Meme:
List 10 of your favorite characters from different fandoms, and ask people to spot patterns in your choices, and if they're so inclined, to draw conclusions about you based on the patterns they've spotted.
Silmarillion - Finrod Felagund
Star Wars - Mitth'raw'nuruodo / Grand Admiral Thrawn
Stargate SG1 - Colonel Jack O'Neill
Star Trek - Spock ch'Sarek
Harry Potter - Luna Lovegood
Lord of the Rings - Galadriel
xxxHolic - Doumeki Shizuka
Dragonlance - Raistlin
Song of Ice and Fire - Arya Stark
Synergy - Tor
...Well, I can see a couple, but I'll admit to curiosity as to what others think...
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
For Mom again, and Dad, I did not need to hear that.
The Female of the Species
Rudyard Kipling
WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!
But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!
So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
The Female of the Species
Rudyard Kipling
WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!
But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!
So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
This is what I reach for and never quite manage to grasp, but it's lovely enough I can't really be envious, only admiring. Mom, I think you especially might like it.
The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina
Miller Williams
Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home,
a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to.
What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come--
small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark--they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.
Ellen won't eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn't have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.
It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They're going to
less with time.
Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.
Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast.
A myth goes that when the quick years come
then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home.
The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina
Miller Williams
Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home,
a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to.
What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come--
small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark--they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.
Ellen won't eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn't have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.
It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They're going to
less with time.
Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.
Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast.
A myth goes that when the quick years come
then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Rainstorm
I'd always met her as an enemy before, you know --
depressing, cold, she'd pierce straight through my skin into my bones
and settle there, and leech away my energy until
I couldn't move (or didn't want to, all the same to me.)
So when she showed this afternoon, I cursed and groaned and whined
because I really didn't feel like fighting, not today,
I'd rather sleep, or maybe curl up on a couch with tea,
a book, a purring cat. But no: I didn't have a choice
at all: the clock was ticking, sunset coming far too fast.
I had to go.
Delayed a while. I hung about, annoyed,
and lurked inside the doorway. Then I darted out. I thought
if I was fast enough I'd get away without a fight.
It didn't work (it never does). She let me think it did
awhile -- she let me sneak, pretending that she didn't know
exactly where I was, pretending she was looking out
at something, someone else -- and just about the time I thought
I'd made it she said, "Peek-a-boo!" and opened up, the bitch.
There wasn't much that I could do about it, either, so
I ducked my head, went faster, tried ignoring her. Of course
it only made it worse by irritating her, and then
she really went all out -- cut the big guns loose and slammed
me with them all, and struck and flailed my back and shoulders 'til
I couldn't take it -- cried Gramercy, showed my neck, sued for
surrender. Maybe that got through, because she lightened up
for just a moment, gave a bit of breathing room before
she started in again. I didn't bother fighting, then.
And maybe that was it. It must've been, because -- it changed.
She didn't stop, don't get me wrong, but she gentled just enough
that I could catch my breath and wonder what was coming next.
Turned out it was my friend, the one who'd made me shriek with joy
since I was just a kid, and still would make me laugh and bounce
whenever he'd the chance. And now he tickled through my hair
and blew across my face and shoved me hard enough that I
came just this near to falling down, and started teasing me
for running (or for trying to), and I couldn't help but grin.
If he'd teamed up with her, I thought, she might not be all bad.
I realized they were playing games around the time she dropped
the shadow-cloak she always wore and light shone through behind,
illuminating all her guns and fortresses and fields
and clearing out the fog ahead. It worked some alchemy
upon her bullets as they flew, some transmutation that
caught all of them while in mid-air and lit a diamond spark
within each one: the air was filled with arrows made of light.
And I'll admit to laughing. It was gorgeous, like a thing
you only find in magazines or on TV or in
a calendar, and even though they both were shoving me
all kinds of forwards backwards side-to-side I couldn't look
away, just laugh.
Then I looked up. She'd spread a glowing flag
across the sky before me, blazoned all with hues almost too bright
for words. Above it was a smaller band that shimmered like
an echo or a memory, all flower-pale and faint.
So that was that. I went back home -- it wasn't a retreat
this time, I didn't fight, I danced instead, all glowing. But --
you know, I'd always met her as an enemy before.
I'd always met her as an enemy before, you know --
depressing, cold, she'd pierce straight through my skin into my bones
and settle there, and leech away my energy until
I couldn't move (or didn't want to, all the same to me.)
So when she showed this afternoon, I cursed and groaned and whined
because I really didn't feel like fighting, not today,
I'd rather sleep, or maybe curl up on a couch with tea,
a book, a purring cat. But no: I didn't have a choice
at all: the clock was ticking, sunset coming far too fast.
I had to go.
Delayed a while. I hung about, annoyed,
and lurked inside the doorway. Then I darted out. I thought
if I was fast enough I'd get away without a fight.
It didn't work (it never does). She let me think it did
awhile -- she let me sneak, pretending that she didn't know
exactly where I was, pretending she was looking out
at something, someone else -- and just about the time I thought
I'd made it she said, "Peek-a-boo!" and opened up, the bitch.
There wasn't much that I could do about it, either, so
I ducked my head, went faster, tried ignoring her. Of course
it only made it worse by irritating her, and then
she really went all out -- cut the big guns loose and slammed
me with them all, and struck and flailed my back and shoulders 'til
I couldn't take it -- cried Gramercy, showed my neck, sued for
surrender. Maybe that got through, because she lightened up
for just a moment, gave a bit of breathing room before
she started in again. I didn't bother fighting, then.
And maybe that was it. It must've been, because -- it changed.
She didn't stop, don't get me wrong, but she gentled just enough
that I could catch my breath and wonder what was coming next.
Turned out it was my friend, the one who'd made me shriek with joy
since I was just a kid, and still would make me laugh and bounce
whenever he'd the chance. And now he tickled through my hair
and blew across my face and shoved me hard enough that I
came just this near to falling down, and started teasing me
for running (or for trying to), and I couldn't help but grin.
If he'd teamed up with her, I thought, she might not be all bad.
I realized they were playing games around the time she dropped
the shadow-cloak she always wore and light shone through behind,
illuminating all her guns and fortresses and fields
and clearing out the fog ahead. It worked some alchemy
upon her bullets as they flew, some transmutation that
caught all of them while in mid-air and lit a diamond spark
within each one: the air was filled with arrows made of light.
And I'll admit to laughing. It was gorgeous, like a thing
you only find in magazines or on TV or in
a calendar, and even though they both were shoving me
all kinds of forwards backwards side-to-side I couldn't look
away, just laugh.
Then I looked up. She'd spread a glowing flag
across the sky before me, blazoned all with hues almost too bright
for words. Above it was a smaller band that shimmered like
an echo or a memory, all flower-pale and faint.
So that was that. I went back home -- it wasn't a retreat
this time, I didn't fight, I danced instead, all glowing. But --
you know, I'd always met her as an enemy before.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
-Saiwe is back home. He was on three meds, but the Dr. Kahler declared him healthy enough to stop one of them on Tuesday's checkup. Attitude-wise he's back to normal, or at least as normal as it gets while he's molting.
-For those who missed the memo, I'm not living with Mom and Dad any more; I am instead at a duplex near the university with a couple other people, and loving it.
-I got a gorgeous and very sweet cat along with the move, but he doesn't care for being photographed. I'll post pictures of him when I can actually get them.
-I've been doing a lot of crochet work, for various reasons. Mom, you really ought to like what I'm working on now. I might just have to give it to you before September.
-I finally found my harp tuner. I won't say I'm going to play it faithfully, because whenever I say that I don't, but I will say that I no longer have fingernails, and that my fingertips are developing (gasp!) calluses.
-Choir = love. Hand-bell choir = love + headaches.
-I have a bevy of older Assyrian ladies conspiring to get me a boyfriend. It's somewhat frightening, but mostly amusing.
-I have 23 units next semester, and I alternate between eager anticipation and dread. I suppose I'll settle on one or the other a few weeks into term, but I'd rather know now. Don't tell me I'm crazy: it's been said a number of times already, and at this point probably won't change a single thing. It might get an eye-roll, though.
-I continue to fuss over my list of telcoms, weres, vampires-that-really-aren't, and the associated 'verses.
-For those who missed the memo, I'm not living with Mom and Dad any more; I am instead at a duplex near the university with a couple other people, and loving it.
-I got a gorgeous and very sweet cat along with the move, but he doesn't care for being photographed. I'll post pictures of him when I can actually get them.
-I've been doing a lot of crochet work, for various reasons. Mom, you really ought to like what I'm working on now. I might just have to give it to you before September.
-I finally found my harp tuner. I won't say I'm going to play it faithfully, because whenever I say that I don't, but I will say that I no longer have fingernails, and that my fingertips are developing (gasp!) calluses.
-Choir = love. Hand-bell choir = love + headaches.
-I have a bevy of older Assyrian ladies conspiring to get me a boyfriend. It's somewhat frightening, but mostly amusing.
-I have 23 units next semester, and I alternate between eager anticipation and dread. I suppose I'll settle on one or the other a few weeks into term, but I'd rather know now. Don't tell me I'm crazy: it's been said a number of times already, and at this point probably won't change a single thing. It might get an eye-roll, though.
-I continue to fuss over my list of telcoms, weres, vampires-that-really-aren't, and the associated 'verses.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
I went to see Saiwe again. He's definitely improving, much brighter and alert than he was yesterday. He didn't really want to leave my hand, but he preened his feathers and stretched his wings a few times, and squawked at me when I touched under his wings. A couple times I hit a pin feather wrong and he took a nip at my fingers. That reassured me more than just about anything.
The results for the bacterial work should show up Tuesday or Wednesday; I'll be getting him back from the vet on Monday. The approval for the CareCredit card hasn't come through, though, so I'm going to try sending it through with a co-applicant attached. Hopefully that will work. If it doesn't... well, I'll manage.
More as it comes.
The results for the bacterial work should show up Tuesday or Wednesday; I'll be getting him back from the vet on Monday. The approval for the CareCredit card hasn't come through, though, so I'm going to try sending it through with a co-applicant attached. Hopefully that will work. If it doesn't... well, I'll manage.
More as it comes.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Wednesday
I come home around 4:50. Saiwe looks excited to see me, then falls off his perch, head cocked at a right angle and wings flared, and doesn't move for maybe 45 seconds. When he does he can't balance or walk around and he's sleepy. Bad. I call Michele. At about 5:15 he startles at something and does it again. I start calling every emergency vet in the area. There are no avian vets available anywhere until 8 the next morning. I cover Saiwe's cage with a blanket and a coat, shut the lights off, and go into the other room.
Later that night I find out the same thing happened just before I got home, maybe at 4:35 or 4:40.
Saiwe had three grand mal seizures in the space of 45 minutes. Not Good. Really, really, really Not Good.
Thursday
Michele and I run him into the vet. He's alive, but not moving, not really responding except to fluff his head feathers; he doesn't give Michele any sass, even, and it is quite frankly terrifying. We check him in and a little later I get a call asking if they can do bloodwork and an x-ray. The cost is nasty, but otherwise they won't know what's causing the problems.
The x-ray shows up zinc and/or lead in the digestive tract. He's too small to operate on, so they start medicines and give me a rough estimate. (Not pretty). The vet seems confident, though, that he should be fine, and the lady at the counter advises me to apply for CareCredit so I don't have to pay in one lump sum. I send in the application... and wait.
Friday
I get a call telling me Saiwe's doing fine and asking whether or not I have results yet from CareCredit. I don't -- it's a 24-hour process. In the meantime, would I like to come visit Saiwe? Absolutely.
I go see him with Mom. He's doing a lot better, turning his head so I can get at the spots he likes best, yawning, stretching his neck out, even climbing up to my shoulder. He's still acting pretty tired, and his poop's a weird color from the medicines, but it's reassuring. At least until the lady comes back and tells me that they found some nasty bacteria in the cultures and they're sending them in so they can figure out what antibiotics to put him on.
Hopefully I get him back tomorrow; if things don't go so well it'll be Monday. We still haven't figured out exactly where the lead came from so we can prevent it from happening again, and if the CareCredit app doesn't go through I'll definitely need to find a job for the summer.
More when it's available.
I come home around 4:50. Saiwe looks excited to see me, then falls off his perch, head cocked at a right angle and wings flared, and doesn't move for maybe 45 seconds. When he does he can't balance or walk around and he's sleepy. Bad. I call Michele. At about 5:15 he startles at something and does it again. I start calling every emergency vet in the area. There are no avian vets available anywhere until 8 the next morning. I cover Saiwe's cage with a blanket and a coat, shut the lights off, and go into the other room.
Later that night I find out the same thing happened just before I got home, maybe at 4:35 or 4:40.
Saiwe had three grand mal seizures in the space of 45 minutes. Not Good. Really, really, really Not Good.
Thursday
Michele and I run him into the vet. He's alive, but not moving, not really responding except to fluff his head feathers; he doesn't give Michele any sass, even, and it is quite frankly terrifying. We check him in and a little later I get a call asking if they can do bloodwork and an x-ray. The cost is nasty, but otherwise they won't know what's causing the problems.
The x-ray shows up zinc and/or lead in the digestive tract. He's too small to operate on, so they start medicines and give me a rough estimate. (Not pretty). The vet seems confident, though, that he should be fine, and the lady at the counter advises me to apply for CareCredit so I don't have to pay in one lump sum. I send in the application... and wait.
Friday
I get a call telling me Saiwe's doing fine and asking whether or not I have results yet from CareCredit. I don't -- it's a 24-hour process. In the meantime, would I like to come visit Saiwe? Absolutely.
I go see him with Mom. He's doing a lot better, turning his head so I can get at the spots he likes best, yawning, stretching his neck out, even climbing up to my shoulder. He's still acting pretty tired, and his poop's a weird color from the medicines, but it's reassuring. At least until the lady comes back and tells me that they found some nasty bacteria in the cultures and they're sending them in so they can figure out what antibiotics to put him on.
Hopefully I get him back tomorrow; if things don't go so well it'll be Monday. We still haven't figured out exactly where the lead came from so we can prevent it from happening again, and if the CareCredit app doesn't go through I'll definitely need to find a job for the summer.
More when it's available.
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