I am in a state of shock: Wanderlust just closed down. The world has become a little more dark and dreary.

That's all.

Everyone knows the Do-Re-Mi song from the Sound of Music, right? Well, here's a variant we picked up on today's tour....

Do, a beer, a German beer
Re, the guy who serves the drinks
Mi, the one I buy beer for
Fa, a long way to the bar
So.... I think I'll have a beer
La, la la la la la la
Ti? I'd rather have a beer!
That will bring us back to Do!

Almost done. Less than 48 hours to leaving. Saiwe, please be good for Michelle!

I just finished the Firestaff Collection. I have to say, for not being published, they are certainly some of the better works I've read - to be honest, better than most of the recent fantasy currently in print, and certainly better than Eragon or Harry Potter or Mercedes Lackey. This is primarily because the characters, plots, and deus ex machinae are all believable....

You might take a look; they're not too much a waste of time.

Me: (upon seeing a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches stacked two deep and five high) Wow....
Mimi: What's wow? (upon looking over) Wow......
Ha!

I know that accepted Western culture leans heavily towards a woman changing her name when she marries (though yes, Alasse, there are exceptions, and it's not as socially stigmatized now). But you know, I really like my name. I don't think I would really want to change it. And it's not even just the phonetics - it's the meaning.

Breeann - strength, strong-willed, noble, lofty, gracious, daughter of a hill - take your pick, though the most commonly agreed-upon tends to be strong or stubborn.

Elizabeth - house of God. A church. A temple.

Wright - a person who makes something. An architect, builder, constructor. A maker (though not Alvin Maker).

Literally, my name translates out to, "One who makes a strong temple/church". And I like that. I think I'm going to keep it.

I've not heard from Darren yet, but the two 'keets left, Rana and Linwe, seem to be healthy and fine. I'm allowing myself to hope. This afternoon I will likely be taking Snow's body to a vet for an autopsy. I have absolutely no desire to lose the rest of my flock.

Aiwendil died last night. I thought - and hoped - that it was just a broken neck from a bad fall after a night fright. But then Snow started acting ill this afternoon, so we went and bought some antibiotics - and now she's dead. I really, really hope the two were unrelated, because if it's communicable then it's got a _very_ short treatment time and is, apparently, quite deadly. I'm sincerely praying that Saiwe stays healthy. I do not want to lose him.

NaNo starts today!

Teaser! No editing allowed, that's for December.

“What’re you reading?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Quick fingers grabbed the book away. “Liar!”

She crossed her arms. “So?”

“Do they know you’re reading this?”

“What if they do?

“I think you’re lying again.” Her brother regarded her with a smirk. “I bet they don’t. Maybe I should tell.”

“Tell them what? That I’m sitting peacefully reading a book once I’ve finished all my work? Oh, yeah, that’ll go over real well.”

He tossed it in the air, caught it. “Where’d you get it, anyway? I didn’t think we had any of this stuff around the house.”

“Please. Like I’d tell you.”

He only shrugged. “Your funeral…”

“The library. Don’t tell.”

“Fine. But you know it’s useless. It’ll only distract you. It’s not real.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ellen was eight years old when she discovered that faery tales could be more fun than actually reading her school books. She was very, very careful to keep this discovery from her parents and brother. Somehow she was quite certain that her parents would disapprove – and what else were younger brothers for than for tattling – well, and annoying their elders, but that was the same thing, wasn't it?

Anyways, she managed to hide from her parents for a long time, but she couldn't quite keep Jason out of her business (and out of her books). Luckily enough, even though he couldn't figure out the point of reading them, he didn't tell – although he blackmailed her with it more than a few times. So typical of him. But he wasn't that bad, and he never did really tell.

She loved those books. They seemed to call to her, tales of unicorns and dragons and griffins and faeries and princesses running through her dreams. Sometimes Ellen wondered why she couldn't see them for real, in her bedroom, or better yet in her school, and then remembered that they weren't really real, not like Math and English and Science were. But she still wished, and she still loved to read the stories, so she kept on sneaking books home from the library to read when her chores were finished and homework done.

Sometimes she tried to talk about her stories with her bestest-best friend Jennifer. Jenny would squeal, “Oh, that's so romantic,” and ask to hear more about the handsome prince. But then, when Ellen would wish for the unicorns or dragons to appear at school, Jenny would look scared. “Why would you want that?” she'd ask. “That would be bad! The teachers would all get mad, and we wouldn't have any lessons or homework, and then we couldn't even go to high school because we wouldn't know anything!” (High school was the highlight of Jenny's existence.) And Ellen would try to explain that unicorns were beautiful, and it would be worth it to have one at school, or even a dragon if you gave it lots of milk....

No, Jennifer never really got it. Sometimes she thought she should tell Christopher, instead, because Chris always listened, and he loved animals so much (even though she thought it was a little strange to always be trying to tame the wild cats around the school with lunch-scraps.) Once Ellen started to talk about dragons – but Chris looked confused and asked why you would want a giant lizard with wings, and anyway dogs were cooler, and the hawk he saw at the school Science Fair. So she didn't talk about the stories when she was around him. And obviously Jason was out, because, really, he was her little brother, and he didn't know anything anyways.

And eventually it stopped being important, to talk about it, because there was so much homework to do, between her school-classes and her piano lessons – and then her mother started her on flute, and there was barely enough time in the day to play with her friends, let alone read...

So I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year. Or at least, I'm trying.

And I'm having a great deal of fun planning... and who knows? Maybe, maybe, that flickering dream of a chance will be enough, and hope will become reality -

I love this quote by LeGuin:

Sure it's simple, writing for kids. Just as simple as bringing them up.

All you do is take all the sex out, and use little short words, and little dumb ideas, and don't be too scary and be sure there's a happy ending. Right? Nothing to it. Write down. Right on.

If you do all that you might even write Jonathan Livingstone Seagull and make twenty million dollars and have every adult in America reading your book.

But you won't have every kid in America reading your book. They will look at it, with their clear, cold, beady little eyes, and they will put it down, and they will go away. Kids will devour vast amounts of garbage (and it is good for them) but they are not like adults; they have not yet learned to eat plastic.

Incredible, no?

Hear the wind moan
In the bright diamond sky
These mountains are waiting
Brown-green and dry
I'm too old for the term
But I'll use it anyway
I'll be a child of the wind
Till the end of my days


~Child of the Winds

Man cenuva lumbor ahosta,
Menel acuna
ruxal' ambonnar,
ear amortala,
undume hacala,
enwina lume
elenillor pella
talta-taltala
atalantie mindonnar?

The old darkness beyond the stars.... Talta-taltala atalantie mindonnar. The Quenya used there, I think, is not entirely translatable - but it is certainly appropriate. Sometimes, recently, I identify with it.

On another note, anyone want to come with me on a road trip over spring break? I'm thinking Montana, Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, and maybe a few other back-woods places....

Markirya

Who shall see a white ship
leave the last shore,
the pale phantoms
in her cold bosom
like gulls wailing?

Who shall heed a white ship,
vague as a butterfly,
in the flowing sea
on wings like stars,
the sea surging,
the foam blowing,
the wings shining,
the light fading?

Who shall hear the wind roaring
like leaves of forests,
the white rocks snarling
in the moon gleaming,
in the moon waning,
in the moon falling
a corpse-candle;
the storm mumbling,
the abyss moving?

Who shall see the clouds gather,
the heavens bending
upon crumbling hills,
the sea heaving,
the abyss yawning,
the old darkness
beyond the stars
falling
upon fallen towers?

Who shall heed a broken ship
on the black rocks
under broken skies,
a bleared sun blinking
on bones gleaming
in the last morning?
Who shall see the last evening?

I have been thinking a good deal lately. I am not sure that it is a good thing, considering... well, considering life, the universe, and everything in general. It seems to me that if I would relax everything would be much easier... And then there are questions and wonderings that I dare not share, because, let's face it, any organisation, including Christianity, is prone to being judgmental - and I just don't want to deal with it right now. Not to mention that I keep wanting to go visit the Nephi and Scipio areas in Utah and get a feel for the communities there to see if my childhood memories are still valid; I think, however, that that may have to wait, as my family has no desire to take a road trip to "the middle of nowhere." Perhaps I should get my license and go with some friends instead...

Ai, but there are so many questions that I dare not ask, too much research left undone, too much of the Bible that has not been pored over, too much of wondering, too much...

C'est la vie. It does not matter.

Wherever the standard of freedom and independence has been or shall be unfurled, there will her [America’s] heart, her benedictions and her prayers be. But she goes not abroad in search of monsters to destroy. She is the well-wisher to the freedom and independence of all. She is the champion and vindicator only of her own. She will recommend the general cause, by the countenance of her voice, and the benignant sympathy of her example. She well knows that by once enlisting under other banners than her own, were they even the banners of foreign independence, she would involve herself, beyond the power of extrication, in all the wars of interest and intrigue, of individual avarice, envy, and ambition, which assume the colors and usurp the standard of freedom. The fundamental maxims of her policy would insensibly change from liberty to force …. She might become the dictatress of the world: she would be no longer the ruler of her own spirit.

¶ Independence Day Address, Washington, DC (4 Jul 1821), John Quincy Adams

Wow.

Sáiwë just went flying around the room and left a present when passing above Emily's face... Definitely one of the more amusing events of the evening.

A point is a place that has no continuation; a ray has a beginning and then continues on into infinity. But a line has no beginning and no end: it is effectively everlasting, eternal.

If the soul is eternal, then must it not also exist before birth as well as after death?

And if the soul was before birth, then why should it have been born at all? What reason might there be for taking a soul, thrusting it into a body, and subjecting it to all the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain that this world has to offer?

As well might ask why we must be born at all and not simply spring full-grown from our parents' heads as did Athena....

But born we are, and this separates us from some forms of life that slowly bud instead, as coral, and do not separate from the adult until fully-grown. I think that this is due to our complexity: we cannot know until we experience, and so we must take a time to grow after birth. But for a time, when we are growing, we are too fragile to live in the outside world, and so we are kept safe in our mother's womb - and yet even there we may be harmed, by drugs or improper diets or physical maltreatment or any host of other things, so that as we continue our growth we are stunted and unable to reach our full adult potential. And then, once we are born, the choices we make and the guidance we receive may either heal or harm us, free us or kill us, when we reach for our adult life.

Perhaps our time before birth is our time in the womb, and our physical birth our spiritual one as well. Then perhaps our life here is our childhood, and death only the last rite of passage into the adult life where potential may be fully realised: then the pathos of this world would be seen, also, for the wrong choices, the wrong behaviors, might cripple us as adults even as they cripple children in the physical world's realm...

'Farewell now here, ye leaves of trees,
your music in the morning-breeze!
Farewell now blade and bloom and grass
that see the changing seasons pass;
ye waters murmuring over stone,
and meres that silent stand alone!
Farewell now mountain, vale and plain!
Farewell now wind and frost and rain,
and mist and cloud, and heaven's air;
ye star and moon so blinding-fair
that still shall look down from the sky
on the wide earth, though Beren die -
though Beren die not, and yet deep,
deep, whence comes of those that weep
no dreadful echo, lie and choke
in everlasting dark and smoke.

'Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,
for ever blest, since here did lie,
and here with lissom limbs did run,
beneath the moon, beneath the sun,
Luthien Tinuviel,
more fair than mortal tongue can tell.
Though all to ruin fell the world,
and were dissolved, and backward hurled
unmade into the old abyss,
yet were its making good, for this -
the dawn, the dusk, the earth, the sea -
that Luthien on a time should be!'

His blade he lifted high in hand
and challenging alone did stand
before the threat of Morgoth's power;
and dauntless cursed him, hall and tower,
o'ershadowing hand and grinding foot,
beginning, end, and crown and root;
then turned to stride forth down the slope,
abandoning fear, forsaking hope.

'A, Beren, Beren!' came a sound,
'almost too late have I thee found!
O proud and fearless hand and heart,
not yet farewell, not yet we part!
Not thus do those of elven race
forsake the love that they embrace.
A love is mine, as great a power
as thine, to shake the gate and tower
of death with challenge weak and frail
that yet prevails, and will not fail
nor yield, though vanquished were it hurled
beneath the foundations of the world.
Beloved fool! escape to seek
from such pursuit; in might so weak
to trust not, thinking it well to save
from love thy loved, who welcomes grave
and torment sooner than in guard
of kind intent to languish, barred,
wingless and helpless him to aid
for whose support her love was made!

~The Lay of Leithian

New things:

It appears that I will be getting a green-cheek conure soon, possibly a yellow-sided; right now I am preparing by ensuring area safety, obtaining a cage, and researching, researching, researching. Currently I am busy replacing all Teflon and non-stick cookware in the Lounge with stainless steel to prevent poisoning, and also making a list of possible names. I am quite seriously thinking of Haleth or Finrod.

I will soon be putting a second cage of birds in the Lounge. Right now I am undecided between doves, finches, and parakeets: the benefit of the former is that they can be handled, and make soothing sounds, but the finches are certainly more entertaining to watch. Either way, I also need to get the cage for those soon, and then make a trip to the feed store.

I am registered for 20th Century Philosophy, and waitlisted for several other classes; luckily I am first on the list for most of them, and third for the other. It appears as if I will be taking yoga this semester as well.

I have been doing a good deal of writing, both fanfic and original, and have come to the conclusion that I am slowly acquiring DID (see this post). Also, as I am rewriting large sections of Genesis, the Gospels, and Revelations to fit in a fantasy/science fiction world, I am feeling vaguely heretical - but have decided that said feelings are because of popular conventions and not my actual beliefs of the Bible, so now feel guilty for feeling heretical. Besides which, it's fun. And restructuring a number of fantasy stereotypes from the ground up is also fun.

In writing my stories, I have also been prompted to debate the nature of life, the universe, and everything. My current question runs along these lines: if the soul is eternal, then did it not exist before life? And if so, then why bother being born at all? What value does it have? Probably I will post more on that later.

My friends are mostly gone now, except for the ones at StanState, whom I will hopefully be seeing next Monday at a potluck. I am debating the wisdom of trying to make new friends considering that I will be leaving in another year anyways. As of yet I am undecided. Perhaps I will simply locate my own apartment overseas and bring my conure with me.

So many people, so lost you feel sorry
but too much pathos just makes you angry
and even though I know who loves me I'm not that much less lost....

I really, honestly, truly cannot wait for the semester to start. I need to get away, and at least the Lounge is quiet. And the people there don't laugh when you're not joking about making one of your fantasies real.

Do Not Disturb: Denning In Process

I'm pretty sure it's not some weird biological clock, ticking insistently away, coming to get me like Captain Hook's crocodile. But then why does everyone think I'm just going through some kind of weird phase or fad? I'm not - at least I don't think I am. If it is, then it's been one of the longer ones I've had.

It's just.... I want a place, a home. A permanent one. One that I don't have to look at and say, "Well, this sucks. Why did I do this again?" And even more, one where I can say, "This is mine, and I'm not moving. I might travel for a little while, but this is mine, and I'm coming back to it." Is that so much to ask? Everybody rattles on and one about how "home is where the heart is" and how a house without a family is empty, and really Breeann what are you thinking anyway moving so far away, are you trying to avoid us, you know how hard it is to come visit you when you're so distant.... But I'm not trying to avoid anyone; I just don't like the area here at all. I don't like the air, I don't like the land, I don't like the buildings or the cars or the obscene morbidity on the news, and maybe if I move someone will come with me, or if they don't then I can start my own pack, my own den.

And it's not just a fantasy. I like the open spaces: I like being away from the mass of people. Not all people: I want my family around me: I need them. But the crowd. The cars. The rude looks and scowls when I walk down the street. The cats and dogs lying on the side of the road (so senseless, that, I hate it, there is no purpose to it, no benefit, none at all) and the people who pretend not to see them while they lay there for the day, and the next day, and the next, until finally some city official or maybe a hungry feral dog drags it away. I don't want to be in the middle of it all the time. Occasionally, when I choose to be - there are good things to be had from it, too. But not all the time. Only sometimes. Every blue moon, maybe.

And it's not impossible, either. I know - I've studied it, looked at the land, the prices, the costs of building a home that is large enough and strong enough to contain generations of people, the job potentials in remote areas, or small ones. It doesn't have to be Utah - look at any of the open areas, Montana or Nebraska or most of the Midwest. The wind and sun will provide all the electricity one could ever hope for, and still channel more into the public webs. A hunting license will bring you all the meat you could eat in ten years, let alone one. The cost is ridiculously small - cheaper by far to build a home than to buy, if the price of the land is right - and it is! No need to worry about gangs or city-wide fires or muggers in the night. Silence when you lay down, and the birds when you wake, and the dogs demanding their food. Is it such wishful thinking? I know that it is only a different set of hardships, but it is a more bearable one, at least to me.

Am I really so crazy?

Well, I'm officially in to 20th century philosophy, need Jim's signature to register to the Honor's one, and am waitlisted in calculus and chemistry. Meh. At least I'm #5 in the calc class and #1 in the rest; otherwise I would be frightened. As is, I think I'll probably get in.

Oh, and I'm considering taking yoga, just for the stress relief.

...And then I went looking for class schedules at Stanislaus, and found that not only did half the classes I needed to take conflict with each other, but also that most of the classes already were full. I am only grateful that half of them aren't, and a good few still have plenty of space. But then again, if I take Botany this semester I cannot take calculus.... Everything is very confused, and I have absolutely no idea if I am taking an Honor's course or even which courses, exactly, I am taking. Ai!

I really, really, really wish that they hadn't screwed up the paperwork, because right now it's screwing up my attempts at getting any kind of decent system....

So last night, Josh and I were chatting in the back seat of the church van on the way home from the CC staff concert, mostly because nobody else was - I think they might have been scared of us, but I'm not quite certain. Maybe it was the seeming obsession with fanfiction that threw everyone off, and the strange terms like Sue-ism, OC (not to mention OOC), and crossover. Who knows? Anyway, Josh got around to mentioning that he had an idea for a fic that he'd like to read. "Like what?" I remember asking.

"Oh, well, you know, if the giant squid got the Ring," he said. Yes, you read that right: giant squid. Specifically, the one that lives in the lake at Hogwarts - and also the one that showed up in the lake at the entrance to the Mines of Moria. Not particularly plausible, right?

Well, that's what I thought, too. So I pointed that out, and surprisingly he didn't actually take umbrage or even laugh. Instead, he began explaining to me exactly how it would work, and the ramifications if, as it took the Ring, it switched Harry and Frodo around at the beginning of Harry's first year. He had it thought through pretty well. Eventually he actually managed to convince me that it could work - and, as some of you might know, I take some convincing when people are playing around with Tolkien's stuff!


So here's to you, little brother: I hope you write it. I hope it turns out well. And way to go!

Well, after ungraded major projects, misfiled reports, lost mail, fumbled communications, and much else gone awry - it looks as if I'll be at StanState this year, and Bristol the year after. C'est la vie!

From a notebook, written the evening of Tuesday the 31st of July...

The pilot announced that we are in a holding pattern. We're circling the airport now, up above most of the clouds, and it is one of the most incredible scenes I've ever seen. We're flying through lightning, and it lights up the clouds so bright it hurts - and then we circle again to see the full moon, and I swear I have never seen it so bright. The light is actually piercing, near to the sun at noon, so that you can barely look when it is not behind a cloud: so beautiful it is painful. The clouds that should be darkly invisible are lit from it, and shine back silver-white in streamers and soft trailing edges - like angels singing lullabies come to give peaceful dreams. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, even in a picture, but it is the distillation of peace. And we swing round, and the lightning lights everything, and it is so simply and achingly incredible...

For how great is the Lord,
that He should set lights in the sky and command them to shine!
The angels fly with the lightning and sing praise to You;
they dance in the thunder and clap their hands.
I am in awe of Your works;
the loveliness of Your creation steals my breath away.
You laugh, and the air is set ablaze with light.
The heavens give voice; what else can I do?
I can only marvel.
You say, Let there be light!
The earth trembles and the heavens leap forth, eager to do Your bidding.
The storm is Your joy and the thunderstorm Your laughter; I will take joy in Your awesome delight.

Three questions - give me any answers(s) you think up, please. Feel free to speculate, give medical or philosophical answers, or anything else you feel like.

1. What is life/living?

2. What is death/dying?

3. Is there such a thing as an afterlife, and if so, what is it?

I finished it - but now there are two more yammering away inside my head. No, make that three. Does it matter? Nah, not really. Besides, none of them is as long, and one of them is practically finished already!

(By the way, Pegasus as displayed in popular folklore would never have been aerodynamically possible, and vampires could not be a biologically sustainable species...)

Days like these I realise two things:

1) Nudist colonies have their high points, and

2) Gun-shy German Shepherds are a real pain in the rear.

Sigh.

But at least Comet could care less about the fireworks, and it's not quite 108 degrees any more.

As we were driving down into Mexico, I purchased a small notebook, promising myself that I would only use it for this certain universe I have been working on. Certainly, I thought, this would be complex enough to fill the little book, but not too quickly. After all, I was only going to be writing in it during my (forseeably scant) free time. Even if I wrote whatever came to mind, it would likely last me a nice long while. Especially since I do the bulk of my work on the computer.

So I started filling out a few character sheets, little brief things about species, origin, appearance, etc., and making notes as to nationality. A little ways in I noticed that one character's claimed home was distinctly incongruous with the natural relations between species in this set - these two were famed for killing each other when avoidance was not a possibility. With this in mind I took a page or two to explain both the incongruity and why it happened anyways to myself... and then a third, and a fourth, and thought to myself that I really should wrap it up. After all, it wasn't a story in itself, only what happened - right?

About the eighth page I realised that I was in trouble. The characters just wouldn't shut up. Yes, Cameron, I know you find that somewhat disturbing. So will some other people, I am sure. But it is true nonetheless. What, I ask, is one to do when the characters develop enough of their own life to tug away and say, 'Wait, that's not right, I wouldn't do that - rather I would do such-and-such, or perhaps I might do this under these circumstances, but really if you look at my racial background you would see that...'? It really is not fair at all. And the twelfth page came, and the thirteenth, and I thought to myself that this absolutely had to stop. This was not the main story. This was only the backstory of the backstory of a minor character who is presumed dead far before the main story begins. And what was wrong with me, anyhow? I never wrote more than a page or two with paper and pen; the things are far too irritating and slow.

...At the 22nd page, now, I am thinking that perhaps I will soon need a new notebook. Then again, I have access to a computer - though only my sister's. But somehow I do not think that that will end the ceaseless nagging of the characters.

Tomorrow I become a stranger to my home, in feeling if not of necessity present absence. I will, after all, return again this summer. But it is a leavetaking nonetheless.

(Antanya ná singwa ar hendinya uhilya niranya...)

Regarding Erestor -

I love him, I really do, and most of the time I enjoy his company. But I swear if he does not learn some wisdom soon I am going to throttle him.

"I will tell you," the dragon said finally, "what wisdom is, if you will promise to become wise."

"How can I promise that?" Ker blurted in a panic. Sweat ran down his ribs, and dried in the heat of the dragon's breath.

"Small beings may have small wisdom," the dragon said. "And small wise beings are better than small fools. Listen: Wisdom is caring for afterwards."

"Caring for afterwards...?" Ker repeated this without understanding.

"After action, afterwards," the dragon said. "Choose the afterwards first, then the action. Fools choose action first."

Ker opened his mouth to say that only fortune-tellers could know what would happen, but fear stopped him: Would he really argue with a dragon while trapped in its circle?

The dragon's snout edged closer, nudged him. He staggered back: A dragon's nudge was like a blow from a strong man. Or a dwarf.

"You see," the dragon murmured. "You do know."

~"Judgment," Elizabeth Moon

So we were playing Taboo, and Josh was attempting to get us to guess the word. His description was: "After having a whole lot of fun, you become..." Answers ranged from tired to drunk to playboy - this last, he said, "Yeah, kinda like that!" But no-one guessed, and the clock ran out.

The word was pregnant.

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

I know that it would have died if we hadn't brought it inside. But I tried so hard to get it to eat. The white chick did. Why wouldn't it?

I wish that little grey one hadn't died.

A ballroom mosaic of shattered glass
with butterfly dancers fluttering past,
curls of smoke on the dusty air -
step onto the bus and pay your fare.
It will take you reeling and lurching along
to a rumbling tune and a cuckoo’s song,
through terror and sorrow
and a laughing tomorrow -

But hey now, that’s life!
Two and two makes three, don’t you know?
Sometimes it blows fast and sometimes it’s slow -
won’t you dance with me?

Dust in the wind, all the preachers do say -
that’s all this world is. But come on, let’s play!
Dance a jig to a moonlit wind:
there’s a pot of gold at the end.
Morning glories wave a hymn of praise
to the sun and the sky and the circling days,
drunk on the glory
of each new day’s story -

But hey now, that’s life!
Only chains are free, don’t you know?
The manacled spirits flit to and fro -
won’t you dance with me?

The top of the canyon is drifted in snow,
with sunlight above and white water below,
and the butterflies flutter by;
there’s a speck of dust in my eye.
If change is a pain, it’s a birthing cry too,
and who knows what everything is ere it’s through?
And we sing c’est la vie
and look out to the sea -

Cause hey now, that’s life!
That’s all we can see, don’t you know?
and we haven’t yet come to the end of this show -
won’t you dance with me?

So, right now it's looking like a double major in Cognitive Studies and the pre-med track of Biology, along with a minor in Physics. The jury's still out on the additional minors of Psychology and Philosophy. Either way, I'll be spending next year in England and graduating the year after.

And yes, I have already been told that I am insane.

At least once in my life, I want to -

~go deep-sea diving
~have a professional massage
~hang-glide over the Grand Canyon
~make pomegranate wine
~get married
~try haggis - and lutefisk
~keep a dog twice my size
~build a dining room in an oak tree
~sleep on a waterbed with silk sheets
~write a novel
~learn to fly
~hunt for elk or some other big animal
~visit the moon - or maybe Mars
~stay up three nights straight to watch a really spectacular meteor shower
~go skinny-dipping off a tropical beach
~buy something and not worry about where the money is coming from
~hook a really big whopping halibut
~teach someone something important
~die

Okay. This is officially a Very Fun Song. Spencer, you may recognise the lyrics....

The March of Cambreadth

Enjoy!

Sometimes I think about thinking. What is it, anyway? What is thought? How do our minds work? And what is it that makes us so different than a dog or dolphin or parrot, anyway? Do we know? I don't really think we do – I'm not sure we ever will.

But I think about thinking. If one practiced, I wonder, would it be possible to create and define your own world to live in? I don't mean like a madman does, mind, and I don't mean drugs. But could you perhaps withdraw into such a world until your mind did not know which was real and which false? Would it be possible to recreate the million subtle scents and tastes of this world until they were as real, in your mind, as to your bodily senses? Could you fool yourself that way? The only thing is that it would be an uninhabited world, unless one was sufficiently schizophrenic to imbue personas, also, with their own lives. Would people pay for such a potent elixir of withdrawal?

Oh, but they do all the time. They call them books.

Hufflepuff for Life
We Are the Dark Gods and WE RULE OVER ALL!

1). There is no good and evil, there is only power... and those too weak to seek it.

2). There is no good and evil! There is only power! And those too weak to seek it!

3). Live fast, die young, and leave a mutilated unidentifiable corpse behind. And then, when no one’s paying attention, assume the previous life of that corpse. Repeat as necessary.

4). Wizard, Witch, Pureblood, Halfblood, Muggleborn, Squib, Muggle. None of it matters, as inside they are all the same: five liters of blood and an infinite number of ways to spill it. Except for babies. They don’t have quite as much blood.

5). Tattoos are for pussies and Death Eaters. Real men carve art into their flesh with knives, not needles, ink, or magic.

6). The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled wasn’t convincing the world she didn't exist. It was convincing her researchers, her grunt workers, and her scapegoats that she cared. And that they mattered. She even convinced most of them that they were more important than her. So she gave them qualities, characteristics, jobs, and duties. She renamed them Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, and Slytherins. You tell a man, he is sly and cunning and he finds it hard to disagree. No matter that expressly advertising that you are sly and cunning is just about the least sly or cunning thing you can do. If he is not a Hufflepuff, he will know no better. He will believe himself sly and cunning. Or he will believe himself intelligent and clever. Or he will believe himself brave and courageous. It is your job to make him believe that! Ravenclaws plan your strategies, Gryffindors fight your battles, Slytherins take your blame. And only behind the curtain, have the Hufflepuffs now and forever reigned supreme.

7). Three can keep a secret if two are dead. And thus, out of necessity, was born the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor.

8). Men will wrong you, or wrong the true ideals of a ‘puffer. When a man does, see if he expresses remorse. If he does, tell him you accept his apology. Nurse his wounds, become his friend, and help him to become healthy. Then as he turns his back to you to leave, slit his throat. If the man doesn’t express remorse, then kill his mother, kill his sister, kill his wife, kill his daughter, and torture his dog. Grant only the mercy of death to those who are remorseful. And give only pain to those who are not. No one messes with a ‘puff.

A Ravenclaw Study Guide
There’s nothing wrong with loving books, other than the paper cuts.

I. The only people who say that not all knowledge can be found in books are the people with really crappy books.

II. Others may be taller, others may be stronger, and others may be prettier. But if you’re smarter, then you will always be better than everyone else.

III. If those Slytherins think they’re so smart, then why weren’t they placed in Ravenclaw? I mean honestly.

IV. Don’t feel bad. There is no rational explanation for Hermione Granger’s placement in Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat was probably drinking.

V. The library is the ideal place to meet new friends, to research in your free time, to study ahead for classes, and to watch other people while wondering what it would be like to get kissed.

VI. If I had a Knut for every time someone assumed Ravenclaw is nothing but nerds and geeks, I would have 342,013 Galleons, 14 Sickles, and 8 Knuts, as of 8:42 PM GMT, September 4th, 2002.

7. You are right. And they are wrong. Nothing they can say will change that.

The Slytherin Manifesto
A Guidebook to accepting your failure as a person and living life as a Slytherin.

1). If you feel the urge to cry, as you most likely will quite frequently, scowl harshly and stalk away making your robe/cloak billow as much as possible. Locate your Head of House, and once you are certain no one else is around, only then may you and he/she embrace in a hug and you may let it out in private. Never speak of these encounters to anyone. Least of all your housemates.
SIDENOTE: If your Head of House tries to deny you a hug, use one of the coupons in the back of this booklet.

2). No matter how much you may wish to call someone a doodybrain, don’t. Use words like buffoon or simpleton. Slytherins do not say doodybrain though nincompoop may be used sparingly without any emphasis on the poop. Welcome adjectives include good-for-nothing, imbecilic, insufferable, and they are ideally combined with a noun along the lines of dunderhead or fool.

3). If you smile, we will kill your pet. Smiling is not and never will be acceptable. Smirking is highly encouraged at appropriate times. And loud laughter will be permitted if someone from another house is grievously injured.

4). Wear clean underwear every day. You never know when you might get cursed, flipped upside-down, and the last thing you want is for your britches to be anything less than sparkling. Going commando is only ever permitted for females. In those cases refer to chapter three: Grooming and Shampooing Part II.

5). Friends are not permitted. You do not make friends and cannot make friends. Certain allies may be held in higher esteem than others, but they are not your friends. You are a Slytherin.

If you find being a lesser person difficult and are having trouble accepting the fact that you are a Slytherin, take some private time and carefully read through Appendix D: Why no one will ever like me and Appendix E: How to tolerate your fellow Slytherins.

The Gryffindor Guide
Old tell young. Young learn.

1.) Fire hot.
2). Light good.
3). Love Potter.
4). Me no dumb.
5). Breathe. Repeat.
That is all. No more fingers.
6). Don’t forget. Two hands.

A poem I'm toying with, from a quote by Tolkien and the title of one of Ringo's books -

I desire dragons, and demons, and dreams,
and white-wondered unicorns of the cloudy teams
that trampled through the sun's path, and over all the land,
and mermaids combing out their hair on strands of pearly sand.

I dance to night-owls calling with the faeries in a ring,
and howl my heartache to the moon, and hush to hear the sirens sing,
and chase the rainbow to its end in search of pots of gold;
for I require magic, and woven tales of old.

Wonders whirl around me and rise shrieking to the sky,
and kindle fresh the faded Fantasts' fire in my eye -
mend the world or rend it, laughing, tearing at the seams,
but there will be dragons, and demons, and dreams.

I'd like to find a different word to replace demons, as the connotations aren't quite what I want, but haven't been able to find one that suits the poem's rhythm so well. Any suggestions?

The other day my mother told me, I kid you not, that I needed "to learn how to be shallow." She told me that I should forget everything that the church camps and 40-day programs ever hammered into my skull about "being real," and should instead "project a mask" so that I could associate easier with other people.

What is the world coming to?

I'm jealous. I know I shouldn't be, and it makes me feel a little guilty, even though I really am very happy, too.

But I'm still jealous.

The mulberry trees look like old gnarled hands, fingers twisted on bony wrists, when they've been pruned for the winter. It's a little sad; it doesn't look so much like a tree then. Ours was always slender and graceful, good for climbing. I don't know why they'd change that; it only looks more magazine-perfect in the summer. Even the little spindly things that dot the city are more lively.

It can't be to make the tree stronger, because the house we fixed up had mulberries broader than that - Dad couldn't stretch his arms around the base. Perhaps they're worried about danger in the form of folling branches. But a good gardener can reduce most of that risk, and really, what else are they paying all these people for? Surely watering small plants every few days doesn't count as strenuous work! A timely series of tree 'checkups' might be as easy as trimming the great hulking thing is... and the end result would be much more attractive.

Tonight at dinner I finished the last of the pomegranate jelly. It shall be sorely missed.

"I have long since become wary of impartiality, which is itself a way of being partial. The prophets' existence is either irrelevant or relevant. If irrelevant, I cannot be truly involved in it; if relevant, then my impartiality is but a pretense. Reflection may succeed in isolating an object; reflection itself cannot be isolated. Reflection is part of a situation.
"I cannot remain indifferent to the question whether a decision I reach may prove fatal to my existence - whether to inhale the next breath in order to survive." ~Abraham J. Heschel

Here is where my indifference falls away. My previous post might have seemed cold and intellectual; perhaps I lack those nebulous feelings that signify salvation's security in common parlance. Maybe I have reasoned my way to belief when my heart was unmoved. But this is exactly the reason I must be passionate in defending myself and my belief. Lacking assurance in my emotions, it is necessary for me to decide regardless.

I must choose the best I can between faith and atheism, keeping in mind that if I choose one and am wrong I stand to lose far more than just my life. And if I decide that there is a God, then I come face to face with the fact that said decision is purely intellectual. I may bear out that decision in my actions, but salvation is not based on works, and actions alone do not mean that I'll know emotionally what it is to "have Jesus in your heart". Then where am I left? when even the demons know who He is, and I am required to give my strength and soul and heart? There is no more room for me to be indifferent about the choice itself - no space to be passionless in the defense of my decision.

And I have decided, over and over again in a span of at least a decade. I have chosen to place my faith in something I cannot see or touch or hear, something that most of my teachers, those older and more experienced, would say is false. Everything I have been able to learn of it rings true - not to my heart, but to my mind. "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed," said Jesus. Now none of us have seen him in the flesh; but it seems to me that feelings have, in some strange reversal, replaced sight. What is more, the admonition has been stood on its head, and says now that those who have that sign are the blessed ones, and those who lack are doing something wrong and need to "get right with Jesus."

Does this ring any bells?

C. S. Lewis touched on this subject in the Screwtape Letters. The senior demon is chastising the younger for his decidedly lacking methods. "It sounds as if you supposed that argument was the way to keep him out of the Enemy's clutches," he says, and continues. "That might have been so if he had lived a few centuries earlier. At that time the humans still knew pretty well when a thing was proved and when it was not; and if it was proved they really believed it. They still connected thinking with doing and were prepared to alter their way of life as the result of a chain of reasoning. "

I have neither seen nor felt, but I can and will argue for Christianity. If feelings are the only guarantor, the only path to salvation, then I'm probably going to Hell. Assuming, of course, that my logic didn't get twisted up somewhere along the line and that God exists. I believe He does.

But you know, in regards to the whole issue of feelings and rational, calculated belief, I think I'll just keep rereading John 20:29.

One has to wonder if maybe the people who claim that breeding dogs has dumbed them down are *dun dun dun* right.

Seriously. Star is in heat. Predictably, Comet attempted to mate with her. The problem: Comet's legs are still shaky because of the freeway incident, and he wasn't able to remain standing. At least, that's one theory. The other is that Star didn't want to stay still. Either way, the dogs looked rather like a Push-me Pullyu, with one head (Comet) yelping loudly, and the other with a simply marvelous expression of frustration. Judging both dogs' reactions when they came untied, it's doubtful Comet, at least, will try that again.

At least not for the next few days.

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

~W. B. Yeats

I don't know if God is really there.

Sometimes I think He is, or I know that He must exist. Looking at a waterfall, or a butterfly, or an owl. Sitting where I can't hear anything else - or even where I can, and taking the time to appreciate the infinite detail of an oak leaf or a finch's dropped feather. Watching the stars appear and the sun rise. But I go to church and Sunday School, and I go to camps and conferences, and earnest people tell me with smiles on their faces that "it's okay, Breeann, maybe you'll feel God in your heart while you're up here." I listen to stories about accepting Christ and experiencing a great sensation of peace, or joy, or awe.

And where does that leave me, who became a Christian at the age of four? If there was any conversion bliss, I can't recall it. And there isn't now, either. I feel like Thomas the Unbeliever standing in the middle of this group of people and hearing someone say that you can't intellectualise your way to God. Why the heck shouldn't you be able to, if that God designed our minds and brains and everything we call logic? If it's all about feelings, then you might just as well call me an atheist.

I believe, very firmly and rationally, that there is a God, and the Christ of Nazareth died and rose again. I argue passionately for it, because it makes sense, even if I don't know in my "heart", in my non-reasoned mind. But if Christianity requires some upheaval of the emotions regarding said beliefs, then I am dead. Because emotionally, I don't "hear" anything. I don't feel any of this "being guided by the Holy Spirit". When someone tells me to "let God work [the problem] out", my typical response is, "So you think God wants us to sit on our rears and do nothing? That isn't why we have hands or minds!" I think everything will eventually work out for the good - not that we're thus given free-reign to laze about and trust that it will.

Nobody has commented on this before, probably because I'm good at hiding it. But you know, it gets tiring listening to so many people say the same thing as if it were a standard of Christianity, a test, almost, of whether or not you're a believer. And it's somewhere between pain and anger when somebody tells you in full assurance of themselves that all you need to do is "ask Jesus into your heart."

It doesn't seem fair.

It's Noldor and Sindar, not Noldorian and Sindarian. The r attached to the end makes it plural, used of a group of people; the singular forms would be Noldo and Sinda. And, just so you know, the three races of the Elves are not Noldor, Sindar, and Quendi.

Also, Sauron is not the reincarnation of Morgoth. Morgoth, being an immortal Ainu, cannot and did not die. Elves are not truly immortal - they only live until the end of the world, and die, body and spirit both, with it, whereas Men (or at least their souls) leave the world proper. Of the three marriages of mortal and immortal, only one was a full-blooded elf, and if she died, there is no record of it. Iarwain Ben-adar cannot be interpreted using a mixture of Aramaic and Sindarin tongues - Ben-adar means Fatherless, not Son of the Oak. The word for son is ion, and oak is rendered norno. The people of Lothlórien are not all High-elves; the Silmarillion records that the vast majority were Sindarin (or to be more precise, Silvan) elves of Celeborn's folk. Whom, by the way, is Sindarin himself, not Noldor.

Lastly, please do not say that there are but three strong female figures in all of Tolkien's work. Limited to the trilogy, this is (possibly) accurate. Before, however, applying the statement to Arda/Middle-earth as a whole, I would direct your attention to Arien (the Sun), Varda, Melian, Lúthien, Yavanna, Nienna, Gilraen, Emeldir, Galadriel, Uinen, Ungoliant, Thuringwethil, and Éowyn.

[/mini-rant]

Honestly, if a professor is going to reference a book, it would be good for him to have read it within the past ten years so that he can get his facts straight!

I just got an email from somebody thanking me for a review I dropped on a poem over two years ago. Apparently that one, lone review was what promted her to continue writing.

Wow.

"So, pretend you're one of those homeless guys, and it's going to be less than twenty degrees tonight. Where would you go so you wouldn't die?"
"Umm..."
"Wouldn't you go into a 24-hour fast-food place?"
"Yeah, probably."
"And once you were there, if they tried to kick you out, wouldn't you make a fuss so they'd call the police and you could spend the rest of the night in jail instead of outside?"
"..."
"And if you knew it was going to be cold for more than just a day or two, wouldn't you hit one of the police officers so they'd keep you there for the winter?"
~Dad and I, waiting at the bus station

It's been cold, here, colder than it usually is. We've been melting ice from the dogs' water so that they can drink, and from the birds', too - and the creek has a thin shell across the top as well, in some places more than that. But it's been clear and bright, and so better than rain (though if it would rain now, we would get snow...!)

I wrote a very short story yesterday. It was inspired by old traditional fairy-stories and an irritation with Eragon in specific and modern fantasy-genre assumptions in general. In case any of you want to see it, you can find it here. Enjoy!

Our dogs got out last night, apparently spooked by the fireworks, and were hit by a car. Star, our older female, escaped more or less unharmed, but 7-month-old Comet was hit harder, and is now limping on one side and sleeping in the sun. He may or may not have internal injuries: we do not have the money to spend on x-rays to tell, or the treatments. It's aggravating, but also sad - we've tried hard to keep Star in this yard over the past year, but she still gets out, and now is taking Comet with her. And now he's the one who's hurt.