I can never show him this, but writing it helped me feel better anyway

Dear Vella,

Recently you have been PMSing, excuse me, irritable and blaming a great many things on your eldest son and your eldest son’s girlfriend. While both these people admit they are hardly stainless innocents, there are some things that they rightly refuse to accept responsibility for.

Things that are not Eagle’s fault:

• Your leg ulcers.
• Your summer flu.
• Faruque’s bad habits.
• The bloody oppressive summer heat.
• The fact that Ash sometimes calls when you want to talk to Eagle. This is made especially pertinent by the fact that you keep slamming into the room, yelling for thirty seconds, then leaving for ten minutes or so before coming back in and yelling again. If you have a point to make, then MAKE it for goodness’ sake instead of ranting vaguely and then storming out. And if you leave, you cannot expect Eagle to not assume you are done with the conversation and find something else to occupy himself.
• The fact that when you vehemently tell him to do something, then five minutes later and just as vehemently tell him not to do it, Eagle just sits there like a lemon blinking confusedly.
• Your forgetting to use a condom, approximately twenty-one years and eleven months ago.

Things that are not Ash’s fault:

• Your leg ulcers, summer flu, Faruque, etc.
• The mess in Eagle’s room. Amazing though it may sound, Ash is not capable of making a mess in a room at the other end of the fucking country.
• Any and every defect in Eagle’s character.
• The fact that she sometimes calls when you want to talk to Eagle. You hardly have a schedule or some such that she can avoid.
• The fact that Eagle does not always agree with you.
• Eagle’s lack of ‘respect’ for you. That has more to do with the fact that it’s hard to respect a total whackjob even if they are one’s father.
• Original sin, bird flu, the destruction of the rainforests, the high price of butter and the common cold. Despite your claims that she is responsible for ‘everything’.

the home front

I can't blog about this. It's too private, too personal. But I can't not say something about it either.

All I can say is-homophobia in religion sucks, especially when it gets internalised. That, and...there's the moment when it all becomes horribly real and immediate-all the shit you know goes down. When some of it happens to someone you know, or a friend knows. The moment you can hear the wolf at the door.

Cousins, it's dark outside.

Big, blonde and beautiful? Well, two out of three's not bad...and I'd rather be big than lumped in with Rauk.(j/k)

My grandfather died. Don’t offer me sympathy; he was a hidebound, racist, sexist, homophobic, malicious old arsehole, and our relationship was strained to say the least. This did not get me out of having to go to his funeral, though.(More on that later.)

So I came down from London to spend some time with my birth family. And one thing that my mother and her boyfriend just never shut up about the whole time was the issue of my weight.
I’ve always been big-hipped and big-chested, but these last few months I’ve gotten bigger in those areas and all-over, really. According to the doctor when I had my medical checkup I’m four pounds shy of being clinically obese. Me, I say ‘wut?’ to this. I wouldn’t call myself fat. Plump yes. But I don’t feel I look fat. Not that looking fat’s a bad thing necessarily, it’s just that I don’t think I do.

My birth father Vella’s made a few comments about this, but he is a fashion designer and has gotten used to stick insects in makeup and thus I generally ignore him. Besides, it’s mostly due to his cooking and choices of snacks that I’ve put on weight.(Mmm, fried aubergines...)
Even though Vella considers it his bounded duty to evaluate all apparent women for attractiveness, though, he has not made anywhere near as many comments as my birth mother Sarah and her boyfriend Michael.

I was there Saturday 24th to Tuesday 27th, and all the damn time it was ‘you have put on a lot of weight dear, you’re really less attractive, you used to regulate your own weight so nicely, you need to cut down...’

And the crowning idiocy, the crazy diamond of dumbassery, ‘This is because you don’t realise what a pretty girl you are, your self-esteem has always been too low, you need to make more of an effort with your appearance and then people will like you and you’ll feel better about yourself!’

The sheer stupidity of it floored me, I swear.

Fuck you, Mother Dear. Most of my self-esteem problems were your fault in the first place! And they never revolved around appearance!

Yeah, I did-at one point-have issues with the look of my body. Thing is though, that was because it was too Milesian, and I’d been hanging out with chicks from the people I called the Tuatha de Danaan then. I was holding myself to standards that bodies from this world just cannot meet no matter what their genes are like, no matter how they diet or work out, no matter how much surgery they get. And the appearance wasn’t the point in and of itself, either. I wanted to be like my de Danaan friends because they were tough, smart and mostly happy, and I felt that a Thulcandran could never be any of those things. The face in the mirror just rubbed that in every time I saw it. Maybe if I’d had some good Thulcandran mentors earlier...ah, well. Can’t change the past, and I did eventually find a very cool Thulcandran-Milese wingsister who helped me out with that whole tangle.

Anyway, point is, I wouldn’t say my self-esteem issues are gone totally, but I’ve given them a few good whacks, and I’ve at least got it into my thick skull that Thulcandrans can be very cool. Ergo, no need to wish I’d been born on another world. The bits of the multiverse I can reach as is-in body and spirit-can give me everything I need if I just figure out the how and why.

On a more universal note, I have NEVER thought that my physical appearance was a matter of grave importance in and of itself. You get told all the time when you’re a puggle, ‘the moral of the story is, it’s what’s inside that counts’. Now, back then I didn’t get that people paid lip service to that only. I took it as the truth! Crazy, huh?*

The important things, I thought, were: my intelligence; my basic decency; my artistic talents. In no particular order. Looks were just ‘stuff’, and I wasn’t really interested in ‘em much. The closest I got was how I loved to play dress-up in a witch’s hat or devil horns or pair of sparkly fairy wings or the Pocahontas dress and dog costume Vella made me. (Not both at once.) Oh, and one time he got me a dress with lions on. I couldn’t care less what I looked like in it, I just adored the lions. I liked the ladybird buttons on my school cardy, too. I was kinda potty about animals in general, I guess.

Then I got bigger...and was totally confused by the sudden strong messages that I did, actually, have to care what I looked like. More than that, I had to want to look a particular way, want this with all my being, and do everything in my power to achieve it.

Out of cheese error; please reinstall universe and reboot...

Really, I never lost the view of that puggle who played with hir plastic animals; sie wouldn’t have said ‘We’re born naked, all the rest is drag’ because sie’d never heard that phrase and didn’t really think the concept out in words at all, but sie did think it. Drag can be fun, but it’s not real life.

So now that puggle’s grown his spines and left the pouch, he’ll clench spiked fists and growl when someone starts saying that women have some kind of duty to spend a good portion of their time beautifying themselves. Worse, that they all naturally want to. Because that is How Women Are. And any woman who doesn’t, or who doesn’t have a conventional notion of what beauty is, obviously has something wrong with her. (Oh, and any man who takes as much time over his looks as a woman’s supposed to is a wanker, probably gay**, and obviously has something wrong with him. And let’s not even get into crossdressing...) Why, is this my fist embedded in your skull, Michael? Dear, dear. So sorry. Oh well, it wasn’t as if there was much in there to damage. A few pounds of manure and it’ll be as good as new!

But enough about the placental mammal contingent.

Ash thinks I look okay and not too fat. I am more inclined to give weight(pun not intended)to her opinion than that of placental mammals, really. Several sensible people I know of take the view that fatness is not in and of itself a bad thing in any case unless you’re at ‘cannot shift own bulk’ level. (Which most fat people are not.) I’ve come round to their point of view too.

When people first started mentioning that I had gained weight, I worried. But when I thought of actually looking at my body, that all dissipated.

My body is very female in build, earth mother look enhanced by milky-coffee skin and dark eyes and hair. I have curves all over, and yes, that includes my belly. (If you don’t believe me, Ash, I’ll have to send you pictures. Actually I may do that anyway.*grin*) This is all pretty troublesome a lot of times, what with the whole genderqueer thing; my body doesn’t match my brain. If I’d been told to pick one female body and stick to it I’d have picked something with broader shoulders, narrower hips, smaller tits. Oh, and something taller while I was at it. My body does not feel like it’s mine-it’s more like I picked up the wrong outfit by mistake and ended up wearing something sized for my sister.

I guess all trans and genderqueer folk have their own ways of dealing with this. The way that works best for me is to not think of my body as mine. Or rather, to not think of it as me. It’s a tool; it’s drag; it’s my Pocahontas outfit and dog suit. It’s a thing I happen to have, and till I can alter it so it’ll fit a touch better I’ll just use it as is. It works okay for what it is, it’s not its fault that She Who Gives All Gifts picked the wrong model for me. It can eat and drink, walk, run, dance badly, talk, listen, snuggle and kiss. It has hands with opposable thumbs. It has muscles should I ever choose to train them, and a working female reproductive system should I ever choose to use it. I probably won’t do either of those things, but I have the opportunity. It’s mine to play with.

And hey, why not?

So, Sarah, sorry to disappoint you but I’m not gonna diet anytime soon. I’m just gonna let my curves stay curvy as hell-if I’m gonna look earth mother, might as well go the whole hog. (Mmm, hog.) Besides-I was a Qu before I was an Echidna! It’s only fitting. I like looking this way, and my self-esteem’s never been better.

I offer big love with no apologies
How can I deny the world the most of me?
I am not afraid to throw my weight around
Pound by pound by pound.

*I also believed that being different was good; that people different from each other could be friends; that girls were able to do anything boys could do, and should if they wanted to; and that in his youth my dad had been Mowgli from Kipling’s Jungle Book. Hey, I never said I got them all right.
**Even if he’s had girlfriends and enjoyed it and gotten hickeys and so forth. Especially if he has had girlfriends, etc. Also any nasty traits in his personality are proof that he is gay. Apparently straight men can’t be vain, vicious and vapid, because these traits are what define gays. And you thought it was just that they liked penises.

The Blog Posts That Would Have Been, If Only

Okay. Now, the library decided to ban Blogspot.

This annoyed me.

I wrote a couple of blog posts on Word that never got posted. And are now seriously overdue and probably past their sell-by date. But I wrote the damn things and now I shall post them.

On Placental Mammals

Now some years ago the pigeon had a hole named after it; the Pigeon-hole. And Man decreed that all things must fit into a Pigeon-hole. This meant that Rules must be Obeyed, and each creature was given its own set of Rules. For instance, if you were a fish you must have gills and live in water.

'But,' said the fish, 'some of us don't only live in water and can breathe air out of the sky.'

'Ah!' said Man, 'then you are a lung fish.'

There was no escape, even for Men themselves.

The Rules said, if you live in a house with two children and a wife, work in an insurance firm and drive an estate car, you cannot possibly be a ballet dancer. But inside you may be a ballet dancer even if you weigh fifteen stone and have a wooden leg.

That is the way Pigeon-holes work and everything is forced to fit into one. But this is the story of creatures that didn't fit and what happened to them.

By the way, all the pigeons I know think they should be called Man-holes, and are thinking of Getting Up A Petition.

-'Attila, Loolagax and the Eagle', Nichola McAuliffe

___________________________________

*bump*

*bump*

*bump bump*

...

"Are you okay, Mr. Chapman?"

"It happens a lot to a platypus. If people can't fit something into a preconceived category, it's invisible to them."

-'Kevin and Kell', August 20th, 2009

I said before that I might write this, and I have decided that I shall. Because I think it needs to be written.

First off-what is the literal meaning of 'placental mammal'? In short, it is a mammalian life-form that produces placentas in the process of pregnacy. I won't go into the biology, but this is a very common way of doing things. Most mammals across the world are placental-from humans to wolves to tree shrews by way of blue whales and sewer rats.

However, most does not equal all. There are two lineages of mammals that do things a different way-the marsupials, like kangaroos, that birth their young in a semi-fetal state and keep them in a pouch till they are fully developed. And the monotremes, which comprise only two species-echidnas and platypi. Monotremes lay eggs; in the case of the echidna, the eggs and later the hatched young are also kept in a pouch.

Now, monotremes and marsupials are ancient lineages-considerably older than placental mammals, in fact. But it's placental mammals that are all over the place, all over the world, filling every niche. Apart from opossums, which can be found in the Americas, marsupials and monotremes are restricted to Oceania/Australasia/whatever the hell it's called these days. They are considered a peculiarity of that part of the world, and their difference from the normal mammals that live everywhere else is constantly noted.



Now, pay close attention; this is where it all gets metaphorical. Be careful and you won't spill allegory down your shirt.

Placental mammals are Normal. This is a major part of their worldview. Ask one to give you a fact about, say, kangaroos, nine times out of ten they'll mention the pouch thang. Because this is so utterly Weird that it completely defines them.

Because that's what us marsupials and monotremes are to placental mammals. We are Weird. Sometimes they say we're evolutionary rejects-that our ways of doing things don't match up to theirs, that it's not as good, not as natural and obvious. Sometimes they don't believe in our existence at all.(The first time the taxonomical guys in Europe saw a stuffed platypus, they laughed their heads off and said it was a fake. It didn't fit into any known category; it looked like a mix of wildly disparate species; surely no real animal could look that mismatched and odd.)And sometimes, they just say 'GROSS!'

Now, gross is subjective. So there's no way to disprove that.

Thing is though, Weird is subjective too.

And that's why, really. Placental mammals need scapegoats. They need to feel Normal, and a lot of the time they're secretly terrified that they aren't. They need someone to point at, so they can say to themselves, OK, I may hang upside down and grow algae in my hair, but at least I'm not like those weirdoes who lay eggs!

Transphobia in the gay community. Racism in the trans community. Homophobia in the POC community.(Not that any of those are communities per se; but that might just be me being individualistic.) Placental mammals really are an incredibly varied bunch. Each of them has a different definition of Normal, but the thing they all agree on is that there are some people out there who are violating it, just by existing and doing their own thing. A lot of the time the people they think of as the Weirdoes From Down Under are just another set of placental mammals in their own right-which would be funny if it wasn't so exasperating and sad.

This echidna spent quite a few years knocking down and widening a personal definition of what consitutes Real People, and let me tell you, it's tiring work. In the end, I just decided-the hell with it. Instead of trying to figure out what's normal, let's just ask one question, when presented with any given situation. Is anyone getting hurt? No-then great, everything's okay here, move along. Yes-then do something about it, but keep in mind what the actual problem is! Someone is hurting. That is the problem. The problem is not that things do not look the way you think is pretty.

Thinking that everyone should be like you, taken to its (il)logical conclusion, ends up with the idea that everyone should have your job, drive your car, and marry your sweetie.

One last thought. All humans are placental mammals-and I don't just mean biologically. People seem to have a built-in tendency to get Linnaean with the world-and to put themselves at the top of the Tree of Life.(Either that, or put themselves at the bottom. The Happy Medium seems to have packed up her crystal ball and tarot deck.)So before you laugh and say 'yeah, those placental mammals, so damn stupid'-pause for thought! We have met the enemy and they are us! That goes for you, and, yes, for me too. Like any other of the annoying gremlins lurking in the engines of the human mind, there probably is no way to exorcise this one for good. All we can do is recognise it-and give it a good hard whack when it shows up!

Yet another headache, courtesy of family and their hangers-on

Okay. Hypothetical-well, not so hypothetical-question here.

I got my hair cut recently-quite short. Ever since then, my mother's boyfriend has been referring to it as 'spikey dykey' in a disparaging way.

Now, okay, my hair does seem to grow in natural vertical tufts when it's that short, for some reason(it never used to). And I am not really thrilled with the look either-it wasn't what I was hoping for.

But I'm pretty sure it's NOT overly PC to get annoyed at someone equating being a lesbian with being unattractive!

Especially since I sort-of came out to my mother and her boyfriend some time ago.(I told them I liked girls. They don't believe me. Apparently I am too young and naive to know. HAH.)So-in effect, he was telling someone that as far as he knew identified as a lesbian, that she looked like a lesbian, and that this was ugly.

So...finally protested about this, in a phone conversation the other day. My mother's boyfriend laughed and said it was a joke and that my hair was 'spikey dykey'.

When I pressed my point, he got shirty and said I was overinterpreting and being too PC. And when I pointed out that not all lesbians have spiky hair he denied this and claimed that he knew more lesbians than me, and knew more about lesbians than me, and all the lesbians he knew had spiky hair, and that I was ignorant and talking about things I didn't understand.

...I mean. Really. FEMMES EXIST DAMMIT! > <

I'm pretty sure it's not me with the problem, here.

So, here I am again.

I am writing this in a state of annoyance. My email account has been cancelled and I have no idea why whatsoever. I suppose I'll have to get a hotmail account or something...

Dad is saying that he'll give me the house keys; I just hope he really does. He has a habit of promising things and never doing them.

I keep meaning to write things. Blog posts or stories. But...thing is, my head hurts. Not physically. Maybe my heart more than my head.

It's all to do with that conversation I had with Thene, when I was staying with my mother for a weekend so as to see my GP about meds. About families.

I thought I wasn't dumb enough anymore to get annoyed about life being unfair to me. Life is unfair. I got the memo. And...I can deal!

But the idea...the idea that this isn't the normal way of things...

That breaks my head. And my heart.

I should be more eloquent. But I can't muster up the effort...

Weariness

I'm being discharged on Friday. I just don't fit in here. My therapist will be seeing me at home. But they reckon that this is not the environment for me.

I don't either. But I know my parents are going to hit the roof. I'm not looking forward to it.

I just feel so tired.

I left Cosmo, my miniature rose, out in the courtyard on the table to get some sun. While I was gone, someone came and threw her pot into the bushes. Compost everywhere. I don't know who or why. The pettiness of it makes me feel so tired. Why do something like that?

I don't know.

Domestic adventures

Truefax; the difference between ordinary porridge and instant porridge is that if you try to cook ordinary porridge in the microwave, it will explode. And the writing on the side of the porridge box that says otherwise is a damn dirty lie.

Other truefax; 'My porridge has exploded' is one of the most ridiculous sentences in the English language.

15 books in 15 minutes...or not.

Because I can't resist a meme. Not one like this anyways.

Instructions: Don’t take too long to think about it. List 15 books you’ve read that will always stick with you — the first 15 you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Copy the instructions into your own note, and be sure to tag the person who tagged you.

The Chronicles of Narnia

101 Dalmatians

Wee Free Men

...oh, bother.

No, that's not a book.

That's the noise of me trying to think of another book, coming up blank, and realising that for me, it's the video games that have stuck with me more than books. Though I love books too. But it's the game-stories that resonate in me.

Well, I never was one for doing things the way everyone else does. So let's do it Eagle's way.

Fifteen games in fifteen minutes, in no particular order.

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance

Final Fantasy IX

Final Fantasy XII

Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask

Fire Emblem(FE7, Blazing Sword, Rekka no Ken, etc.)

Final Fantasy VII

Final Fantasy VIII

Pokemon Blue Version

Final Fantasy(the original)

Final Fantasy XII: Revenant Wings

Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney

Phoenix Wright: Justice For All

Kingdom Hearts II

...Okay, I managed fourteen. Still, that's better than three. Welp, now for explanations.

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance. This game I love to pieces, not only for the compelling gameplay and amazing storyline, but for one boy I met through it; one wicked, funny, troubled, wild, amazing boy, full of darkness and sparkle, who is now one of my best spirit friends in the 'verse and I hope will be for a long, long time. Soren of the Greil Mercenaries.

A lifetime being labelled as 'boring, grumpy introvert, who couldn't have fun if the world was a party, and has no sense of humour' by the placental mammals* can be pretty annoying, when you know that you're not like that, inside. Sure, you're cynical, but in this world that comes with having a brain, dear. And what, never heard of black humour? Apparently not. And who says that just 'cause you aren't a naive little kid-type, you can't get joy out of simple things? I'll have you know I can draw with chalk on pavements, blow bubbles and play hopscotch with the best of them! Only, when people see you do that, it's point-and-laugh time. So...you hide. But playing's not so much fun when you're on your own.

Soren and I have had fun together. We've sung along to The Killers, tag-team-taunted Shinon, and tag-team-snarked annoying placental mammals(even if they couldn't hear us, it was enjoyable anyway). We've jumped on my bed and chanted 'Five Little Monkeys' till we really did fall off, danced the Witchy Dance to the Fire Emblem theme and to 'Keep The Faith', terrified Stefan, thrown popcorn at Naesala, collaborated on complex and insane ninja plots, and just hung out together, each reading our own books or listening to music or whatever, comfortable in each other's company. He's been a true boon companion.

That would be a lot, on its own. But being friends with Soren's been good for me in another way too. It's forced me to seriously think about the ramifications of privilege, and to be more conscious of my own(and thus better at checking it). It's also made me think about the label of 'victim', and how harmful and limiting that label can be-whether it's other people labelling you, or you labelling yourself. It's helped me have the courage to look at the world without painting my glasses rose-pink, and not flinch. It's made me a wiser person.

Much love to ya...Lady Senerio.(No, I am never going to stop calling you that. Ever. :P)

Final Fantasy IX. This was the game that really got me into gaming. I picked it up on a whim in a little game store in my hometown that's closed now...and my life was changed forever.

I'm trying to put words around the idea, but...it's too much, too hard. I've been trying to put words round the idea, really, since I started writing fanfiction for it, and I know I've not managed to capture a hundredth part of what I saw and felt.

I'll just say that Zidane has been an inspiration to me. Trying to shine like a jewel is hard work, but it's worth it, I think.

Final Fantasy XII. This one was all about the scenery for me, really-the scale of it. The expanse of the Westersand or Tchita Uplands, the gloom and glory of the Sochen Cave Palace or the Stilshrine of Miriam.

On top of that, Fran is awesome. The runaway who made good. Or at least made fun bad! Her aching family situation struck a chord with me. It still hurts-I could see in her face, in Eruyt, when she first entered and talked to Jote-she looked like a little kid, hurt and confused, and that made my heart clench, because she was strong, she was capable and clever, she was respected and looked up to and yet here in front of the family who'd disowned her she was once more a sad little kid.

She's a sky pirate, but she's still a little girl, who misses her sisters and her home.

And she's that little girl, but she's also a sky pirate, who can fix an airship and fly a hoverbike and snatch a treasure out from under the noses of who-knows-how-many nobles and Imperials. Who travels the world, wild and free, and-I think-happy. On the whole.

Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. What is it with me and individual, amazing characters?

This time, it was Midna. Because, really, Midna is awesome. And that is all.

Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask. This one stays with me for its utter creepiness. Moon with a face that SCOWLS...and the masks, oh god the masks...poor Mikau...

I never actually finished this(got stuck somewhere after the sea temple)but I may never be able to get it out of my head.

However much I try.

Fire Emblem. Because of all the amazing people in Steel Bird Pack. Because of peerless warrior Lyndis and daft dear Hector and gentle, brave Eliwood, and all their legion, their horde, their elite. And, mostly, because of Legault. Because Legault is one in a million.

Thank goodness.

Final Fantasy VII. Because of the utterly confusing story, because of Aeris and how she was the one who came up with the utterly flawless idea of crossdressing Cloud, and because I met Caity there.

Final Fantasy VIII. Because of the Garden. I've spent more time as a student than anything else, and I feel I know my way around schools-for better or for worse-so writing fic for it is natural in ways that it isn't for other games. Also, because of the discussion that me and Athene got into about what videogames the cast play.(I gave her a new reason to hate Rinoa. As if she needed any more. :) )

Pokemon Blue Version. Because it was the first RPG that ever I played. Ever. So it was kind of like my introduction to the mechanics of RPGing. And the first computer game I was really into. And because I had a Ninetales. Fire breathing kitsune!

Final Fantasy. Because of Amano's gorgeous, eerie, evocative art. The 'Strange Land' picture will be with me till I die. I want a print of it.

Final Fantasy XII: Revenant Wings. Because due to some very nasty meds that I am thankfully no longer on, I've some idea what it's like to lose your anima. So I can really sympathise with the aegyl. Also, because of the Cu Sith, and because of that one Cu Sith that was friends with Tomaj. I don't know why.

Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney. Because this was so much darker and more twisted than the other Phoenix Wright games, because of hobo-Phoenix with his mild manner hiding a steel heart, and because it will always be my headcanon that Thalassa Gramarye was a BITCH.

Phoenix Wright: Justice For All. Because of Franziska. 'Nuff said. Because I've said it already.

Kingdom Hearts II. Because of how beautiful and awful the World That Never Was is, and because of the unfairness that made me fume. Also, because Xigbar has a surfer-dude accent and a ponytail and hangs upside-down in mid-air, and there is no possible way that that is not win.

EDIT: And a fifteenth! Can't believe I didn't remember this before, but, Sonic Chronicles: The Dark Brotherhood. Because of my Echidna. And also because of the Timmy joke. ^_^

*Eagle's current code for Boring People, particularly People Who Like Boxes. A further explanation may or may not be forthcoming; watch this space.

Homeland

Recently I reread Wee Free Men.

I love that book, but it's always made my heart ache. Because Tiffany has things I've never had and never will...an ancestry, and an ancient homeland. Tiffany is pure calkin girl, she has the hills in her bones. Her face and her name. Her eyes and her hair. Tir-far-thoinn. One place out of all the world that is hers, Land Under Wave.

Me, I'm a mongrel, a muddle of different lineages, so many that they cancel each other out and it's like having none-I have no ancestry, only ancestors. And my ancestors came here, to this bit of the world, only very recently...

But I reread this book, and something struck me a different way, and I thought.

This land is not like the chalk downlands, it is not ancient, but like the chalk downlands it was made by men. Men moved the earth around, planted trees and raised buildings. They brought plants from every corner of the globe to grow in their gardens, and they laid down paths among their houses. Just as men, so long ago, cut down the trees of the old forest and brought in sheep that ate the seedlings in the grass...

This land is. It is real. Not some abstract, historical ideal, but real earth and stone and concrete. It is a real place, and there is life here. Humans, animals, the million small tough plants mixed in with the short grass in lawns and parks. Down to the clay and the chalk below(for all South England is built on chalk), this land is alive.

Men brought many things to this land. Plants grow here that have grown here since time immemorial-oak, ash, thorn-but also there are plants that men brought over the water. And plants that men made, breeding for shape or colour or taste. They grow here just as well. I can be one more transplanted thing, here, one more naturalised citizen of the earth. There is a place for such as me.

There is beauty in this land. There is the big sky, which is more beautiful here than anywhere in the country. Painters come here, just for sky. There are the trees. I climbed a hill, here, and saw the patchwork land laid out before me; I found a still small pool, surrounded all by trees, and light shimmered down onto it at sunset. When I was at Longsands, there was a courtyard there, and in that courtyard a cherry tree. In spring it blossomed, and then it was a tree of wonder, a tree of pink-white foam, a tree fit for samurai to write poems to. But it did not care that no samurai saw, that no-one respected it or wrote haiku in its honour. It just was. And maybe some people saw. I know that I did. Maybe there were others...

There is cruelty in this land. But I can accept that. There is cruelty in every land. This is one problem that Tiffany has no advantage over me on. She knows that the people of her land can be just as vicious and unthinking as people anywhere. There was the old lady...What was done to her made Tiffany angry and ashamed and resolved that it should not happen again, not while she drew breath. But it didn't make her feel that she didn't belong right where she was.

I have lived in this land all my life. I know it. They say that the landscape you live in for the first seven years of your life leaves a mark on you. I do not know how true that is, but it is true for me, I think.

The ancient lands have their witches and wizards, and all know. Tiffany tells the hills what they are, and they tell her what she is. But is there anyone to tell this land what it is? Not just the parts of it that are old, but the new? The suburbs lying quiet in the hot sun, the man-made gardens, the playgrounds in the parks? The boats on the river with puttering motor engines? This land is real, as real as any land. When I was jealous of Tiffany it was because I felt less real than her, that my land was less real, because it was not so old and pure. But that's all wrong. Time isn't everything.

This land has no name that I know. There are names for the counties and towns, but there is no name for the land.

I will look for one. I will tell the land what it is.

Maybe if I listen, it will tell me what I am.

I am not one of us

I don't know if it's just me, but I've never felt quite included.

Technically I am a member of many groups. Not groups like organisations, that's a whole 'nother post subject and one for later, but...demographics. English. Mixed race. Genderqueer. Fantasy geek. Etcetera. I don't deny this. It's obvious.

Yet whenever anyone says 'us', no matter how stirring their speech is, no matter whether I think their sentiments are right or wrong...a little voice inside me says, 'I'm not one of you.'

Not in any insulting way, you understand. Not 'I'm not one of you!' hurled like an insult, defiant and secretly terrified, but simply a statement of face. I'm not one of you. Full stop.

I don't really understand why. It's just been...well, a rock-solid certainty, for as far back as I can remember.

Maybe it's psychological. Something to do with my parents-my mother refusing to admit I was part African, my father refusing to admit I was part English, in the simplified version. Maybe it was because I hated baby dolls and action-men both as a kid, and played instead with plastic animals, narrating long complex stories with my lions and tigers and bears(oh my). I don't know.

All I know is that whatever you are, whatever I am, I am not one of you.

That does not mean I don't sympathise with your problems, or that I think you are Wrong and I am Right, or that I pig-headedly deny that we share a common enemy or friend. All it means is that I am not one of you.

I am not plural. I am me, singular, and that is all.

What that means...I don't know.

The universal opera; Aquila's internal dialogue

Most people have an internal monologue. I got an internal dialogue.

These guys aren’t figments(save Caity, who straddles the border). They are me; they are also complete entities unto themselves. I don’t know how this is possible but it clearly is, and the world was never under any obligation to make sense to me.

And you can call it crazy if you like, but having them around and personified has helped my mental health, as far as I can tell.

That said, here’s the roster.

Caity: Impossible to define with any accuracy, other than as himself. He goes by the name Devin these days when hanging with figment folk; on Sygnus years ago when he shifted skin and introduced himself to someone else’s figments he asked for a name to be called by, and was given that one by one of them.

He originally came into my head from outside, but you could say he’s a naturalised citizen by now. He’s kind of an ambassador or messenger between the figment folk(mine and other peoples’), the independent little spirits(story people or talking stones or anything else-whichever), and the rest of the internal dialogue.

Tigris: Shoulder angel. Inner angel. Holy Guardian Angel. I’ve mentioned him before. He’s a personification of strength and virtue-specifically my strength and virtue-the best self I have.

He’s been around for absolutely ages, but I only personified him, figured out his name and face, a couple years ago now(maybe just one year…I have a crappy memory for timeline stuff). Tigris is the Latin word for ‘tiger’, a spur-of-the-moment naming on my part for this huge, marmaladey-orangey-golden-tabby beast with his saber fangs and clear gold eyes and Professor of Literature voice. As Athene reminded me, though, the Tigris is also one of the rivers that flows through Eden. I’m sure he was thinking that, even if I wasn’t. Caity and Knux call him Tig or Tigger sometimes, which is another thing that’s Athene’s fault; Demyx usually refers to him as Big Tigger, when he isn’t doing his Organisation name thing.

I vaguely expected him to be more distant and humourless than he is; boy, was I wrong! Though he takes a hands-off approach a lot of the time, it’s all about practicality, not to mention integrity and respect; his job is to teach, not coddle. And he is not humourless by any stretch of the imagination! His sense of humour is actually a good deal more robust than mine, probably because he’s a stronger person.

And then he’ll go and totally knock me for a loop by responding in kind when Stefen makes innuendo(I didn’t even understand what he was doing at the time, because it didn’t occur to me that he would!)or declaring that Franziska is his daughter, or becoming very close friends with Knux…

Tigris, these days, lives on Angel Island with Knux, in a cave near the edge of Marble Garden Zone that strangely resembles Tumnus’s home in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.(That is, when they're not being their otherselves, which I'm still finding out about so watch this space...)They had a big row recently over Gold(see earlier posts for details on him)and it looked for awhile as though Tigris might move out, but by now they have made up.

Franziska: Shoulder demon. That nasty little voice saying how weak and stupid and pathetic you are…or else goading you into being a total bastard. She’s from inside, like Tigris, and like him she’s been around for ages and her shape and name are just qualia. Unlike him, they are pinched directly from a spirit woman called Franziska von Karma, of Phoenix Wright: Justice For All fame.

When Franziska first got personified I expected her to be more or less straightforward nasty, all the bits of me I could really do without and need to get rid of as soon as possible; not quite a boggart, more along the lines of Screwtape(‘he can’t really love-nobody can-it doesn’t make sense’ wailed that demon on one occasion). Life is rarely simple however, and Franziska turned out to be rather more complex.

Christianity has it that devils are fallen angels; that badness is goodness fouled and twisted, rather than something autonomous in itself. The worst demons are the ones that fell the furthest-Lucifer was an archangel once. Franziska, I discovered recently, was also not always what she is now. Once she was the rightful wielder of the sword that rests between my shoulderblades(all people have one there). She was a desire for justice, for fair play in all things.

She fell, though. Somehow or other, she fell. Now she’s all muddled up with anger and spite and self-flagellation and hollow pride that hides burgeoning, breeding inferiority complexes. Now, she can’t or won’t touch the sword, and she’s a thousand miles away from dispensing justice. Quite the opposite, actually.

When I described her to Athene, she said It sounds a bit like she set herself an impossible task - to prevent anyone getting away with evil - and is mad at herself for not succeeding at it. I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but it seems pretty accurate.

Tigris says she’s his daughter. He refuses to elaborate on that. But he does seem to care for her, though he doesn’t stand for any of her demonic attitude.

Knux(Knuckles for long): My Knight of Swords, with shades of Strength and The Tower. He could be from inside, he could be from outside; I honestly do not know and cannot tell. He’s…well, if I say ‘ego’ that sounds wrong. He isn’t a selfish person, or a cruel one. But he knows what he likes and is prepared to get it, he knows what he is and is prepared to be it, and he doesn’t give a damn for anyone’s arbitrary categories, hence the t-shirt he sometimes flomps around in; on the back is a bunch of green ones and zeroes, on the front the words BINARY IS FOR BADNIKS, with a little picture of a seriously trashed robot underneath.

He can be kind, and wise, but is definitely not subtle; a good knock-down fight is always his first and preferred option. He picks fights, but never at random; it’s just that he won’t walk on by when he sees something he can’t accept. He’s smart about knowing when is the time to attack, though, and when is the time to wait and sharpen his spikes. He’d rescue princesses from towers, not for the glory or the romance of it(because he frankly hasn’t got a romantic bone in his body)but because they were there and they needed rescuing. He’d also rescue dragons from knights, for the same reason. He and Tigris bonded pretty much immediately; they share something of the same sense of humour. Quite often Knux can be found using Tigris as a sofa or pillow(which Tigris does not seem to mind in the slightest), or lying between the big cat’s front paws and being thoroughly washed(which Knux does not seem to mind in the slightest).

He lives on Angel Island, which floats about above the clouds on the power of the Master Emerald and goes just about wherever he wants it to go. I sometimes think he is Angel Island, somehow. I’ve heard before of people who are places, so it follows that some places might be people, and the impossible geography of the Floating Island sometimes looks to me like a depiction of his own mind and heart…

Demyx the Demon DJ(D3 or D-cubed for short): Probably the weirdest of the lot. Another one who uses qualia unashamedly-his form is ‘borrowed’ from one of the Nobodies of Organisation XIII.

The original Demyx is a musician, and my Demyx is the music in my head, the invisible orchestra that no-one can hear but me. It all comes out of his magic sitar-everything from classical to J-pop by way of rock and roll. When he isn’t singing along with it, he generally talks obliquely, in circles. He’s probably the most mysterious of the dialogue-nobody can ever get a straight answer from him on anything. He has a habit, too, of referring to people not by their own names but by those of members of Organisation XIII. Knux generally gets called ‘Lexaeus’; Tigris is ‘Xemnas’, or ‘Saix’. Caity is ‘Luxord’.

He is also in love with Franziska. He endlessly flirts with her, which she reacts to with alarm and confusion. I’ve a suspicion she actually likes it, though-even when he’s calling her ‘Larxene’.

He spends his time in his own version of the Castle That Never Was, the Castle That Always Is-a shimmering confection of crystal walkways and pearly towers, under a moon shaped like a heart and a million shining stars. That is, when he’s not following Franziska to her home, and singing under her window…

Pride(In The Name of...What?)

Question for the world! Is pride okay or not?

I read a LOT of Christian writings-despite not being Christian myself at any point, though I came close a few times-and in those Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, as you know.

Read Mere Christianity sometime for a good potted summary. Pride is defined there as enmity between humans and other humans, between humans and God. Pride takes no pleasure out of having something-only out of having more than someone else. Pride is what drives people to ride roughshod over people, just cause they can. Pride is when you don't care what people think of you, cause the only opinion you care about is your own...

And I believed this, y'know. Not cause I was spoonfed it-well, maybe a bit-but because I KNOW I can be an insufferable prig at times. A snob of major proportions.

Only...

Only I've been reading recently about some other ideas. Like 'constructive ego'. This idea threw me for a loop a bit-always has.

A voice-yeah, another one-turned up in my head. He's not so disassociated from 'me' as the other voices...sometimes it feels like he's a mask I wear, or I'm a mask he wears, and neither of us can tell which. I can't love or hate him because he's too close to really being me.

Let's call him Gold.

Gold is proud. He takes no crap from anyone. He likes to be acclaimed and praised-he doesn't suffer from the stagefright that I do-and he's not ashamed to admit it. He doesn't scuttle around with his head down.

Gold thinks he has a right to be who he is. He doesn't have to apologise for it, and he doesn't have to pay for the right to exist. In a 'discussion group' here with some other patients, one woman said unhappily that she felt she was useless, no good in the world, and didn't deserve to live because of it, that it'd be better for the world if she was dead. Everyone started saying things like no, I'm sure you've done good-did you ever see that movie Clarence, small things you've done might have big consequences-you must have done Good Things whether you think so or not.

And Gold spoke up through my mouth, and said that answers like that were well-meaning but they were wrong at a basic level. You have the right to exist, he said. You don't have to pay for your life by doing good works. It's good if you do, of course, it's good to be a good person. But you don't have to work at deserving your life. Me, I was born. The rest of the world just has to put up with it.

He got given some astonished looks, and then a round of applause.

I'd have expected Gold to be pure selfish bastard, but he isn't, which continually surprises me. He has this weird but genuine respect for other people that seems to come of viewing them as equals. You aren't above me, so don't get on your high horse and ride over me. You aren't below me either, so don't bow and scrape. We can look each other in the eyes.

He's free to be kind, too...Another thing that surprises me. But after that discussion group Debbie-the one friend I have here, though she's an outpatient now-was feeling depressed. It was Gold who went to cheer her up, hugged her and invited her out for a meal in town, took her mind off the bad stuff with friendly talk till she felt better.

Humane. That's the word. He's weirdly, unexpectedly humane.

He's not good, and I don't know about nice-he's too sarcastic for that! And I don't know if he's right, either...

...Despite all this, though, I want him to stay.

When I'm Gold, I feel strong.

But I worry that I'm...well...Sinning.

I just don't know.

Gloomy Post of Gloominess

Athene isn't answering her email.

Ash seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

I am bored here and convinced that I'm going even more bonkers than I already was.

I'd scream, but really, I just don't have the energy.

AAARGH!

Well, I now cannot get into my old blog for complicated technical reasons that pass my understanding. I'll try and copy all the stuff in it into here when I have time.

And Athene wonders why I said being coauthor on taarot would be too much trouble!

Big post of thinky and fear and so forth

Been reading some stuff on Dw3t-Hthr’s blog about fear of motherhood, fear not of the ‘I don’t want this, don’t make me do this!’ sort, but fear that goes hand in hand with the wanting, fear and want twined round each other like a nest of garter snakes. She talks about fear of what she might do to her kids, what she might inflict on them-passing on the generational curse. I understand that, and I wish I didn’t.

Reading it makes me think about my own fears. I’m scared of what I’ll do to my children, what kind of parent I’ll be, because the first people we learn parenting from are our own parents and mine taught me so many bad things that I am still painfully unlearning. I don’t want to be my mother and snap and lash out and try to stuff my children into a just-like-me box made out of ticky-tacky. I don’t want to be my father and live in a world of my own, not paying attention to what my children actually think or say, meaning well but being totally unreachable because when they talk to me I don’t listen, don’t even register their voices. I want to teach and protect and not be a burden of spikes digging into their minds, hanging on them as they try to grow up. I don’t want to be a monster…

And as well as that, and even worse than that…I’m scared of what my children will be. Maybe that train of thought started with my fiercely hating my mother, wanting so badly for her to be out of my life, and having everyone tell me that this was Normal. Everyone hates their mother when they are Teenage. Everyone rebels when they are Teenage, purely out of spite, for the sake of rebelling. Because god knows, Teenagers don’t have any thoughts of their own, they don’t see their own paths and try to follow them, they just want to make their parents angry…

I heard that over and over, and somewhere in there I started doubting myself, and that added to the misery…

(These days I don’t have much hate left towards my mother. Just resignation and sadness. And a firm determination to cut all ties with her sharply, as soon as I can support myself. Not solely for my sake. I could cope, you know, if I just had to see her once a year at Christmas or whatever, and that could be managed if I only moved far enough away…But I don’t want her anywhere near my children. Ever. Not even for one day a year. I don’t want that poison in their lives.)

However it started, I’m scared. What if my children hate me? What if they rebel against me, and the way to do that will be to become Normal People, geek-hating, gay-bashing Mundanes like those that made my growing-up hell…

I want children so badly, but what if they turn out to be objects of fear?

It makes me want to cry and hide my head under the blankets. And meanwhile a small annoying voice in my head says I’m getting ahead of myself, worrying about stuff that won’t happen for years yet. But it’s my future that keeps me going, the thought of my future; if the Promised Land turns out to be another deathtrap, where will you live…?

And I don’t have any answers.

But then I start examining myself and think that what this all boils down to is that I don’t trust. I don’t trust myself to be a good or passable parent. I don’t trust my unborn kids to have the good sense to be decent people. I just realised that I also don’t trust my girl-my future wife, and thinking that lifts me out of my misery a little, gives me a happy little buzz-to help me, help catch my mistakes. I don’t trust in my own strength to cope if the Worst Case Scenario actually happens. I don’t trust my God and my little gods and spirits to help me and give me strength…

And then I remember what Athene said a long time ago about trust and trustworthiness, that Zidane didn’t find people trustworthy by never trusting them, never trying to trust.(And that means accepting the possibility of getting hurt, and not letting the hurt when it comes turn you bitter…)

And I wonder if maybe total inability to trust isn’t what makes Silvers, or some of them at least. If maybe closing yourself in and threatening the host of monsters outside with a knife isn’t what makes you a monster, too. There’s got to be a middle ground between naïveté and cynicism; between the idiot that can’t smell a trap a mile off, and the idiot whose mantra is ‘it’s not paranoia if they really ARE all out to get you’. The Golden Mean, and all that.

I’m working on it.

The back-from-dad's place update

A thumb-sized plastic Squall Leonhart is a surprisingly comforting thing to have in one’s pocket, even if his gunblade is broken.

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My father is still impossible to talk to.

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Captain Carrot and Lloyd Irving are possibly very nearly the same person. I must research this.

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My faithful DS is dead. It died of internal bleeding, and I am much annoyed about this. I’m saving up for a new one.

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My aunt and uncle and cousins came through big time with regards to presents. SERGEANT PEPPER’S!

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I’ve put on weight. It’s probably all those duck legs. For some reason it all seems to go to my belly, nowhere else. Some of you are probably making pregnancy jokes on reading this. All I can say is, if it is pregnancy, we are probably about to witness the birth of a new religion. Someone should phone the Archbishop of Canterbury.

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I hate politics. Hate hate hate.

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Ian is still a prat. Why does he have to act like he’s lord of the manor all the time? AAARGH!

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Tomorrow I have another appointment about getting psychiatric help. It looks like we are actually getting somewhere soonish.

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All in all, things could be worse.

My grandmother is a bitch.

Roll on the seventeenth when I can go up to Dad's place.

Thank you, that is all.

...well, this is a new one.

Yesterday my mother went out to a parent/teacher meeting at Ian’s school, mostly OK save for flu. She came back doubled over and clutching her stomach and asking Ian(he was closest at the time)to call 999.

I went in the ambulance with her to the hospital, and I’m not sure why. Duty, maybe. Curiosity. Probably some of it was that I wanted to get out of the house and away from Ian, too. I didn’t feel upset the way I would if someone I loved was sick. I haven’t loved my mother for years…if I ever did in the first place. You need a personality to be capable of love, and as soon as mine developed it was in opposition to my mother’s. Opposing personalities can be reconciled, but…not in this case. There’s just too much bad blood between us for me to ever think of her with affection.

On the other hand, I DEFINITELY wasn’t gloating. I didn’t feel good about it at all.

I wasn’t sure what to feel, really. I felt blank inside. And vaguely panicked. Slow-motion panic. I didn’t scream or shout. I’d been reading Tales of Symphonia fics online the previous night; somewhere at the back of my mind I thought about blank-faced ‘angels’ with their souls locked up, and the famous Aurion poker face. I always thought that face was a trick; something he, and others I know, had learned how to do in order to conceal their emotions. Now I wonder whether sometimes stuff happened that they didn’t know how to deal with, didn’t know what to feel about…so they just went blank. I was wearing that face.

Symphonia also made me think of the Orchestra, and thinking of the Orchestra made me think of other Packs, and I wanted very badly to be with a Pack just then-somewhere warm and noisy with lots of friendly people. I wanted to see long-time rivals bicker and long-time lovers snuggle.(These are sometimes the same people of course, and sometimes they even do both at once…)I didn’t want to actually talk to anyone, though. Just sort of sit there and be warmed by other peoples’ normal lives-or what passes for normal life, in a Pack. A good, accustomed weirdness. In a way I would have preferred to be with the Orchestra than with my own Pack or with the Emblem Packs. People in those Packs know me well, they’d want to talk to me and involve me in things. The Orchestra are friendly but they aren’t so close to me, and they have their own problems right now with a couple of unexpected and troublesome visitors to host. They’d probably let me sit down someplace, and just carry on whatever they were doing around me. That was about all I felt up to, really.

I didn’t talk to my spirits. My mind had sort of shut down. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, even if they were in my head, even if they were parts of me.

I wonder what the paramedics and the folk at the hospital thought of me. The blank-faced teenager who sat very still and stared at the wall, or read a book silently.

Though, a lot of people in the Accident and Emergency waiting room were quiet…everyone was, actually, save one babe-in-arms. Maybe that’s normal. I got a chocolate bar and some terrible tea from a vending machine. I felt very cold, physically and mentally; the tea and chocolate helped a bit, but not much.

Before my grandparents picked me up and took me home again, I found out what was the problem, at least. A urine infection-probably. The weird thing is, though, my mother didn’t display any of the usual symptoms of urine infection. And I’ve had urine infections before, and they were annoying and painful, but they didn’t leave me doubled over and shaking uncontrollably. The healerfolk think it’s possibly something to do with her recently having had a coil fitted.(The thought of those things has always freaked me out a bit. I suppose I shouldn’t comment on methods of contraception, since I’ve never had a reason to use any of them; still, there’s something creepy about fitting metal semi-permanently into your reproductive organs. And what about TSS?)

She’s staying in the hospital overnight, at least; don’t know when she’ll be back, though the doctor said it will be okay, it’s not life-threatening.

I also feel annoyed at how useless I was. Of course, I’m not healer trained, and I did all I could in the situation, and professionals were there who had the thing in hand, and it’s not like I ran out and left her in trouble, but still. Something real happened here for once-a genuine emergency-and I was useless. It makes me feel ineffectual, resentful and annoyed. Also annoyed at myself FOR feeling like that, when it’s so pointless.

*sighs*

I hope I never have to go through this again…though, with my mother getting older, odds are I probably will. Or something along these lines, anyway.