Laptop!

Yess, precious, at last I have my own laptop computer, complete with webcam. I'm typing on it right now, and it's marvelous. Many of you probably know I've been waiting for it for months, so it's almost incredible to hold it in my hands at last!

Last night I was working feverishly on a short story until the wee hours of the morning--well, more like four A.M. I am very proud of it. Which is something, since my writing has been so dissatisfying to me as of late. And yes, I know I need to post the next part of 'Nighthawk'; it's completed, so I'll do that ASAP. Also, Andromanche, I have not yet finished your birthday gift. Yes, I'm horrible. I'm sorry. It's inching forward . . . I've been writing a lot of good beginnings and endings to stories, recently, but then the middles refuse to cooperate, and it's maddening.

Anyway, I was then roughly awakened by my frantic mother this morning after sleeping in and nearly missing my appointment with the doctor. Nothing like a couple of immunization shots to start the day off well, hm? Well, anyway, both my arms are now sore, but at least there's a few less diseases in this world to worry about.

And afterwards, of course, my father finally took me out to get my computer. Yay, I'm so excited! So you'll excuse me if I cut this post short so as to acquaint myself with my new computer, won't you?

(Linden, I'm currently debating about his name. After the Gawain debacle, I'm a little wary . . . 'Merlin' might be interesting, but if Nimue comes along, I'd be sunk. What do you think?)

Oh, and another thing: a belated Christmas gift for me arrived in the mail today. To be more specific: I am now a proud owner of one of the 'Tolkien Ensemble's CDs. Thanks, Mum and Dad!

PS-I will post a little about my Christmas soon, as well as a little surprise and a challenge for my reader friends, and a question or two about literary foods. All will be made clear.

Made Me Cry (Almost)

Everything that I have tried to say in my poetry, is captured in these few lines. When I read them, I felt my heart shiver. It will haunt my dreams, tonight.

Forgotten Language

by Shel Silverstein

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,

Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,

Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,

And shared a conversation with the housefly 

in my bed.

Once I heard and answered all the questions

of the crickets,

And joined the crying of each falling dying 

flake of snow,

Once I spoke the language of the flowers . . .

How did it go?

How did it go?

The Oath of Feanor

Hello everyone, and yes, I am at home now, and it is all very lovely. Especially since my baby sister wasn't afraid of me like I was afraid she would be.

And an added bonus of being back at home is that I now have access to a scanner! So here at last is the picture I drew for Raven's Eye, as requested. Basically, he wanted me to draw the scene from The Silmarillion wherein Feanor and his sons make the terrible oath. So I obliged, and--here it is!

(Except it won't load onto my blog, unfortunately. So you'll have to follow this link to my DeviantArt, where I will post it for you guys.)

Aloha!

I don't know how much of a common knowledge this is, but 'aloha' means 'hello', 'goodbye', and 'love'. I'm using it in the 'goodbye' sense in this post, because--yes, I leave Hawaii tomorrow to return to my home and hearth.

There are exactly 31 minutes until my final Philosophy exam, so I cannot write as much here as I would like; I want to get to the exam early and do some last-minute studying. But I wanted to say farewell from Paradise before I left for my own personal Paradise--home.

Hawaii has been remarkably good to me. I've found good friends, read good new books, and have been relatively successful academically. I also adjusted to seeing cockroaches scuttling about, and the blazing hot sky, and the rainstorms that surge from the sky without warning. I have not yet adjusted to the normalcy of geckos running around the apartment I'm living in; I still get so excited and think they are adorable.

All my friends--lucky blighters--had their last exams on Wednesday, so they're already gone. I'm almost done packing my bags; I'll finish today. Oh, Laura and Kat, I did send your Christmas gifts; I hope you get them.

Will I miss Hawaii? Well . . . yes, I will. I'll miss the Barnes & Noble that I haunt every weekend; we became very good friends over the course of the semester. I will also miss a couple of my professors--but I am very glad at the prospect of never seeing some of them again! I will also miss my weekly walks to the library, and the geckos, and the friends I've made here.

But I am still eagerly looking forward to going home. And my mom tells me that my siblings are all counting down to the day of my return instead of Christmas, isn't that funny? One of my first acts as reinstated eldest child will be to make cupcakes with all the little ones; that should be an adventure. And I'll practice my Irish dance every day, and enjoy my time home with all my heart.

After all, I should. In just three weeks, I will be back here . . .

Anyway--love to all, and Mele Kalikimaka!!

Swamped.

Quite literally, swamped. I have never had so much work due in so little time before in my life.

. . . Well, okay, I have, but I still hate it! I might not be able to check in again until next week. If that does turn out to be the unhappy case, do not worry. I will be back.

Speaking of swamps, my history professor randomly asked the class "What is a morass? Anyone know what a morass is?" yesterday during lecture.

I immediately answered with the first word that came to my mind: "A quagmire."

*Sigh* Sometimes being an author and knowing too many synonyms to a word is confusing. But still, how was I supposed to know he was just looking for 'swamp'?

. . . And Don't Forget About Exams

Yeah, well, Christmas spirit aside, it's also time for me to get into the 'Final Exam' spirit--namely, rabidly studious and kinda stressed. I've never had a Final in my life, as all my exams have always been quarterly, so that adds slightly to the pressure.

However, today is library day, which eases the stress somewhat. I really enjoy my weekly walk to the library; the road is so quiet, and the mountains are so green. And for a tiny little building, that library sure has a good selection of books.

Of course, they're also closing for renovation this December and won't open again for two years, but hey. That's just my luck.

Oh, and did I mention that I found and read 'The King of Elfland's Daughter'? Well, I did, and it was very different from what I had expected, but very enjoyable nonetheless. I love the originality of old fantasy. So many fantasies now are like clones of each other, or clones with simply differently styled hair or something, you know? So similar in bone structure that you can tell what is going to happen next. As an author, it's one of my greatest fears to fall into that 'conformity' trap. That might be what makes early fantasy so refreshing: you are really swept away in a story and don't know where it's going to go.

I haven't mailed any presents yet. But I will. I'll let you know when I do, to make sure the mail service doesn't steal them or something ;)

Okay, time to get back to studying. It's philosophy homework, aah!

Time to Start Getting Into the Christmas Mood!

Here you are, my first gift of the Christmas season: My favorite Christmas carol sung by one of my favorite musical artists. How brilliant is that?

Homesickness, and Thanksgiving

So I just visited Laura's blog, and very fortunately for me she had posted a series of lovely, calming, peaceful and reflective posts. I was having a bit of a rough day today. Namely, I received my first photograph from home today, and it was of my youngest baby sister laughing at the flickering candles on her first birthday cake, and it left me depressed all day. Isn't that strange? I should be ecstatic just because I got to see her beautiful face again, but . . . well, it's changed. Like I knew it would, but still. And in all that joy and sweetness in her smile, in her laugh, in her eyes . . . there wasn't any for me. I'm not in her life right now, and no matter how I play with her and communicate with her on holidays and as time grows by and she grows up and realizes that her elder sister is living away from home, I can't change that. The bitter fact that she has lived these past few months and grown and changed and now has a laugh and the tentative beginnings of a voice and a feisty personality and a recognition of and love for her family. And that I am not a part of any of that. She celebrated her birthday, lived these past few months of her life without missing me, and she never will. Oh, that might seem so silly to people who don't have little siblings and love little siblings like I do! But trust me, it's hard, hard, hard.

. . . Enough of that. I was crying at my computer screen earlier, and it does sound very comical, but isn't so funny in practice. But Laura, your post helped me a lot. I do have a lot to be thankful for. Life is beautiful no matter where you are. I'm fortunate in my family, that even though I'm not with them I can still write to them and speak on the phone to them and I'm going home in 19 days!

Thanks, Linden. Thank you very much. (And I have your Christmas gift wrapped and ready, but part of it might be a little late. We'll see.)

Well, now that I've been able to vent a little and get all my accumulated 'feeling-sorry-for-myself' out of the way, it's time to share a little about my four-day weekend.

Thursday: Thanksgiving, of course. And what better way to kick off Thanksgiving than to watch 'The Fellowship of the Ring'? Which of course I did. And I went to Thanksgiving dinner with my grandmother and a few of her friends, and the food was quite good, but I stuck out like a sore thumb because I wore a dress and everyone else was wearing t-shirts, shorts, and 'rubbah slippahs'. But I didn't mind too much, because I believe that any festive day must be accompanied by nice attire, and so laughed good-naturedly when one of the locals joked that I was so obviously from the mainland "Where they dress up nice the kind, you know?"

By the way, out here people eat sushi for Thanksgiving. I found that interesting.

Friday: I spent some time exploring the island with a friend and his family. Up in the mountains enormous white birds nest, and their voices sound like strange spirits screaming and wailing in the treetops. It gave me delightful shivers. And a huge, dizzyingly tall and ancient tree graciously unfurled a vine almost as thick as my fist so that it fell from hundreds of feet up to halt dangling merely an inch or so from my nosetip.

Of course I accepted the nice old tree's invitation and had a swing.

Saturday: Cold (for Hawaii, which means about 70 degrees yes-I-know-what-you're-thinking-Laura-if-it's-any-consolation-to-you-I-didn't-think-it-was-cold-really) and very rainy. I spent all day cooped indoors, which was an excuse to get some writing, cooking, and cleaning done. As well as a good gob of homework. I meant to do some art, but fell asleep first. Oops.

Sunday: I visited a very large, very wonderful Hawaiian craft fair, as well as a local shopping mall. And by 5 o'clock--I had completed my Christmas shopping! It came at the cost of aching feet and slight dehydration, but it was all well worth it. I had a magnificent time, and it does feel so good to buy things for other people, doesn't it? I didn't even go broke, either, so all in all it was a lovely and productive day. Mission accomplished!

So the wreaths are going up, carols are being played, and fake snow even adorns a few buildings here, looking very out of place. But--'tis the season to be jolly and joyous! And thanksgiving is not too long gone. So:

I am thankful for Laura, Kat, Andromanche, Raven's Eye, Elendil, Luce, my dance friends, my other friends, my school friends, and anyone else I might be forgetting who has ever given me a kind word or a smile when I have needed it most.

I am thankful for my imagination, which can keep me entertained and make the world beautiful even when sometimes I am very tired and occasionally discouraged and lonely.

I am thankful for all the amazing authors whom I admire, but mostly for JRR Tolkien, for helping shape my soul, and for LM Montgomery, whose Anne is an increasing source of inspiration to me as I work through college.

I am thankful for my family, whom I love with all my heart and all of whom make me laugh and think and learn.

I am thankful for little things: the tiny geckos with golden eyes, and the pounding of rain against a glassy window, and the smell of good paper and ink, and sweet green air.

I am thankful for big things: rainbows and good grades and literature and sparkling seas.

I am thankful that I am able to be thankful.

And yes, I am thankful that in 19 days I will be home again.

Amen.

Would You Like A Jelly Baby?

For Laura, who has never eaten a jelly baby. Yes, m'dear, you are missing out ;)

Literary Quote #6--'The Brothers Karamazov'

'Once upon a time there lived a very nasty, horrible old woman. When she died, she didn't leave behind her one single good deed. So the devils got hold of her and tossed her into the flaming lake. Meantime, her guardian angel stood there, trying hard to think of one good deed of hers that he could mention to God in order to save her. Then he remembered and said to God: "Once," he said, "She pulled up an onion in her garden and gave it to a beggar woman." So God said to him: "Take that onion, hold it out to her over the lake, let her hold onto it, and try to pull herself out. If she does, let her enter heaven; if the onion breaks, the old woman will just have to stay where she is." So the angel hurried to the woman, held out the onion to her, and told her to take hold of it and pull. Then he himself began to pull her out very carefully and she was almost entirely out of the lake when the other sinners saw that she was being pulled out and grabbed on to her so that they'd be pulled out of the flames too. But when she saw them, that wicked, horrible woman started kicking them, saying: "I'm being pulled out, not you, for it's my onion, not yours!" As soon as she said that, then onion snapped and the woman fell back into the flaming lake, where she's still burning to this day. And her guardian angel wept and walked away.'


What a story! And yet it is a moment in the book which stood out to me very clearly. I enjoyed it. Is this truly a Russian folk tale, does anyone know, or did Dostoevsky make it up?

One Can Never Have Too Much Pachelbel . . .

Do you guys remember the Pachelbel Rant video? Laura, I believe you sent it to everyone . . . well anyways, I was looking it up today, and came across this. And it's impressive (to me anyway) musically, but it's also pretty hilarious.

'The Nighthawk's Candle' --Part IV

IV.

A boy was running through the trees, gasping and terrified, and he kept glancing behind himself, as though to try and get a glimpse of that which he was fleeing from. The rain was so strong now it penetrated even here, and rain ran from his face, his bare arms, his fine clothing--the dye had begun to run from his garments, streaking his skin with green and blue and red, and the cloth would surely be ruined by the wet, which was a shame. It was masterfully made, and fine as though the last stitch had been sewn only that day.

He tripped and fell, but caught himself on his hands and knees and scrambled upright again, rushing onward, ever onward. His knees and hands were red, and it was not from the dye of his clothes. His thick black hair whipped in wet swirls against his face, and the brambles and stones he stumbled past tore at his skin.

He was a very little boy, only a child, no more than eight years old from the look of his face and his thin limbs. A child: tiny and white and sobbing, running through the vast forest, tripping and staggering, trembling in the rain. There was a terror, a blind, hungry terror pursuing him, and he was lost, running through the trees that leered at him with their long black faces.

At last he fell and did not get up, but sprawled painfully on the moldy ground, drenched and cold and alone. Slowly, he raised his head, and pulled himself into sitting position, staring with frightened eyes at the blood on his hands. He tried to wipe them clean on his shins, then pulled them back with a yelp of pain. He clawed frantically at the fine clothes he wore, and they tore a little, but not much. They were very well-sewn.

Trembling and rocking slightly, he gazed up around himself at the tall black trees, the hammering rain, hte tall black night. The Candle he had left far behind.

And with a despairing wail he covered his face with his hands, and cried, soaking wet, cold, and shivering like a child--which was only to be expected, since he was a child . . .

"Mother," he cried, "What has she done to me? What has she done to me?"

How Time Flies!

There I was intending to post something last week, and suddenly it's the end of this week. Wow.

I have been very busy with school recently. Finals are swiftly and cruelly approaching, and while I am not stressed yet, I will be soon. I have also had to start looking up spring classes to register for, and that's been agonizing as well because many classes I want to take--like the honors creative writing class and Russian 102--are in the same time slots. It's not fair :(

Supposedly tomorrow we'll be having thunderstorms here in HI. In some ways I'm looking forward to it, because I love rain, and a thunderstorm sounds quite exciting, but in other ways I'm not--namely, tomorrow is my library day, and I don't relish the idea of walking to the library down the usual dirt road, trying to shield the books I'm returning from lashing rain.

I'll probably bring my umbrella and stick the books in a plastic shopping bag; that should work. Oh, and Kat, I'll probably call you on my way to the library. Depends on how loud the weather is.

My family back home are currently driving to Arizona for the Oireachtas. I'm rather despondent about not going too, but I hope my little sister does well, anyway.

I'm starting to get excited jitters about going home for Christmas! I've begun my Christmas shopping already, which is an adventure in itself, and my siblings have all told me that they want to help me cook up a Christmas feast when I get home. We're planning to do a Redwall-style feast, with breakfast scones, shrimp soup, mushroom pasties--the works. Hopefully it'll turn out well.

One last note: Lone Wolf, I told you I accepted your challenge to draw the 'Oath of Feanor' scene, remember? Well, I did it! But my broken camera is having issues with getting the picture in focus, so I might not be able to upload the artwork until I get home and can use my parents' scanner. But it was fun, thanks for the challenge :)

Literary Quote #5--Tarzan of the Apes

"You make me so irritable, sleeping there peacefully when you know perfectly well that the world is full of sorrow."


(I told you it was coming! This particular quote is from Jane, who wasn't nearly as interesting as Jane in the film, and she's speaking to her servant girl. Next up, a loooong quote from 'The Brothers Karamazov', and perhaps something from 'Mutiny on the Bounty' as well, we'll see . . .)

That's Better!

Aaah, here we go, this looks nice. I'll keep it like this.

I did finish 'Anne of Ingleside', and it was rather sweet. I somehow skipped it when I read the Anne series, I don't know how! So it was also sad, since I knew already what happens later in 'Rilla of Ingleside' . . . I do dearly love Walter. Oh well.

Yesterday I wrote much more of the 'Nighthawk' story, which I hope you enjoy when I post. I'm planning to post one new part every week, so sometime this week you'll get the next one . . . and I believe it's illustrated . . .

Also yesterday I watched 'Doctor Who', which was brilliant. I've seen some of the old episodes before (top-right Doctor. Very cool guy, not the least because he likes jelly babies. Ever had a jelly baby before? They're delish), but not the current ones; apparently it was my good fortune to start watching just as a new season started up. Anyway, it was really good, and quite funny. My dad has always liked 'Doctor Who', so I guess this is just another personality trait I inherit from him--along with my liking of writing, reading, drawing, telling stories, Great Britain, the Muppets, frisbee, British humor, and spicy foods.

Pic

Hmm . . .

Well, I love this new template except for the spots. So it might change, but it might not. I think I'll have to change my font size now, though . . .

I really should know better than to stay up late reading, but I couldn't resist last night. So now I'm exhausted, have a headache, and feel sick. But hey, at least I'm 100 pages further into 'Anne of Ingleside'! You gotta take the good with the bad.

When I go back to the apartment today, I think I'll finish reading, then do Russian homework, then cook myself a quesadilla (I make awesome quesadillas), then write more of my story. That is, if I don't fall asleep first.

And tomorrow I will walk to the library as usual, to return a few of the books I borrowed on Saturday. I think I'm returning 'The Brothers Karamazov' (I finished it at last, yay!), 'Mutiny on the Bounty' (I'll post a review and some quotes later), 'Pagan's Crusade' (a rather interesting medieval fiction, nothing special), and hopefully I'll have finished 'Anne of Ingleside' by then, and so then can return it.

I was walking from one of my classes yesterday, and there's this enormous tree that I always see--really huge, very green, very majestic and beautiful. It looks like a marvelous climbing tree, very wild. I see it every day, and always admire it, but yesterday was special I guess and for some reason the following dialogue called to me as I watched this tree. I'm not sure why.


"Now suppose I were to climb to the very top, and then--the very highest branch, you see, where all the leaves are like gold fringe against the sky? There, where the green is alive--If I were to then leap from my windy perch, leap into the sky, what would happen?"

"I would catch you," he said.

She smiled--a wild smile, a secret smile.

"You? No, you would not be swift enough. The west wind would seize me and bear me away, and I would fly away, dance with the wind . . . and I would never come back . . ."


I have crazy people living inside my head, I guess, wanting to jump off treetops. *sigh* You know, I wrote the beginning of a story three years ago all about climbing trees, and it had a lovely passage in it describing climbing a tree--I do miss tree-climbing, have you guessed?--, but I don't remember where I put it. It's on my computer somewhere. I'll find it and post it sometime, since I really liked it, and I'm never going to finish the story now. I lost my interest in it--don't you hate it when that happens?

. . . And this is officially my most unnecessary/least intersting post ever. Basically, I'm thinking out loud. And making you poor people listen. I'm sorry. I get rather random when I'm this sleepy.

Oh, wait, I'll give you some good news: I got A's on all my midterm exams! *happy dance* I found out yesterday. So now I can at least say that this post isn't completely worthless. It gave you some important tidings.

'The Nighthawk's Candle' - Part II & III

As promised, here is the next installment. Some parts are illustrated, some are not. This, sorry to say, is not, though part IV is. But to cheer myself up after the horror of Obama being elected president, I have decided to post both part II and part III in this post. Yay!

To answer Readers' Questions/Critiques (Well, okay, just 'Reader' really, lol):

Q1. "In the part where you talk about his eyes, and then his hair, it was a little awkward"
A1. Guilty as charged. All of this story is really just written between classes or during History lecture *tsk tsk*, and so everything you read is literally first draft. And I was actually not pleased with that bit either, it feels too sketchy, doesn't it? I'll rewrite it.

Q2. "And I was curious, why don't they need wood any more?"
A2. I meant, they don't need lots of logs for building their houses anymore, as now they're a more stone-based city, lots of time has passed, and they aren't expanding much with wood any longer. Think medieval feudal town evolving into a Renaissance era town . . .

Q3. "And why would it be both silver and golden?"
A3. Intentional, I'm afraid--I'm thinking that sort of silver/gold light that's so bright you can't be sure which color it is . . . and since it changes color it is even more confusing . . . just bright, bright, bright. And it's kind of fun to throw mind-benders at readers every now and then, even if they're silly. The mind-benders, I mean, not the readers!

Okay, so here is the next part.

II.
There was a child
In the glade
And she was one child among many
Yet she was alone—
For never had anyone been
Like her
Before or After in this world
And never had anyone
Shone like her
In the Candlelight.
She was a child, and
She thought she was alone,
Yet she was not.
He watched her.
Silence, loneliness, and agelessness—
Unraveling like a river.
Softly, he called her name.

III.
"Listen.”

“Ssh!”

“Oh Anni, listen. Do you hear a voice?”

“What?”

“A voice.”

“No.”

Anni was the elder of the two children, and the flowers she had picked shone upon her lap. But then everything seemed to glow with its own light, here. She looked doubtfully at her younger sister.

“What kind of a voice?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

The little girl said, gazing around at the tall trees. They were lit with white-gold.

“It is not a voice, I suppose. It is like how eyes would speak, if they had voices. It isn’t a voice, it’s a thought, or a glance. I can hear it with my eyes and my mind. Not my ears.”

“You are crazy, Elaine.” But the older girl looked around uneasily, and her lips twisted uncertainly. “This place is not haunted. That’s only baby stories. We came here, didn’t we? We’ve plucked some of the Candle flowers, haven’t we?” She pointed at her collection of blossoms. “All these years we’ve been warned from coming here, and yet we have, and there’s no Nighthawk. So don’t go talking about—about voices in your head. Stop it.”

“These aren’t Candle flowers.” Elaine said slowly, looking at the flowers she held. “They are normal. We got it all wrong. And I tell you someone is watching me! Don’t you feel it, like light upon your face?”

“Crazy,” Anni retorted, clutching her own flowers in sweaty hands. “Not another word, Elaine. Not another word!”

And she scurried farther away, towards the cloudy sunlight where the other children played and searched for Candle flowers, away from the silent glade and the smaller girl.

But Elaine stayed.

She looked thoughtfully at the flowers she held in her hands, then with a sigh laid them softly upon the grass. They shone like jewels in the Candlelight, but she stood by and frowned, looking at them. These flowers were beautiful, but they were not Candle flowers. She had thought they were, before, but suddenly she was certain they were not. Somehow, she knew.

“Elaine.”

The voice returned again, very softly. The other children had moved away, and for a moment all was still and soft. She thought it was the wind’s breath in the treetops, or the fall of a leaf to the ground, a green whisper, and so was not afraid. This was the same voice, she knew—yet this time, she heard it with her ears.

“My name is Elaine. But where are you?”

For a long moment all was silence again, as she gazed into the Candlelight and listened. She was dreaming, she was dreaming . . . .

“Here,” the voice said softly. She turned around quickly, and for the first time a quiet something ran down her spine, like the shiver she always got when looking up for the first time after finishing a very good daydream. It was the tremor of reality and fantasy clashing.

She at first did not see anything, only blackness. Blackness and glittering blackness, leaves that never saw the sun, chittering eyes of forest creatures. But she did not fear. Instead, she softly stepped forward, towards where she heard the voice. The strange smooth yellow light danced in her eyes.

“I cannot see you,” she said. “If you are there, please, come where I can see you.”

There was a slow rustling, and then a shadowy figure detached itself from the black and took a step towards her. She stared.

The stranger was very pale, white as though light had never before touched his skin, as though he had lived all his life in an cave underground, a cavern filled with clear water, or as though he was the spirit of one of these trees, tangled and dreary and hidden. His face, upon closer inspection, was very fine, slender-boned but not weak, firm but not cruel. His hair was long, but not as long as hers, and it was very straight. It was black.

It was blacker than any black she had ever seen before, until she glanced into his eyes. And his eyes were so black she could not breathe until he blinked.

He rarely blinked.

“Why don’t you take them?”

His voice was very peculiar. She could not tell if it was fierce or gentle. To avoid her confusion—and the black, black eyes fixed upon her face—she looked down.

“Oh!”

In his outstretched hand he held two of the Candle flowers. She knew instantly what they were, though she could not have said why. Those other flowers were beautiful, but these were alive. She took them and held them in her hand, and they were heavy. “Thank you.”

She made a little courtesy.

Elaine did not know she was pretty. Young children never do—which is perhaps why they are all beautiful.

But the stranger, he who had given her the flower, watched her with fixed black eyes. Her face, which had blushed faintly as she curtsied, was a gentle, delicate oval, with a pert, confident chin; her brown eyes glowed brightly, and her whole pretty, girlish face was turned towards him. Her hair was such a deep brown it was almost black, and very fine, as though painted by a soft brush. She was too young to style her hair, so it was free to roll in light waves to slightly below her shoulder-blades. She was dressed all in white, her father’s finest white linen, and white slippers protected her dainty feet.

Her small, slender hand, graciously flourishing her simple skirt and then extending courteously to him, was watched in silence.

“Thank you,” she said again, more warmly.

He stared at her slim little fingers and said nothing, and then looked back into her face and said nothing.

Elaine dropped her hand back to her side, and wiped it on her skirt. Her gratitude faded as swiftly as it had come, and now she merely felt affronted. She looked up to see the black, black eyes still watching her, and discovered she was irritated by them.

“What are you staring at, anyway?” She demanded.

“You.” He did not sound embarrassed.

“Well—stop it.” She flushed. “Go away.”

A faint call from the world beyond the trees. A child’s voice? The black eyes did not flicker.

“Go away,” she repeated.

“Only if you come with me.”

She stepped back, then took two steps forward.

“Why would I come with you?”

He lifted his head in a strange blend of haughty pride and shyness.

“Because I am the Nighthawk, and I command it.”

They stood in the Candlelight, staring at each other, and for a moment there was a hush. But then--

“You? But you can’t be the Nighthawk. You’re just a boy!” And she burst out laughing, merry and surprised.

But the boy with the wide black eyes and the white face blinked, and looked down in frightened confusion, put his hands to his face. Perhaps her laughter had scared him. The little girl at first felt a vindictive sort of satisfaction in frightening the boy who had sought to frighten her. He was a child, no taller than herself; how could he even dream of pretending to be the dreaded Nighthawk?

He was a child, but he had given her flowers. Elaine stopped laughing, fearing that she had been unkind.

A faint call, and another, like echoes in the mist and ringing rain. Elaine listened, and the boy slowly lifted his eyes to stare at her again. His eyes were just level with her own, and they were horrified and entranced. In the yellow light gold seemed to be dripping from his face, his hair, his hands, pale gold.

“Never mind what I said,” she said kindly. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings. It was very nice of you to get the flowers for me. Do you live nearby?”

The child stumbled backward away from her, and as easily as that, he was gone. She heard a sliding rustle and then he had vanished as strangely as he had appeared, leaving her alone.

Her sister found her there less than a minute later, staring bewilderedly into the black foliage and clutching two strange flowers in her slender hands.

“Elaine!”She turned around, gasped, and the world was loud and alive again. Anni was stumping towards her, looking cross.

“Elaine, I have called you so many times. It’s raining. We must be getting back quick, before we are missed. It’s getting dark. And—Elaine, where on earth did you find those?”

She stared at the flowers in Elaine’s hands. The smaller girl blinked and stirred as though waking from a dream.

“I found them.”

“What?”

“I—no, Anni,” the girl said in sudden distress, “Wait, there is a boy, a boy who ran into the forest, and he will get wet in the rain too, won’t he, Anni? He was not the Nighthawk, because he was just my size—only think of that!—and he gave me the flowers. Anni,” she said worriedly as she drew the flowers close to her body and cradled them like butterflies, “I laughed at him. Was I unkind to laugh? But he was so strange!”

Anni only laughed.“You silly goose, you must have dozed off. You were dreaming. There was no boy. There is only Gerin, and he was with me the whole time.”

“But how then did I get the flowers? Unless I dreamed that too . . . but there they are, in my hands.”

She shivered and rubbed her eyes. Anni shivered too, and tugged at the little girl’s frock.

“Do come, Elaine. Otherwise we will be missed, and there will be dreadful trouble.”

Obediently the little girl took her big sister’s hand, and allowed herself to be led out into the sparkling rain, away from the light. The rain seemed to wake her fully, and they ran through the darkness, laughing, ran home . . . .


Before she crawled into bed that night, Elaine carefully set a vase of clean water upon her bedside table. Beside it upon the tabletop rested the two flowers, fresh as though they had only just been picked. In the soft light cast from the lamp burning at the head of her bed, she examined them more closely.

The flowers were as red as wet blood, and their blooming petals spread in smooth ruffles until each flower was as large as her hand. Gently she picked them up to set them in the jar of water, and their petals slid against her skin as finely as the best satins did in her father’s workshop, when she would rub the beautiful fabrics against her face and hands when her father wasn’t looking. She gazed in wonder. Where could the child have found these? She eagerly pressed the beautiful things to her face and breathed in deeply, then turned away, coughing, as she set them in the water.

“Why,” she said in surprise, staring at them. “They smell like dust!”

Jhaniel's Book-Filled Weekend

Yes, I had a lovely book-filled weekend.

Friday night I read 'The Game' by Diana Wynne Jones--yes I'm hooked on her books right now--and it is by far my favorite of her books so far. I loved every moment of it. I was extremely sad to return it to the library the next day, and have made Lathspell swear to read it ASAP. I now believe in the mythosphere ;)

On Saturday I finally went to visit the big state library, which is two stories high and so large it looks like a museum from the outside. I borrowed six books, I believe. My grandmother and I walked all the way there, which took a while but was very fun, as the weather was very pleasant. You wouldn't believe the strange, enormous trees that grow out here. I desperately want to climb one.

Anyway, back to the library. Um, well, I spent about three hours there just browsing. I found a complete book of Sherlock Holmes stories (which I didn't borrow because I've already read them all), but spent about twenty minutes leafing through the pages looking at all the illustrations, because the book had all the original Strand magazine illustrations. They were all very, very good.

There were many fantasy books I had never heard of before, and I leafed through quite a few in the hopes of finding something interesting, but alas, my quest was in vain. My method of searching for good new fantasy is to

1) Read the first chapter. Usually it'll be so stylistically horrible that I put the book back on the shelf right then and there, but if it isn't, then

2) I flip quickly through the pages. Now, this may seem like cheating and reading ahead, but I only read a page every so often, and have found this wise. Because 9 times out of 10 I'll discover some immorality or other rottenness in the book hidden later on, which would have given me a nasty surprise later if I had read the book from front to back.

And all these books failed either at step 1 or step 2 of my searching process. Sad, isn't it?

But an enjoyable library trip nonetheless. And then I had to walk back to the apartment carrying all the books I borrowed.

Right now I'm reading 'Mutiny on the Bounty', and though I only just completed chapter 2, it's shaping up to be an excellent read. I'm already half in love with Fletcher Christian ;)

Oh, before I forget, I also finished 'Tarzan of the Apes'. And this may destroy my credibility as a literature reader forever, but I must say that prefer the Disney film! *cringe* It's sad, I know. But I just couldn't care much for Tarzan and his friends in the book, while I do in the film . . . I guess I feel the movie's more effective. Oh, well. Forgive me if you can.

I found a nifty quote in 'Tarzan' but I forgot to bring it with me to school today to type down. So I'll have to post it later.

Sunday: I just stayed at home and read. And at last, I finished 'The Brothers Karamazov'! A bewildering book, but with a rather lovely ending, I think. Lise seriously scared me. I am very happy I finished it at last, but I think that I still prefer 'Crime and Punishment' and 'The Idiot'.

And now, here I am at school, ready for another week of work. And I truly am ready, this week. My books rejuvenated me over the weekend, and now I'm ready for anything!

PS: Ah, I almost forgot. The next few installments of my new short story are ready, so next chance I have I will post the next one or two.

PPS: Yesterday I also was a hero and saved a baby gecko which had fallen into the bathtub. I coaxed him into my hands and carried him down to the bushes in the courtyard, where I released him. Hope the little guy survives out there, he was quite adorable. Inside the apartment his eyes were round black disks, but in the sunlight his pupil shrank so there was only a black slit, and the rest of his eye was golden. It was enchanting.

Happy Halloween (And Literary Quote #4, I think it is?)

. . . Because it's a ghost story. Sort of. And since the song's stuck in my head and driving me insane, it might as well be stuck in yours too ;)



"'Poor wretch!' I thought; 'you have a heart and nerves the same as your brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of humiliation.'"

-Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte


A book chock-full of amazing dialogue and quotes--a few speeches never fail to give me shivers--but this is definitely one of the best. Cheers.

'A Dreamer's Tales'

I have to present a political essay of my choice to my English class today, and I'm a little nervous, but I have friends in that class so hopefully they'll be kind.

Anyway, so I was doing some last minute internet surfing to get as much information about the essay's background as I can (precious little, I'm afraid), and then I stumbled across this. I'm still not sure how. But just the title 'A Dreamer's Tales' hooked me, and when I found that it was written in 1910, I was even more eager to give it a read, because fantasy stories written at the dawn of fantasy have a lovely sort of mood and purity about them that I adore. Ever read 'The Worm Ouroboros?'

Well anyway, I don't have much time, but I read the first story in the collection, called 'Poltarnees, Beholder of Ocean' (don't you just love those old wild sounding fantasy names that folks came up with before Tolkien changed the fantasy genre forever?). I read the story through and actually adore it. It reminds me of Arabian Nights in its ritualistic form of narrative . . . Very nice. Now I'm eager to read the rest of this book. It really does feel like the work of a dreamer, of a Dreamer in a society before Dreaming was taken seriously and thereby tainted and destroyed.

I will definitely be searching out Lord Dunsany's books now . . .

Pic

My New Motto

"Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid and polite, are necessarily men of violence. We speak of 'touching' a man's heart, but we can do nothing to his head but hit it." - "Charles II" Twelve Types

Yes, I am quoting G.K. Chesterton again. But with a quote like that . . . how could I resist? If y'all are interested in learning more about this guy, here's the link.

And wowee, that's a lot of fast comments on my 'short' story, heh heh. Many thanks! I will post the next part ASAP, if you're lucky it'll be tomorrow, but more likely next week. This week is midterms for me, and I am flat out exhausted. *Yawn*

'The Nighthawk's Candle' - Part I

Okay, so this is my newest short story. I have written more than just part one, but part one is all you're getting today, because I want to polish part two a bit. And part one isn't very long, it's more a foreword than anything, but I hope you forgive me for that.

And hopefully this story isn't too confusing . . . It's been following me around, nipping at my ankles, for about a month, so the other day I finally decided to try and write it down, and it accepted eagerly and swiftly filled about four pages in record time. Yay!

(About the illustrations: I decided to go with a less realistic style for the illustrations: strong colors, clean lines, a bit more cartoony than is my wont. I think it works with the rather strange story, anyway. And yes, those are two children. All illustrations save one are done with black pen and colored pencils. On the pages of a very small sketchbook. So this is about the size of an index card. Done while I should have been studying, shame on me . . .)

The Nighthawk's Candle

I.

There was no Nighthawk, and no candle, but it was called the Nighthawk’s Candle all the same. It was a light in the woods, and had been there as long as anyone’s grandfather could remember. On sunny, bright days it was pale and yellow like glass; when rain fell in torrents it was a white shimmer, and at night it was a fallen star, silver and golden and glowing.

It never went out.

When the clearing of the forest had first begun, so that the men of the village could collect wood to build their first homes many generations ago, the woodcutters had found the Candle. It had been hidden deep within the forest, but now it sparkled on its fringe, for all the trees shielding it had been cut down, yet no one dared to go further. The queer, unwavering light was inexplicable, and was therefore a warning.

Perhaps this warning was what had led the villagers to invent the Nighthawk. There was no account of any such being in any of the old woodcutters’ accounts of the discovery of the candle, yet still he stalked through the people’s folklore and imaginations like a dread ghost: Tall, slim, deadly. He sometimes wore a mask, and sometimes not; sometimes carried a sword, sometimes a pistol, and sometimes merely throttled unwary travelers with his hands.

For he was always a being of death. And he had always wide, dilated eyes, whose blackness could destroy the mind of a victim who gazed within them, and long black hair. His fate was, inextricably, bound up with the Candle flame. Women said he haunted it, guarding the light jealously, for it was his soul. And the men laughed, but did not contradict.

Because in the end it was merely a story, and the womenfolk could make what they liked of it, as long as they did not frighten the children too terribly. True, no one knew exactly what made the light burn in the trees, the light that never went out, but this was an ancient land, with ancient mysteries, and since the light did no one any harm, and no one needed wood any longer, there was no point in brooding. There was no Nighthawk; of that all men and even the storytelling wives were certain.

But children were warned against playing near the Nighthawk’s Candle.

Just in case.

An Artist Reborn

Yesterday I had a sudden moment of brilliance. The school's bookstore must sell art supplies, right? So I dashed over there and spent about an hour happily browsing the shelves. I really wanted calligraphy ink and the nice vellum they had, but I left my calligraphy quill at home. And anyway, they were too expensive. But a girl can dream, right?

Still, I was able to find a good selection of colored pencils, and a really good, fine black pen for line work. As well as a good pencil sharpener, some pastel fixative, and a pocket sketchbook.

So now I have the means to draw properly again, and it is like my artistic side was dammed all this time and just exploded from its confinement. Ever since my happy purchases I've been drawing like mad, and more surprising, they've all turned out well so far. But they're all illustrations for my short story that I'm almost done with . . . so you can't see them yet. But anyway, when I do post the short story here, it'll come with pictures. Yay!

On a more sober note, my first mid-term is today. So I left my pencils and other goodies at home, to keep me safe from temptation. Bleh.

The Attack of the Black Cat

Do you ever have those days where nothing seems to go right? I think what did it for me was accidentally having a black cat cross my path last week. The ill fortune bound to ensue finally did yesterday.

First, I discovered yesterday morning that my camera is broken. By which I mean I think some rain or other moisture got inside it, and now its screen doesn't work, even though its picture-taking function is still okay. This is a horrible problem still, however, because my camera's viewfinder is the screen. So now I cannot see what my pictures look like or if I'm in focus or anything! It's driving me mad. So right now my camera's in my bedroom, with a small electric fan blowing at it, and I hope desperately that it clears up once it's dry. Otherwise I have to get a replacement, which is a nuisance.

And then I got stuck on a philosophy homework problem, and so went overlong on my homework session and had to run to make it to my history class on time, which meant I had to skip lunch. And then halfway to history class, I discovered that the path I always take was surrounded by blaringly orange fencing because it was being re-cemented. So I had to take a long detour, hauling my rolling backpack up stairs and such.

After history I had no time to eat because I needed to rush to another class. I tried to call my mother about my camera and then my cell phone went dead in the middle of our conversation. After writing some nasty things about electronics and technology in general in my diary, I went to class, and then from there I had to hurry to attend a library tour--only I suddenly discovered I didn't remember which library I was supposed to go to. I managed to guess the correct one, though. And during the library tour I had to use the computer to search for articles/books to use for a research paper that I have to write for English class. Would you believe that a library with 6 million books only has about three about Welsh castles?

But then my luck finally began to turn. When I got back to my grandma, I discovered she had bought me fruit juice, which made everything better. Oh, and I read more of Brothers Karamazov on the way back to the apartment. And I devoured my sadly overdue lunch. I was pretty hungry, considering my breakfast was at 6:30 and my lunch about eleven hours later . . .

I think the horrid black cat has exhausted its store of bad luck on me now, so today should be good. And maybe it wasn't the black cat; I never did really believe in superstition like that . . . but you never know. And anyway, it feels nice to be able to blame something.

So Much for Infrequent Posting

Wow, no way. This is the tune of Tam Lin? But I Irish dance to this tune all the time!

*Is ecstatic*

And I loved the tune anyways, but now that I know the connection between the gorgeous ballad and this song . . . it's amazing. Whoa.

Fire and Hemlock

Yes, I stayed up until midnight last night reading 'Fire and Hemlock' by Diana Wynne Jones. It was a very engrossing read, and the part towards the end where Polly was trying to find her true memories was actually chilling. So I really enjoyed it, especially the make-believe parts and the book choices of Tom Lynn. The story was very cleverly done, and I could definitely see why Andromache likes it so much.

To my own surprise, though, I actually prefer Andromache's own retelling of the Tam Lin story. It isn't anywhere near as long and convoluted as Jones', but for some reason it is more gripping, I think . . . hm. Well, I hope that is heartening, anyway.

Oh, and I had issues with 'Fire and Hemlock's ending. I didn't really understand it all that well . . . perhaps because it was so late at night! But the horse bit really didn't make sense to me. Sorry.

And this may be the beginning of infrequent posting for the next two weeks. Mid-term exams *cue scary music* are being held, and I really should study. Studying does take priority over blogging, y'know.

You Know How I . . .

. . . Always have virtual lembas for my virtual birthday parties?

Well these people claim they have an Elven Lembas recipe. So I'm going to try it out. I can't resist. Some of their recipes are just hokey ('Merry's Chai Tea' or something like that) but a few of the mushroom dishes sound good. . . . And 'Rosie's Shire Pie' sounds definitely yummy.

I should start planning my birthday menu. Hey, I also found a shrimp 'n' hotroot soup recipe online. Anybody else read the Redwall books and come away with an intense desire to try the stuff? Here's the recipe, found on this great website, which has just about every Redwall recipe you ever craved, including 'Unny Moles and Mint Pancakes and Abbot Durral's cake . . .

Hotroot SoupIngredients:
3 pounds watershrimp (shrimp) cooked,shelled, and deveined
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
3 tablespoons bacon fat
Hotroot powder mix (a tiny bit of cayenne pepper, 1/4 teaspoon chili powder and 1/2 teaspoon arrowroot)
1/2 onion, chopped
4 cups sliced okra
1/2 cup chopped sweet red pepper
1 1/2 cups chopped fresh or canned tomatoes
2 teaspoons basil, crumbled
1 cup cooked rice

Procedure (by Ruddle) Boil watershrimps. Melt bacon fat in large skillet and brown watershrimps lightly. Remove from pan and set aside. Add onion, okra, hotroot powder mix, and pepper and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly for five minutes. Stir in tomatoes, basil, and three cups of boiling water. Mix in watershrimps and about a teaspoon of salt. Cover and simmer 30-40 minutes. Add cooked rice, mix well, and cook 5 more minutes to heat through. WARNING: this otter recipe is very spicy!! Serves 4.

The Significence of the Number 33, and the Happy Cockroach

I recently realized that my last post was my 33rd. My blog is now of age. We need to have a happy hobbit party to celebrate ^_^

Oh, and Kasiopea has new art posted on her website--more of her fabulous paintings telling Maeglin's story as recounted in The Silmarillion/Book of Lost Tales/Children of Hurin. Do go check them out. Now.

In my philosophy class today I did some practice problems in preparation for the upcoming mid-term test; I didn't get everything right, but these were (according to the professor) harder than those which will be on the mid-term, and I got most right, so I am very pleased and have renewed confidence now. I had been feeling a bit wilty concerning philosophy for the past week or so.

It rained today, but I missed it . . . Oh, but I did see two baby geckos this week. Tiny, adorable little things, about half the length of my little finger. Which I know is an imprecise measurement for you . . . Um, let's estimate about an inch long? And they had big round black eyes, and when I got excited at seeing them they got scared and scurried away up the wall. So cute.

And I also saw a baby mongoose . . . it was eating something, I'm not sure I want to know what, but it kept looking up from its dinner and licking its lips with a little pink tongue, so it was adorable too.

Cockroaches aren't so adorable. No, wait, I take that back; one cockroach I've espied was very cute. A young father was carrying his baby girl through a restaurant I was eating at, and she was wiggling and laughing and generally gleeful, and I was watching a little wistfully. Because she was about the same age as my youngest sister at home, and my dad carries her around like that.

But my dad does definitely not pretend his children are loathsome bugs. Whereas this father:

*lifting the laughing baby above his head* "Yay, it's the happy cockroach! Yay, happy cockroach!"

I could barely finish my pasta, I was laughing so hard. I guess when 'happy cockroach' is a term of endearment, you know you're in Hawaii.

The Amazing Chinese Wizard

Okay, here's a quote I just found in my 'Three Ways of Thought in Ancient China' book. It's one of my World history texts. It's describing a wizard. I was impressed with his skills until I reached the end of the list: ". . . [he] could go into water and fire, pierce metals and stone, turn mountains upside down, make rivers flow backwards, move fortifications and towns, ride on the air without falling, collide with solids without injury."

COLLIDE WITH SOLIDS WITHOUT INJURY.

I started giggling. Can you imagine how awesome THAT magic show would be?

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, I will . . . RUN INTO THIS WALL!

"WHAM!"

Tada! I am unharmed . . . Now I will drop this rock on my head!

"WHACK!"

Tada! I'm still okay!"

(Pic from Pixar's new short film 'Presto'. I think the two magicians must be related.)

*Is (virtually) happy*

Well, since I left my big, beautiful library at home, at least now I can enjoy it virtually. On my blog.

Yay for my new bookshelf feature! My goal is to stick every book that I have on my shelf back home on this shelf, but I don't know if that's possible . . . my memory isn't THAT good ;)

The Book of Mordred

Yesterday I read 'The Book of Mordred' by Vivian Vande Velde. And, frankly, I was disappointed with it.

After Celtic mythology such as the stories of the Three Shouts and Cuchulainn, the Arthurian tales are probably my favorite legend cycle. I have not yet finished Malory's Morte d'Arthur (had to leave it at home, alas for the length of the book and the airport's luggage weight limit!), and I suppose I cannot call myself a true Arthurian fan until I have, but I have read Layamon's Brut and Idylls of the King and--best of all--The Once and Future King, one of the best books ever to have been and ever to be written.

So since my brother likes Velde's writing, and since she said she was inspired by The Once and Future King, I had perhaps unfair high hopes. Maybe.

The issues I take with this book is that first of all Velde adds original characters, and secondly that she actually changes what happens in the story, too.

I don't usually mind original characters, but when they are made too prominent, it feels awkward and uncomfortable to read. The teenage seer and her mother are, in this book, much too prominent to work in my opinion. Malory doesn't mention any girl dressing as a boy and riding after Mordred's army, or taking part in the fight, and it's such an outlandish notion, it simply doesn't hold water for me. Such a character constantly reminds me 'it's just a story', which a good book shouldn't do at all.

Now, I personally really like the tragic story of Mordred and Arthur's 'deaths' (in quotations since according to some Arthur isn't truly dead at all, is he?)--I forget which Arthurian book I read it in (or was it Dante? I think it was Dante), but I remember reading about how Arthur's lance went straight through his son's chest and the daylight behind him shone through him like a star before he fell. Now, that's quite horrid, I suppose, but it's also sort of beautiful, I think . . . Well, anyways. Velde changes the story--Mordred was madly in love with Nimue! So he didn't die after all, despite nobly giving up his place on the barge to Avalon in order to save his father! Because Nimue cured him! And then he fell in love with a widowed noblewoman and lived happily ever after . . .

Bah.

Mordred was not Morgan Le Fay's puppet. Mordred was not a well-meaning, good-hearted young man. Twisting the story to make him seem so just doesn't work.

I am now sorely tempted to write a short story of my own on Mordred, because I do think it would be interesting to portray the events from his point of view, and I'd like to try to do the concept justice. But I think Velde really muffed it this time round, especially after The Once and Future King's clever, complicated, sarcastic, and miserably bitter Mordred. To justify a character one shouldn't change canon, never never never! It just weakens your case.

And that's my random rant for the day, folks!

A Haiku and My Weekend

"I'm a poor author
And I want to get published

Can you help me out?"

A special haiku for Laura to write on her sweater and sport around town. Because as we both know, the best authors always get published in unlikely and unconventional ways ;)

In other news, I got my library card at last, so the library's in big trouble now, heh heh. I borrowed Gone With the Wind, The Book of Mordred, and The Brothers Karamazov, none of which I've read before, though I started Karamazov at home and now I have a chance to finish it at last.

I also stayed up until 10 o'clock last night, not something I had planned, but when some TV station is showing a four-hour film version of Moby Dick, one of my favorite books ever, how could I resist? It was very well done. I own the Gregory Peck verson, and Gregory Peck is awesome as Ahab, but this version since it was longer had some elements from the book in it that the Peck version doesn't: the madness of Pip and the mysterious 'Parsee', for instance. Queequeg was Samoan or something like that, which surprised me, but it was okay, and Tashtego looked much more like Tashtego but didn't get much screen time, which was sad. Also the whale looked, surprisingly, more fake than in the original Gregory Peck version! My favorite characters from the book are Tashtego, Queequeg, and Starbuck. Starbuck was very good in this adaptation.

Anyways, that was my weekend. I also did a lot of cleaning, mostly in the kitchen, and had my first taste of mahi-mahi. For those of you who are wondering, it's very good.

Coolest T-Shirt Anywhere

"Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator."

(Spotted on a T-shirt somebody was sporting around campus. If that doesn't send the poet in you into a fit of hysterical giggling, I don't know what will. Um, you do know the rules of haiku-writing, right?)

Hobbits . . . On the Science Channel?

I don't know if any of you remember, but I remember seeing an article in the newspaper a few years ago talking about how some scientists had discovered skeletons on an island of a very small people--about 3 ft tall--and were excited because they believed it to be a never-before-discovered type of primitive human. I only remember this because the paper also said that the discoverers had nicknamed the skeleton a 'hobbit', which I thought was fantastic.

I hadn't heard anything about it since. But last night on a science channel I discovered an hour-long documentary. The title? 'The Human Hobbit'.

I spent the hour watching gleefully. I got immense satisfaction out of seeing all these scientists, professors, learned men from all over the world, and the dignified narrator seriously discussing 'hobbits'.

J.R.R. Tolkien had an ambition he thought impossible to realize: To create a mythology that would in turn inspire art, music, and other writings. Well, he's done it, and how! And not only that, but now he's snuck into the sciences too! Score one for epic fantasy!

I went to bed very cheerfully last night . . . .

(And I also finished 'Inkdeath', but I won't say anything yet per Laura's wish.)

Pic

Teirle

Well, when I wasn't being incredibly dense in a bookshop this weekend, I was cleaning the kitchen.

And when I wasn't cleaning the kitchen, I was drawing--this!

I am so ridiculously proud of this picture, I won't even start talking about it. Except to say that it looks much better in person, because a lot of the shading looks a bit bland in this photo. Oh, well. This is the first scrap of art I've been able to do since coming here, because all my drawing paper was left at home. But I finally have a sketch book again. And it's much bigger than I'm used to--about twice the size of my old 8 1/2" x 11" book--so this was a challenge, drawing something to fill the page. But it worked. I love it :D

For those of you who are privy to my secret novel, this is Teirle, when he was younger. Thank you very much to Lathspell for sending me an inspiring photo.

An Almost-Oops

So I went to a bookstore yesterday. I've been going every weekend, sure as clockwork, to nab a few books, find a cozy corner in the store, and read for a few hours before regretfully putting the books back on their shelves. I'm in college, I need to be saving my money for more 'practical' purchases--like the MLA handbook I bought a few weeks ago--but I really miss my huge library at home, and the rare finds I can scrounge off of the shelf at my English hall help somewhat, but aren't really a replacement.

So during the course of a couple weekends I've almost finished Howl's Moving Castle and I'm nearly fifty pages through Tarzan of the Apes, both of which I am enjoying very much. (Yes, I know, I really need to get a library card. That's on the to-do list for this weekend.)

Well, I went to the store yesterday, and was unable to find Howl, which was a pity because I wanted to finish it up. So instead of reading I ended up wandering up and down aisles of books like a little lost child, hunting for something good to read, something new. Something that was new, fantasy-ish, completely enjoyable, and didn't have a title starting with 'B' and ending with 'risingr'. Ugh.

Of course I naturally thought longingly of Inkdeath, the last book in the Inkheart trilogy which I am a huge fan of, but I had asked my mother during a phonecall only five days earlier if she knew when the book came out, and she had looked it up online and told me that it came out in two weeks. Still, when I saw a display for the series I looked it over anyway in a sort of vain hope.

And no, they didn't have it. There was Inkheart, down at the bottom, and that other book in purple on top--Inkspell, I told myself, looking at its cover in disappointment. Well, too bad. I'd just keep hunting.

I wandered off.

And then about thirty seconds later I had a moment which must be as close as any human can get to the classic cartoon image of a dejected little character moping away, and then--double take!--happy lightbulb dings into place over the head!--the little character speeds back to the book display, and lo and behold, there is the book she had been searching for, which she had just been gazing at and had not realized was the one she wanted, the one she had left behind, while the audience watching was giggling at her idiocy.

Yeah, the purple book was Inkdeath. I had read the title, seen the cover, and it still didn't sink in. So sometimes I'm just not smart.

At least it sank in eventually.

And so much for practical purchases. I am now a few dollars poorer, but immeasurably happier, and I am on page 213 of Inkdeath . . .

Before You Go . . .

In honor of Laura's upcoming plane flights around the nation on her quest for the perfect college, here's a video that every person about to go on a plane ought to see. I discovered it two days before my trip to Hawaii. Oddly, it didn't help my plane-phobia much . . .

'If God Had Made Me a Leaf . . .'

A poem which came to me as I walked from one end of campus to the other, inspired I think by the glorious whirling green of the enormous trees arching over me. It's a little strange, and very short, but it makes sort of sense to me, and I liked it enough to remember it. Perhaps not my best poetry, but since I haven't posted any writings in so long . . . here you go.

If God Had Made Me a Leaf

If God had made me a Leaf
Dancing in a Tree

I would have Spent my Springtime
Trembling
At my inevitable Fall.

Iliad + Mosaic = Love

Seen at a museum before I left home: A fragmented and ancient mosaic, I can't remember if Greek or Roman, depicting the moment of The Iliad when Agamemnon sends soldiers to steal away Briseis. As an Iliad fan, I loved this so much, but due to bad lighting and a 'no flash' camera policy, I was unable to take particularly good quality photos. I took lots of photos at the museum, and now that I have my camera cable, I will be uploading periodically. Lots of neat Trojan War related articles. But this was beautiful.

From the right: Briseis, Phoenix, Achilles, and Patroclus. Patroclus! How cool is that? And I love Achilles' hair . . . Those of you who read my 'Hector' story will remember the emphasis I placed on Achilles' hair . . . and here it is reddish and long and wild like I described it. Makes me happy :)

Literary Quote #3--Orthodoxy

. . . even nursery tales only echo an almost prenatal leap of interest and amazement. These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water.

(At last, quotes from one of my favorite books, G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy! It's a defense of Christianity, and Catholicism in particular, but even if you're not Catholic you absolutely must read the chapter titled 'The Ethics of Elfland', which to me was a spiritual re-awakening and a simply beautiful piece of writing. It reminds me of how Lewis said Christianity was the perfect myth; well Chesterton was the man who influenced Lewis' Christianity, and he says Christianity is the perfect fairy tale, something which completely enthralled my imagination. And then it also includes this beautiful passage:)

The sun rises every morning. . . His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want thigns repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. it is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy seperately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the infinite appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. . .

Dead Parrot!

In keeping with Andromache's current blog theme of things to do with the words "dead" and "Monty" and "Python", I thought that as her Minion #2 I'd post another video. Probably you've seen this one already. If you haven't, well I'm glad to introduce you to it. If you have--hey, watch it again, an excess of silliness never hurt anyone!




PS- By the way, I do hope you all knew it was 'National Talk Like a Pirate Day' on the nineteenth and celebrated accordingly? I didn't manage to post on the day, too busy, so if you didn't I guess the blame's on me. Arrgh!

Sleep . . .

If the stress of everyday living is ever getting you down, or if you live in Hawaii and suffer from insomnia due to the humid nights, or if homework is keeping you awake and caffinated 24/7, just listen to this song. It makes everything better.

Free Books!

So, my English class is on the fourth floor of the English building, and I always take the elevator (which, incidentally, my professor warned the class in direst terms is foolish to the extreme because people have gotten stuck in the elevator in the past. But if she thinks I'm going to haul my enormous 3-ton rolling backpack up four flights of stairs and down again, she is mistaken!). Once out of the elevator, I come to a hallway, and then to my classroom.

In this hallway are three bookcases, each stretching taller than me. And they are simply overflowing with old, thick books of varying degrees of wear.

Every time I went to class, I would slow down to admire the books and wonder if they were available to be read, or put there for storage or something of that nature. But, typical me, I also kept forgetting to ask my professor about it.

Well, I asked her yesterday. Her response?

"Oh, those are just old books nobody wants. It's like a book dump. Take whatever you like, they're all free."

So now I have paperback versions of Othello and Hamlet, an enormous book bound in red cloth which is titled 'A Collection of 18th Century British Literature', a seventy-year-old tiny hard-cover version of A Comedy of Errors, and the complete works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Admittedly, the last is missing its cover, but since that inevitably happens to any book I love, I do not mind (some of you may know I like Shelley's poetry?). I just carefully taped it up and am now happily reading Prometheus Bound for the first time.

I am still exulting in my good fortune and pitying the sort of people who would throw this kind of literature on the dump heap. Still, good for them; they make people like me very happy.

Oh, and I'm looking forward to my next English class very much now . . .


Gorgeous Pic