Hunting the Suicune; this is a new phrase in the land of its birth, one coined by recent developments, a recent person who is becoming legend. To hunt the Suicune is to chase your dreams; to quest after a hopeless cause; to seek and never give up, though you never glimpse your quarry, but to carry on seeking from pure orneriness; to go to see the elephant, travelling because you’re sick to the stomach of staying in the same place; to try and go out beyond the edges of things. “Now, bring me that horizon.”
I’m waiting on the delivery of the Hoenn games, fingers twitch-itch-itching to press the little buttons on the little controller and begin to kythe. Only that’s a lie; I’m kything already, but bits and pieces, guesswork and stepping stones. When the package comes in the post and the cart’s in the bottom slot of my little red spaceship, that’s when I’ll let myself fall into the river, be carried by the currents out to sea. When the kything becomes the air you breathe and the ground you walk on. (Earth, sea and air; Hoenn again there, the slow strong amoral forces that birthed the world where life can be.)
I don’t know what I’ll kythe from Hoenn, though I have guesses.
(And there’s an irony in all this; I walked those paths before and didn’t feel a thing, too caught up in annoyance at new game mechanics and the absence of old favourite Pokémon. I didn’t care for the third gen ‘dex; couldn’t see the beauty in the Hoenn beasts. Too narrow. Always too narrow. It’s always that way with me, maybe with everyone, like Jack pointed out in The Magician’s Nephew; try to be stupider than you are and you’ll succeed, try to be deaf and blind and you’ll succeed. Say No, not this, I do not accept this-and it won’t go away-it never does-but it’ll go from you. Or never show itself at all. It’s possible to go through the world with eyes closed, sleepwalking, and everybody does it at some stage, in some places.)
My guesses, my snippets, my dreams; earthquakes, volcanoes and tidal waves, hurricane and typhoon, twister coming-
-it's about the stars
the way they burn, the way they kill
it’s about the black acid ocean
the way the planet’s heart is red-hot iron
gravity that crushes
radioactivity
so many different ways to die-
so many different things we need
because we need all of them to be
or we cannot be.
the world is destruction
fury without malice.
all order is based on chaos.
Glory to Groudon. Glory to Kyogre.
...
The people of Hoenn-from them I kythe human warmth. Schoolteachers in sensible shoes. Old men who like to laugh. Lovers billing and cooing. An exuberant twychild. Stories, human stories, familiar as paving stones and sweet as Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.
Maybe that’s paradox, but to me that just looks like life.
I’ve been listening to the Lilo and Stitch soundtrack lately; the gorgeous sounds of Mark Keali’i Ho’omalu and the Kamehameha Schools Children’s Chorus have become the Hoenn Sound, for me. Hoenn roller coaster ride? Maybe so. It crossed my mind just now that Hawaii is volcanic. Lava and ocean water. Hoenn has Mount Pyre; I’ll have to wait for the playthrough, as I really can’t remember the geography, but perhaps there’ll be some similarities of appearance at least?
And I’m pretty sure that Wallace knows how to surf, as well as Surf. Hehe.
Showing posts with label lucky dip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lucky dip. Show all posts
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Monday, 26 October 2009
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!
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Because hellfires, I had to talk about it SOME time
When I was a kid, I assumed I was female. This was on the not unreasonable grounds that everyone I knew said I was, and at the tender age of five or so I didn't see any coherent argument that'd have me disagreeing with them. I just said 'huh' mentally and went back to the more important things, like playing with my plastic animals, riding my bike round the green, pestering my mother to let me have a pet(unsuccessfully), and devouring 101 Dalmatians.
I was, however, somewhat uncomfortable. I couldn't, at that point, really put my finger on why.
One of my mother's saving graces is that she did, to her credit, stress that girls could do anything they wanted(although in my teenage years I was darkly amused they still, apparently, had to do 'anything' with shaved legs and painted faces.) Nevertheless, I didn't feel comfortable. Something just didn't feel quite right.
I remember watching Pokemon and Digimon on TV-the first anime shows I ever saw. That'd be later, when I was around ten. I remember watching them religiously, but...always being slightly confused, in the back of my head. Surely I should like Misty best, because she was a Girl like me. Or Sora. Maybe not Mimi, because she was too pink and frilly and helpless and, well, girly, but Misty and Sora were tough and brave. I liked them.
I liked them just fine, but...why did I like Ash and Izzy best of all?
I assumed it was A Crush. Girls had crushes on Boys, I knew. However, I didn't want to kiss these boys. I wanted to be them. Or to be their friends. I wanted to be Ash, with mythical beasts sleeping at my belt and riding on my shoulder, loyal friends at my side, and all the paintbox landscape to explore. I wanted to be Izzy, and have everyone amazed at my smartness, have friends who respected me and knew me as, well, me. Not a girl. Not even a smart girl. Me.
I knew girls could be smart. They could be Nobel-Prize-Winner smart. They could be Gym Leaders and Lady Knights and world-saving heroines. And yet...and yet...
When puberty hit, I was appalled at what my body was doing to me. It just seemed all wrong. Why was I bleeding and cramping? What the hell were these things on my chest, could someone please take them off? The females in my life said it was just part of being a woman. I felt I'd gotten a bum deal.
But Girls were Girls, and Boys were Boys. I knew that. So I had to try and be a Girl.
I drew the line at pink, however.
I also refused point-blank to have anything to do with bras, makeup, or fashion. The bras thing was simply because I hated wearing something so uncomfortable, but makeup and fashion I despised because I had somehow gotten hold of the idea that the only people interested in their appearance were vain, shallow and catty. Being a frump was Honest. Also, more comfortable and easier.(I eventually managed to realise that a mild interest in playing dress-up did not preclude an intelligent and thoughtful nature; this was thanks to some very nice spirit-women I met up with. Peace and love to them, wherever they are.)
My mother tried in vain to persuade me to be a Proper Girl and Dress Nicely. I fought back with all of my might. I won, more or less, though on special occasions I would have to wear a Nice Dress. Not a dress, I wore those all the time-they were comfier than pants, and I didn't really care what they looked like. For some time my favourite item of clothing was a stripy blue cotton sundress, which I had had for several years, and which had gotten pulled more or less totally out of shape in the course of that time, till in the end my mother, despairing, threw it in the bin when I put it in for the wash. That, and the blue fleece with red stars on it that Sendalinde stole to give to one of his adopted orphans-but a Pretty Dress, which you had to be careful wearing, which she would say made me look nice. I didn't think so. I looked in the mirror and felt glum.
A memory that leaps out at me-I did Work Experience at the Raptor Foundation, cleaning out the cages of rescued birds of prey, petting a cockatoo called Zu, and once picking up an adorable little owlet. It was cold, messy work, so I wore a heavy fleece, and trousers, and my hair pulled back under a hood. One day I was cleaning out some kestrels when a visitor to the place-an old fellow, white-haired-noticed me and asked me for directions to someplace. The toilets or something. I forget what. He called me 'young man'.
When he called me that...I felt suddenly, unreasonably happy and pleased. But that was wrong! I knew I was a Girl. And he had made a mistake. So I pretended instead to be offended and corrected him, and he apologised, and all was well. But I kept turning that incident over in my mind. I told myself I was indignant. I almost convinced myself that was true.
A similar thing happened when I got my hair cut short for the first time, then looked in the mirror and saw a younger version of my father's face looking back at me.
This was about the time that I really got into reading porn, and I seriously wondered about my preferences due to this. See, when I got a crush, it was always on a girl. When I thought someone was hot, girl. But I was bored by femslash. I preferred yaoi or het. I had absolutely no idea what was up with that. The reason, though I didn't know it, was that I couldn't identify with a female. So it stayed 'sex happening to someone else'...
Another memory. I took a fencing class for awhile. I needed to wear a sports bra while I did this. One day after I had put it on I looked down at myself and thought 'holy fuck, those are tits. And not a bad pair either.' And started crying.
Then one day, I was searching the net for veves, the Vodoun god-sigils, and info about the lwa. Why is another long story for another time, but anyway, I found this site. And, well, I read the stuff on religion, and then, cause I am a voracious reader, started on the stuff about being trans. And I followed a few links, and read some more things, most notably Venus Envy...
I did not, however, manage to put it all together in my head till some months later.
I was in the bath. I don't know what it is with me and bathtime revelations. It just happened. Everything came together and holy god, I was petrified. I sat there an hour, while the water got cold, just thinking Holy shit I'm fucked.
That was only the beginning of Figuring It Out. It took awhile, and a few talks with Athene, but eventually I was done Figuring It. Or, well, not done, but...reasonably certain to be going on with.
I still have to present as female, because coming out would open up so many cans of worms I might as well start a bait shop. That will have to wait for later, after I'm free of my family and on top of my OCD and generally In Control Of My Life. The waiting annoys me a lot sometimes. Like the time when someone chided me for not being 'ladylike' and I wanted so badly to scream at her, I'm not a lady!(I controlled myself and kept silent.)But I think I can handle the wait. As long as Ash knows who I am, and as long as I know. I can handle it.
I was, however, somewhat uncomfortable. I couldn't, at that point, really put my finger on why.
One of my mother's saving graces is that she did, to her credit, stress that girls could do anything they wanted(although in my teenage years I was darkly amused they still, apparently, had to do 'anything' with shaved legs and painted faces.) Nevertheless, I didn't feel comfortable. Something just didn't feel quite right.
I remember watching Pokemon and Digimon on TV-the first anime shows I ever saw. That'd be later, when I was around ten. I remember watching them religiously, but...always being slightly confused, in the back of my head. Surely I should like Misty best, because she was a Girl like me. Or Sora. Maybe not Mimi, because she was too pink and frilly and helpless and, well, girly, but Misty and Sora were tough and brave. I liked them.
I liked them just fine, but...why did I like Ash and Izzy best of all?
I assumed it was A Crush. Girls had crushes on Boys, I knew. However, I didn't want to kiss these boys. I wanted to be them. Or to be their friends. I wanted to be Ash, with mythical beasts sleeping at my belt and riding on my shoulder, loyal friends at my side, and all the paintbox landscape to explore. I wanted to be Izzy, and have everyone amazed at my smartness, have friends who respected me and knew me as, well, me. Not a girl. Not even a smart girl. Me.
I knew girls could be smart. They could be Nobel-Prize-Winner smart. They could be Gym Leaders and Lady Knights and world-saving heroines. And yet...and yet...
When puberty hit, I was appalled at what my body was doing to me. It just seemed all wrong. Why was I bleeding and cramping? What the hell were these things on my chest, could someone please take them off? The females in my life said it was just part of being a woman. I felt I'd gotten a bum deal.
But Girls were Girls, and Boys were Boys. I knew that. So I had to try and be a Girl.
I drew the line at pink, however.
I also refused point-blank to have anything to do with bras, makeup, or fashion. The bras thing was simply because I hated wearing something so uncomfortable, but makeup and fashion I despised because I had somehow gotten hold of the idea that the only people interested in their appearance were vain, shallow and catty. Being a frump was Honest. Also, more comfortable and easier.(I eventually managed to realise that a mild interest in playing dress-up did not preclude an intelligent and thoughtful nature; this was thanks to some very nice spirit-women I met up with. Peace and love to them, wherever they are.)
My mother tried in vain to persuade me to be a Proper Girl and Dress Nicely. I fought back with all of my might. I won, more or less, though on special occasions I would have to wear a Nice Dress. Not a dress, I wore those all the time-they were comfier than pants, and I didn't really care what they looked like. For some time my favourite item of clothing was a stripy blue cotton sundress, which I had had for several years, and which had gotten pulled more or less totally out of shape in the course of that time, till in the end my mother, despairing, threw it in the bin when I put it in for the wash. That, and the blue fleece with red stars on it that Sendalinde stole to give to one of his adopted orphans-but a Pretty Dress, which you had to be careful wearing, which she would say made me look nice. I didn't think so. I looked in the mirror and felt glum.
A memory that leaps out at me-I did Work Experience at the Raptor Foundation, cleaning out the cages of rescued birds of prey, petting a cockatoo called Zu, and once picking up an adorable little owlet. It was cold, messy work, so I wore a heavy fleece, and trousers, and my hair pulled back under a hood. One day I was cleaning out some kestrels when a visitor to the place-an old fellow, white-haired-noticed me and asked me for directions to someplace. The toilets or something. I forget what. He called me 'young man'.
When he called me that...I felt suddenly, unreasonably happy and pleased. But that was wrong! I knew I was a Girl. And he had made a mistake. So I pretended instead to be offended and corrected him, and he apologised, and all was well. But I kept turning that incident over in my mind. I told myself I was indignant. I almost convinced myself that was true.
A similar thing happened when I got my hair cut short for the first time, then looked in the mirror and saw a younger version of my father's face looking back at me.
This was about the time that I really got into reading porn, and I seriously wondered about my preferences due to this. See, when I got a crush, it was always on a girl. When I thought someone was hot, girl. But I was bored by femslash. I preferred yaoi or het. I had absolutely no idea what was up with that. The reason, though I didn't know it, was that I couldn't identify with a female. So it stayed 'sex happening to someone else'...
Another memory. I took a fencing class for awhile. I needed to wear a sports bra while I did this. One day after I had put it on I looked down at myself and thought 'holy fuck, those are tits. And not a bad pair either.' And started crying.
Then one day, I was searching the net for veves, the Vodoun god-sigils, and info about the lwa. Why is another long story for another time, but anyway, I found this site. And, well, I read the stuff on religion, and then, cause I am a voracious reader, started on the stuff about being trans. And I followed a few links, and read some more things, most notably Venus Envy...
I did not, however, manage to put it all together in my head till some months later.
I was in the bath. I don't know what it is with me and bathtime revelations. It just happened. Everything came together and holy god, I was petrified. I sat there an hour, while the water got cold, just thinking Holy shit I'm fucked.
That was only the beginning of Figuring It Out. It took awhile, and a few talks with Athene, but eventually I was done Figuring It. Or, well, not done, but...reasonably certain to be going on with.
I still have to present as female, because coming out would open up so many cans of worms I might as well start a bait shop. That will have to wait for later, after I'm free of my family and on top of my OCD and generally In Control Of My Life. The waiting annoys me a lot sometimes. Like the time when someone chided me for not being 'ladylike' and I wanted so badly to scream at her, I'm not a lady!(I controlled myself and kept silent.)But I think I can handle the wait. As long as Ash knows who I am, and as long as I know. I can handle it.
Monday, 6 July 2009
the Tarot of Tellius
If I was a better artist, I would be planning to draw these. But I'm not. So I won't.
More will be added to the list as I think of them.
The Fool-Ike
The Magician-Bastian(no duh)
The High Priestess-Volke
The Empress(reversed)-Almedha
The Emperor-Sanaki
The Hierophant-?
The Lovers-Greil and Elena
The Chariot-Tormod
Strength-Rhys
The Hermit-Stefan
The Wheel of Fortune-Naesala
Justice-Reyson
The Hanged Man-Ena
Death-?
Temperance(reversed)-Nasir
The Devil-Micaiah(also no duh)
The Tower-?
The Star-Mist
The Moon-Soren
The Sun-Rolf
Judgement-Elincia
The World-?
More will be added to the list as I think of them.
The Fool-Ike
The Magician-Bastian(no duh)
The High Priestess-Volke
The Empress(reversed)-Almedha
The Emperor-Sanaki
The Hierophant-?
The Lovers-Greil and Elena
The Chariot-Tormod
Strength-Rhys
The Hermit-Stefan
The Wheel of Fortune-Naesala
Justice-Reyson
The Hanged Man-Ena
Death-?
Temperance(reversed)-Nasir
The Devil-Micaiah(also no duh)
The Tower-?
The Star-Mist
The Moon-Soren
The Sun-Rolf
Judgement-Elincia
The World-?
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Playing with Dolls; Eagle on my toys
I will admit to being childish at times.
Okay, most of the time.
Anyway, when I really WAS a kid I had millions of plastic animals, that all had their own names and personalities, and that I acted out little stories with...actually, not so little. Great long complicated stories. I had dynasties of plastic beasties. I snuck them to school in my pencil case. It was fun. ^_^
These days? Welp, I dunno where all those plastic animals are. In the attic someplace probably...
...but in some ways, not so much has changed.
Let me tell you about Squalldoll. ^_^
Squalldoll came from the Forbidden Planet bookshop in London, part of a set of four Final Fantasy figurines; the other three were Tifa, Auron and Ashe, and were sent to three good friends of mine. He is about the same height as my thumb, and is an SD-ish rendition of the character from FF8 whom we all know and love. The one inaccuracy is his eyes; instead of grey, they are brown. He had a gunblade(Revolver model)which rested on his shoulder, but the blade broke off and got lost.
Squalldoll rides around in my pocket a good deal, occasionally coming out to investigate things. He is very comforting to hold. I awakened him a bit when I first got him(I awakened all four figures, in point of fact, and did a little extra hocus-pocus on the other three too)and he has a very definite personality. He doesn't talk much, though. In his Squallish way.
I have made a room for him out of a cardboard box, and had far too much fun doing so. In point of fact I have made two rooms as the first one was thrown away by an idiot nurse who thought it was a bit of rubbish. However, it wasn't a total loss, as the second room was, I think, somewhat better-executed. It is green and white, with a bed that came out of a Sylvanian Families set, a table made from a bit of white cardboard, a felt carpet and bedroom rug, and a picture in a little silver frame of Squall and Rinoa dancing at the graduation ball. I liked that cut-scene a great deal, not for the pairing, but because Squall was so funny being reluctant to dance, because he looked so handsome in his formal uniform and Rinoa so pretty in her yellow dress, because once they got into it they seemed to be enjoying themselves so, because the music was lovely, so solemn and so happy both at once, and because secretly, I should like to wear a smart formal uniform and dance the Dollet Waltz with a beautiful lady in a big ballroom with fireworky sky above. It just looked like such fun.
Ever since I sent the other three figures away to their respective owners Squalldoll has wanted rather for company, though he would surely deny this. Aurondoll and Tifadoll got on well with him, and I think he rather liked quarrelling with Ashedoll. Thus, since another human figure would be difficult to get hold of, I found him a pet. My(slightly)guilty fondness for Pokemon resulted in the choice of pet being Spots, a little Vaporeon figure two inches tall.(This has the added bonus that since Vaporeons have no hair, there is nothing for a Squall to be allergic to.)
Spots is doglike in obedience, loyalty and affection, but cattish in physical appearance and mannerisms. He has a collar and lead made from soft blue wool, and I am in the process of making him a room with a waterproof-paper floor where he can get as wet as he likes.
While I've never actually said so before, my mental picture of Phoenix HQ, the grand rambling place where most of my RPs with Ash take place, includes Squalldoll and Spots living loose in the walls and under the floor, purloining food from the cupboards, going on adventures in the jungle of the garden, and defending himself from too-curious animals with the aid of a sewing needle with red embroidery thread wrapped round the thick end, for a grip.
Okay, most of the time.
Anyway, when I really WAS a kid I had millions of plastic animals, that all had their own names and personalities, and that I acted out little stories with...actually, not so little. Great long complicated stories. I had dynasties of plastic beasties. I snuck them to school in my pencil case. It was fun. ^_^
These days? Welp, I dunno where all those plastic animals are. In the attic someplace probably...
...but in some ways, not so much has changed.
Let me tell you about Squalldoll. ^_^
Squalldoll came from the Forbidden Planet bookshop in London, part of a set of four Final Fantasy figurines; the other three were Tifa, Auron and Ashe, and were sent to three good friends of mine. He is about the same height as my thumb, and is an SD-ish rendition of the character from FF8 whom we all know and love. The one inaccuracy is his eyes; instead of grey, they are brown. He had a gunblade(Revolver model)which rested on his shoulder, but the blade broke off and got lost.
Squalldoll rides around in my pocket a good deal, occasionally coming out to investigate things. He is very comforting to hold. I awakened him a bit when I first got him(I awakened all four figures, in point of fact, and did a little extra hocus-pocus on the other three too)and he has a very definite personality. He doesn't talk much, though. In his Squallish way.
I have made a room for him out of a cardboard box, and had far too much fun doing so. In point of fact I have made two rooms as the first one was thrown away by an idiot nurse who thought it was a bit of rubbish. However, it wasn't a total loss, as the second room was, I think, somewhat better-executed. It is green and white, with a bed that came out of a Sylvanian Families set, a table made from a bit of white cardboard, a felt carpet and bedroom rug, and a picture in a little silver frame of Squall and Rinoa dancing at the graduation ball. I liked that cut-scene a great deal, not for the pairing, but because Squall was so funny being reluctant to dance, because he looked so handsome in his formal uniform and Rinoa so pretty in her yellow dress, because once they got into it they seemed to be enjoying themselves so, because the music was lovely, so solemn and so happy both at once, and because secretly, I should like to wear a smart formal uniform and dance the Dollet Waltz with a beautiful lady in a big ballroom with fireworky sky above. It just looked like such fun.
Ever since I sent the other three figures away to their respective owners Squalldoll has wanted rather for company, though he would surely deny this. Aurondoll and Tifadoll got on well with him, and I think he rather liked quarrelling with Ashedoll. Thus, since another human figure would be difficult to get hold of, I found him a pet. My(slightly)guilty fondness for Pokemon resulted in the choice of pet being Spots, a little Vaporeon figure two inches tall.(This has the added bonus that since Vaporeons have no hair, there is nothing for a Squall to be allergic to.)
Spots is doglike in obedience, loyalty and affection, but cattish in physical appearance and mannerisms. He has a collar and lead made from soft blue wool, and I am in the process of making him a room with a waterproof-paper floor where he can get as wet as he likes.
While I've never actually said so before, my mental picture of Phoenix HQ, the grand rambling place where most of my RPs with Ash take place, includes Squalldoll and Spots living loose in the walls and under the floor, purloining food from the cupboards, going on adventures in the jungle of the garden, and defending himself from too-curious animals with the aid of a sewing needle with red embroidery thread wrapped round the thick end, for a grip.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
This is totally my philosophy in life
EDIT: The size is playing havoc. Gah. Well, just click on it and you'll see the punchline!
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
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 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.
Because it's been bugging me a while now
Why does the word 'lemon' denote a pornographic fanfic?
I mean, why 'lemon'? What is there about citrus fruit that is reminiscent of sex?
I mean, on the one hand you have this little yellow dimpled roughly oval thing, on the other hand you have...well, you know.
If lemons are famed for anything, I thought it was staying put. I mean, when I was a kid and in the way or not doing something that I should of been then my mother would say 'Don't just sit/stand there like a lemon!' I can't really see the relevance, myself.
I mean, why 'lemon'? What is there about citrus fruit that is reminiscent of sex?
I mean, on the one hand you have this little yellow dimpled roughly oval thing, on the other hand you have...well, you know.
If lemons are famed for anything, I thought it was staying put. I mean, when I was a kid and in the way or not doing something that I should of been then my mother would say 'Don't just sit/stand there like a lemon!' I can't really see the relevance, myself.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 5 December 2008
Starry, starry night
I love how it gets dark early in winter, and I love Christmas lights. Not the tacky reindeer and Santa sort so much, but fairy lights.
There's frosty blue ones in the trees in the Market Square, and golden ones in the restaurant in the Conservatory Village. Multicoloured ones just about everywhere. They remind me of stars-it's been cloudy recently, but tonight there were some of those visible too, as well as a very bright full moon.
It's like at this dark nub of the year we feel the need to pull down heaven like a blanket, borrow a bit of starfire to warm ourselves up. Athene was talking about how she can't get used to Christmas in Atlanta, where it's all sunny and bright but people put out elaborate light shows anyway; what's the point? Atlantans must amuse themselves however they can, I suppose, and there are worse ways, but I agree with Athene, for what it's worth.
I was sitting and eating dinner in the restaurant at the Conservatory Village just a few hours ago, looking out of the window into the darkness with the reflections of the gold fairy lights on it, and thinking of Indra's net. That's the other thing stars remind me of, stars and fairy lights both; that infinite shimmering mesh of golden beads, all linked.
There are many worlds, and they don't all share the same sky-I've known that since I was tiny. Lucy Pevensie talked about the Narnian constellations-'dear old Leopard!' she said, seeing it again after a sojourn in the world of her birth, away from her kingdom. The stars were different there. But she was a world-traveller, and all the worlds are linked, regardless. More recently I heard Haras-uquara talk of a million lights reflected in a million mirrors, and that's the way of the worlds, she said, that you can't tell which are real; all are, or none. We pass from reflection to reflection. And though not all worlds have the same stars, I can't think of any that have no stars. Presumably there's some that do...but then, I'd wager they have something else just as good.
And all the worlds came, ultimately, from the same place. I believe this; one word spoken, a fount of gold. B'raishith...
So maybe, just maybe, they do share one destiny.
It's hard if not impossible-probably impossible-to know for sure, but when the lights glitter you can't help wondering.
What I do know is that this is here, and I am me, and this is here because it has a position in the 'Verse, it is linked to everywhere else, and I am me for the same reason. And I am very small, but I have friends in many places, and time to sip tea and look at the stars.
There's frosty blue ones in the trees in the Market Square, and golden ones in the restaurant in the Conservatory Village. Multicoloured ones just about everywhere. They remind me of stars-it's been cloudy recently, but tonight there were some of those visible too, as well as a very bright full moon.
It's like at this dark nub of the year we feel the need to pull down heaven like a blanket, borrow a bit of starfire to warm ourselves up. Athene was talking about how she can't get used to Christmas in Atlanta, where it's all sunny and bright but people put out elaborate light shows anyway; what's the point? Atlantans must amuse themselves however they can, I suppose, and there are worse ways, but I agree with Athene, for what it's worth.
I was sitting and eating dinner in the restaurant at the Conservatory Village just a few hours ago, looking out of the window into the darkness with the reflections of the gold fairy lights on it, and thinking of Indra's net. That's the other thing stars remind me of, stars and fairy lights both; that infinite shimmering mesh of golden beads, all linked.
There are many worlds, and they don't all share the same sky-I've known that since I was tiny. Lucy Pevensie talked about the Narnian constellations-'dear old Leopard!' she said, seeing it again after a sojourn in the world of her birth, away from her kingdom. The stars were different there. But she was a world-traveller, and all the worlds are linked, regardless. More recently I heard Haras-uquara talk of a million lights reflected in a million mirrors, and that's the way of the worlds, she said, that you can't tell which are real; all are, or none. We pass from reflection to reflection. And though not all worlds have the same stars, I can't think of any that have no stars. Presumably there's some that do...but then, I'd wager they have something else just as good.
And all the worlds came, ultimately, from the same place. I believe this; one word spoken, a fount of gold. B'raishith...
So maybe, just maybe, they do share one destiny.
It's hard if not impossible-probably impossible-to know for sure, but when the lights glitter you can't help wondering.
What I do know is that this is here, and I am me, and this is here because it has a position in the 'Verse, it is linked to everywhere else, and I am me for the same reason. And I am very small, but I have friends in many places, and time to sip tea and look at the stars.
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