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 . . .

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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.)

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