that I would start getting interested. And I don’t mean interested in a relationship, I just mean horny! I could not, and still cannot, muster up any attraction for a physically good-looking person who I know nothing about.
Hmm, I thought. Interesting.
Recently I’ve been puzzling this out a bit, and it’s been prompted by noticing a spirit or two(most of my friends are spirits)who seem to do this whole sexiness thing differently to how I saw it.
Spirits who, on pure physicality and according to my tastes at least, are not attractive. Just plain, or even a bit ugly or grotesque.
But I’ve seen them being sexy…It’s strange. I wasn’t turned on myself, but I could see the intention and the power that they could call up, an attitude, a way of moving differently, a look about them that’s just impossible to pin down…It was sexy, though it wasn’t aimed at me, wasn’t meant to be, and didn't register on my internal radars. Does it make sense to say that I could see the sexual power that they had even if it wasn’t one that touched me? And even though they weren’t doing anything overtly sexual, like stripping or whatnot?
I’ve seen them, and for them sexiness isn’t something their bodies do to them. It’s something they do to their bodies. Or with their bodies. And there’s no defensive air, no feeling of vulnerability-though they weren’t always doing it, calling up that power, for someone who they wanted to see them! Sometimes they seemed to just be doing it for the sheer joy of it.
It’s hard to put words round all this. I keep typing and then deleting things, trying to capture the concepts shifting in my head.
It’s just, sexuality always seemed to me to be a sort of vulnerability.
But I’ve read stuff people’ve wrote, about sexuality being power, being empowering. And I never really understood that. Only now I think I start to get some idea of what they meant…
Monday 17 November 2008
I. Hate. Headcolds.
Hate them with a fiery passion.
I can't smell anything, can't taste hardly anything, I'm cold all the time, I keep coughing up catarrh, having uncontrollable sneezing fits, and getting spinny-headed! Aaaargh!
Whatever anyone says, though, I am not putting my feet in a bowl of hot water and mustard. I feel bad enough already without having mustardy feet. I'm not drinking Lemsip either. That stuff tastes like chemical doom.
Mum had this too. She was OK in about a week. So, at least this won't last long.
I just want to know, why couldn't Ian catch it instead of me?
This is not a charitable attitude, but it is very hard to be charitable with a head cold.
I can't smell anything, can't taste hardly anything, I'm cold all the time, I keep coughing up catarrh, having uncontrollable sneezing fits, and getting spinny-headed! Aaaargh!
Whatever anyone says, though, I am not putting my feet in a bowl of hot water and mustard. I feel bad enough already without having mustardy feet. I'm not drinking Lemsip either. That stuff tastes like chemical doom.
Mum had this too. She was OK in about a week. So, at least this won't last long.
I just want to know, why couldn't Ian catch it instead of me?
This is not a charitable attitude, but it is very hard to be charitable with a head cold.
Friday 14 November 2008
Another lesson in never, ever, ever underestimating Guardians in red
As if getting one life's lesson out of him wasn't enough, another followed on its heels!
...I'll give a little background. For those that don't know him...There's this thing, okay, this relic. A Power item, strong Power. Legendary level. The Master Emerald. And he Guards it. With his life. It's that important, honestly. Important for his world and important to him.
Well...awhile ago I was seething at dinner 'cause Ian was making out like I was stupid. Retarded. It's his favourite insult. We were arguing, and I was furious angry...I wanted so bad to win. Just once, I'd like to! To make him stop saying that stuff about me!
I stayed angry for ages after that. I mean...it's different when some person in town just hurls an insult at you, and you can walk off. When it's your brother making snide snooty comments whenever you see him, and you can't walk away 'cause you're in the same house, and he goes on, and on, and your mother won't shut him up, can't shut him up...so you just have to listen, and you feel so miserable...
Then, in the bath-why is it always in the bath?-I calmed down enough to get partly into ambit again.
And he talked to me.
I can't remember the exact words, but it was something like this.
"Don't you see? You have won.
Look, I guard the Master Emerald. That's why I fight. It doesn't matter how bruised or bloody I am at the end of a fight. It doesn't matter if the other guy is laughing his head off at me. It doesn't matter if I've made myself look like a total idiot, as long as the Master Emerald is safe.
There's always something worth guarding, and you are guarding something. You fight like someone on the defensive. What's your Master Emerald? If it's your sanity, you've won. If it's your ability to talk to spirits, you've won. If it's your creativity, you've won. If it's your life, you've won. None of those are things he can harm or steal. He's lost every battle before he even begins. Nothing he does can make the slightest mark on the Master Emerald.
If your Master Emerald is your pride, it was a false jewel, and needed to be shattered anyway. But I think you're better than that.
I'll tell you what really could destroy your Master Emerald. Your OCD, if you don't get it under control. But you're spending all your energy fighting battles that don't really matter, instead...and trust me, you aren't the first to make that mistake, I know what thereof I speak. Remember how I was tricked into fighting Sonic and Tails, while Robotnik stole up behind me. That's what you're doing now. Fighting things that are really harmless, while the true threat makes a grab for the Emerald."
Of course, all of it is damn true. He's as sharp as his spikes, sometimes.
And knowing it helps. I still get angry and sad, but now I know I can hold on tight, clench my fists, and tell myself 'The Master Emerald is safe'. That helps me get through. It lets me refuse to argue without feeling that I'm losing the fight. It lets me ignore what Ian says. Or my mother. Or her boyfriend.
It helps a lot.
...Thanks, Knux.
...I'll give a little background. For those that don't know him...There's this thing, okay, this relic. A Power item, strong Power. Legendary level. The Master Emerald. And he Guards it. With his life. It's that important, honestly. Important for his world and important to him.
Well...awhile ago I was seething at dinner 'cause Ian was making out like I was stupid. Retarded. It's his favourite insult. We were arguing, and I was furious angry...I wanted so bad to win. Just once, I'd like to! To make him stop saying that stuff about me!
I stayed angry for ages after that. I mean...it's different when some person in town just hurls an insult at you, and you can walk off. When it's your brother making snide snooty comments whenever you see him, and you can't walk away 'cause you're in the same house, and he goes on, and on, and your mother won't shut him up, can't shut him up...so you just have to listen, and you feel so miserable...
Then, in the bath-why is it always in the bath?-I calmed down enough to get partly into ambit again.
And he talked to me.
I can't remember the exact words, but it was something like this.
"Don't you see? You have won.
Look, I guard the Master Emerald. That's why I fight. It doesn't matter how bruised or bloody I am at the end of a fight. It doesn't matter if the other guy is laughing his head off at me. It doesn't matter if I've made myself look like a total idiot, as long as the Master Emerald is safe.
There's always something worth guarding, and you are guarding something. You fight like someone on the defensive. What's your Master Emerald? If it's your sanity, you've won. If it's your ability to talk to spirits, you've won. If it's your creativity, you've won. If it's your life, you've won. None of those are things he can harm or steal. He's lost every battle before he even begins. Nothing he does can make the slightest mark on the Master Emerald.
If your Master Emerald is your pride, it was a false jewel, and needed to be shattered anyway. But I think you're better than that.
I'll tell you what really could destroy your Master Emerald. Your OCD, if you don't get it under control. But you're spending all your energy fighting battles that don't really matter, instead...and trust me, you aren't the first to make that mistake, I know what thereof I speak. Remember how I was tricked into fighting Sonic and Tails, while Robotnik stole up behind me. That's what you're doing now. Fighting things that are really harmless, while the true threat makes a grab for the Emerald."
Of course, all of it is damn true. He's as sharp as his spikes, sometimes.
And knowing it helps. I still get angry and sad, but now I know I can hold on tight, clench my fists, and tell myself 'The Master Emerald is safe'. That helps me get through. It lets me refuse to argue without feeling that I'm losing the fight. It lets me ignore what Ian says. Or my mother. Or her boyfriend.
It helps a lot.
...Thanks, Knux.
Friday 7 November 2008
Echidna
So Athene directed me to this post; http://takingsteps.blogspot.com/2007/01/seam-of-skin-and-scales.html
Which is something that I’ve read before, but never really understood.
Till now anyway.
It started with-well, you’ll laugh-it started with a game I picked up on a whim and a memory of a glowing review in ONM magazine because I was a bit hungry for the mechanics of turn-based RPG, because I wanted a new challenge, Something to Do.
Sonic Chronicles: The Dark Brotherhood.
Never had anything to do with blue hedgehogs and the like before that. And certainly didn’t expect to find a, a character. That’s the only word for it. One of the side characters. Got totally hit from left field. Thwacked between the eyes by a blast of strong personality from this side character, this cartoon red echidna with spikes on his fists.
I was linking before I even knew it, and I didn’t expect that.
So I’m linking, and I’m confused, and I’m turning it over in my head, asking him…why? What’s a person like you doing in a game like this? You’re better than this. You deserve better than a near-sexless ageless anthropomorphic cartoon grotesquerie of a body and a silly frivolous game for a world. Wouldn’t you want a different body? Human and real. Strong and handsome and sexual. Don’t you want a story more serious, a world and a name and a history that better fits your mind?
Don’t you want that?
And I’m linked enough to hear his reply, and he says ‘No.’
Very firmly. And I’m more confused than ever so he elucidates. ‘This is my body, and this is my world. This is my story, mine to me. Do I puzzle you? I’m not under any obligation to change because you think the parts of me don’t match up. I’m happy how I am.’
But people see you as a joke!
‘A joke, a cartoon, let them laugh! Do you think I care? And can you really not see the attraction? Wouldn’t you like to throw the seriousness of humanity to the winds for awhile? I think you’re a tiny bit jealous.’
And he withdrew from the link, leaving me with a lot to think about.
In my head all that day I put two and two together, and I ended up with five-and-a-bit. I’ve come up with some ideas. I think I understand that post now.
After all, Echidna was a monster too.
I am Echidna and I revel in my grotesquerie. It’s about dichotomy; it’s about contradictions; human, animal, real and illustrated, skin and fur, a mammal that lays eggs. It’s about not fitting in any box, because any box would be too small. Don’t you dare cage me; I drip poison, I have spines. Touch me and you’ll hurt.
I am Echidna, and I have my weapons; I have bone spikes on my fists. I use them to carve myself out elbow room. I use them to climb up out of all the boxes. I can fight, and I will fight, to protect my own existence. It’s self defence. I’m not about to let anyone cut off my tail, mutilate me so that I can be better defined. I am defined by me and by God; anyone else can get the fuck away!
I am Echidna, and do I look ridiculous to you? A comic muddle of roles, genders, ages, species-I hear your uneasy laughter. I don’t care if you think I look funny. I have my own brand of dignity. I am King of the cloud islands, and in my kingdom I shall do as I damn well please.
I am Echidna, and yes, I can do sexy. Twilight-purple bedroom eyes, and does it come as a surprise that I can dance like I’ve got emeralds at the meeting of my thighs? And I can do sexless. Naked and unashamed, can you Adam and Eve it? Because love is sweet, and sex is good, but there’s more to life than kissing. I can put sexuality on the shelf; it does not become another trap to define me.
I am Echidna, and this is not feminism because it is not about being female it is not about being male it is about being it is about being whatever I can be it is about being myself having room to stretch myself out to be childish and parentlike and wise and gullible and suspicious and scared and scary and animal and spirit and modern and ancient and very near and oh so far and gregarious and a loner and reserved and loudmouthed and stone and water and fire and ice and male and female and both and neither. I do not have to pick just one.
I am Echidna, monstrous Echidna, and I never have to pick just one.
Which is something that I’ve read before, but never really understood.
Till now anyway.
It started with-well, you’ll laugh-it started with a game I picked up on a whim and a memory of a glowing review in ONM magazine because I was a bit hungry for the mechanics of turn-based RPG, because I wanted a new challenge, Something to Do.
Sonic Chronicles: The Dark Brotherhood.
Never had anything to do with blue hedgehogs and the like before that. And certainly didn’t expect to find a, a character. That’s the only word for it. One of the side characters. Got totally hit from left field. Thwacked between the eyes by a blast of strong personality from this side character, this cartoon red echidna with spikes on his fists.
I was linking before I even knew it, and I didn’t expect that.
So I’m linking, and I’m confused, and I’m turning it over in my head, asking him…why? What’s a person like you doing in a game like this? You’re better than this. You deserve better than a near-sexless ageless anthropomorphic cartoon grotesquerie of a body and a silly frivolous game for a world. Wouldn’t you want a different body? Human and real. Strong and handsome and sexual. Don’t you want a story more serious, a world and a name and a history that better fits your mind?
Don’t you want that?
And I’m linked enough to hear his reply, and he says ‘No.’
Very firmly. And I’m more confused than ever so he elucidates. ‘This is my body, and this is my world. This is my story, mine to me. Do I puzzle you? I’m not under any obligation to change because you think the parts of me don’t match up. I’m happy how I am.’
But people see you as a joke!
‘A joke, a cartoon, let them laugh! Do you think I care? And can you really not see the attraction? Wouldn’t you like to throw the seriousness of humanity to the winds for awhile? I think you’re a tiny bit jealous.’
And he withdrew from the link, leaving me with a lot to think about.
In my head all that day I put two and two together, and I ended up with five-and-a-bit. I’ve come up with some ideas. I think I understand that post now.
After all, Echidna was a monster too.
I am Echidna and I revel in my grotesquerie. It’s about dichotomy; it’s about contradictions; human, animal, real and illustrated, skin and fur, a mammal that lays eggs. It’s about not fitting in any box, because any box would be too small. Don’t you dare cage me; I drip poison, I have spines. Touch me and you’ll hurt.
I am Echidna, and I have my weapons; I have bone spikes on my fists. I use them to carve myself out elbow room. I use them to climb up out of all the boxes. I can fight, and I will fight, to protect my own existence. It’s self defence. I’m not about to let anyone cut off my tail, mutilate me so that I can be better defined. I am defined by me and by God; anyone else can get the fuck away!
I am Echidna, and do I look ridiculous to you? A comic muddle of roles, genders, ages, species-I hear your uneasy laughter. I don’t care if you think I look funny. I have my own brand of dignity. I am King of the cloud islands, and in my kingdom I shall do as I damn well please.
I am Echidna, and yes, I can do sexy. Twilight-purple bedroom eyes, and does it come as a surprise that I can dance like I’ve got emeralds at the meeting of my thighs? And I can do sexless. Naked and unashamed, can you Adam and Eve it? Because love is sweet, and sex is good, but there’s more to life than kissing. I can put sexuality on the shelf; it does not become another trap to define me.
I am Echidna, and this is not feminism because it is not about being female it is not about being male it is about being it is about being whatever I can be it is about being myself having room to stretch myself out to be childish and parentlike and wise and gullible and suspicious and scared and scary and animal and spirit and modern and ancient and very near and oh so far and gregarious and a loner and reserved and loudmouthed and stone and water and fire and ice and male and female and both and neither. I do not have to pick just one.
I am Echidna, monstrous Echidna, and I never have to pick just one.
Sunday 2 November 2008
Half-term holidays
Eating doughnuts a lot. And drinking milk. Don't know why.
Worrying about gender identity. There, I said it.
DS, Final Fantasy Tactics A2, and Sonic: The Dark Brotherhood.
Artemis Fowl marathon. Invented a nickname for him, which is probably not a good sign. I want to draw him and Holly; pity I can't draw.
Waiting for the doctor to get in touch about my OCD referral.
Trying to control my temper around my bastard brother. Mostly succeeding.
Sporadic contact with Athene and Ash.
Life as we know it, I guess.
Worrying about gender identity. There, I said it.
DS, Final Fantasy Tactics A2, and Sonic: The Dark Brotherhood.
Artemis Fowl marathon. Invented a nickname for him, which is probably not a good sign. I want to draw him and Holly; pity I can't draw.
Waiting for the doctor to get in touch about my OCD referral.
Trying to control my temper around my bastard brother. Mostly succeeding.
Sporadic contact with Athene and Ash.
Life as we know it, I guess.
Saturday 1 November 2008
Nobody believes in Silvers...till they look in the mirror.
There's a LOT of warnings in books and games and films and what-all about anger. About the terrible things it does to the human brain.
And you know what? We never believe them. We laugh and call it cliche. A fantasy staple, keyword being fantasy.
Even I thought it was some kind of rare thing, if it ever happened.
Till I looked at myself and found out I was wrong.
Old Jack pointed out that one man may be placed so his anger kills people, and another may be placed so however mad he gets, he just gets laughed at...But the stain on the soul may be much the same. Not the stain of the guilt of consequences-that's something separate altogether of course. The stain of the anger itself.
It does twist you out of shape.
Sometimes I imagine what I'd be like with a chunk of Nethicite, and the image is not a good one.
But don't think I'm just putting myself down here. This is freaking endemic.
Don't believe me? Well, just think; if everyone could make 'Go to hell!' a performative statement when screaming it at their ex, the cliffs of Weep-not would be standing room only!
And you know what? We never believe them. We laugh and call it cliche. A fantasy staple, keyword being fantasy.
Even I thought it was some kind of rare thing, if it ever happened.
Till I looked at myself and found out I was wrong.
Old Jack pointed out that one man may be placed so his anger kills people, and another may be placed so however mad he gets, he just gets laughed at...But the stain on the soul may be much the same. Not the stain of the guilt of consequences-that's something separate altogether of course. The stain of the anger itself.
It does twist you out of shape.
Sometimes I imagine what I'd be like with a chunk of Nethicite, and the image is not a good one.
But don't think I'm just putting myself down here. This is freaking endemic.
Don't believe me? Well, just think; if everyone could make 'Go to hell!' a performative statement when screaming it at their ex, the cliffs of Weep-not would be standing room only!
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