Chi Rho: Christ Never Left Christmas

I've been a fan of symbols, logos, pictograms, and sundry glyphs throughout history. It's hard for me to say just when that fascination set in. Perhaps it was how quickly I learned to recognize and write my alphabet. Or maybe it was the realization that some symbols have fixed meanings and some are a bit more fluid. We are surrounded by them. Everywhere. And I think I recognized that early on. I certainly wanted to know, much to the frustration of my poor exhausted dad, what it all meant. What really cemented the intrigue, I think, was my sixth grade religion class. I think so because I have been working on logos for the holiday.

In truth, I am kinda peeved that so many "Put Christ back in Christmas" Christians have no idea that he never really left. So as I was preparing the counterpoints to the bouts of "It's Merry Christmas not Happy Holidays" garbage that are about to schmear my facebook page. Being peeved led to a retort. In the process of the retort I realized that the origins of my glyph glee had to have been my religion class. Specifically the discussion about THIS particular glyph.

This is the Chi Rho. It is one of the earliest symbols associated with Christ. It is as significant as the ichthys fish as it was also a sign meant to +protect early Christians from Roman persecution. The glyph is composed of two Greek letters which are superimposed over one another. The Chi, the X, and the P looking letter Rho. They are the first two letters in the Greek word KHRistos. Which is the word Christ.

I read somewhere long, long ago that the Eastern Orthodox churches prefer this reference of Christ as it resembles, somewhat, the caduceus, the symbol of medicine. The Greek Orthodox church and the Byzantines tended to view Christ almost exclusively as a Healer and a Shepard rather than the King of Kings that so many Western churches envision. To them, this would have been the most natural expression of Christ in the written form. And for a long while, the CHI RHO +mas was the preferred decorative form. Imagine how striking this symbol would have been an illuminated manuscript. So much addition symbolism can be assigned this form. The X very literally is a cross. The P very well might be seen as Christ on that cross. The P shares the shape of a shepard's crook, which if the loop is left open a bit on the bottom then the case is made.

The Chi Rho is beautiful as it is rich in heritage. Handwritten manuscripts lend themselves well to such a dramatic, non alphabetical glyph. And this symbol was used well into the Victorian era in what printers would call the display; a headline, the larger advert writing across the top of whole pages or ads. As print media became more cost conscious and the spacing restrictions for large volume printing became something of an issue, there needed to be a way to modify the symbol.

I could bore you with a lot of jargon but I won't. Just look at this line of print. The r,i,n,o and w are a standard height. This is called the x-height. the letters with stems that rise above are called ascenders and the letters with stems and bowls that dip below the writing line are called descenders. The Rho is most definitely ascending. And it gets in the way of making print in newspapers and magazines standard. So, having used the chi rho initially to save type (when it was all made from cast iron on teeny tiny little woodblocks) every time one printed Christmas, the chi rho was used. And then, to make things even easier the chi rho was simplified so that Xmas could be written easier.

And of course, because poster makers and typographers, printers and graphic designers love LOVE love anything new, avante garde or just a bit quirky X-mas became the norm in packaging and Greeting cards. For a very long time in America everyone knew what this meant. I don't know when and I don't know why people got the idea that there was a war on Christmas and the various greetings used through out the year became targets. All I can say is that public school kids don't get taught religious history and Catholic school kids have short memories.

This is SIXTH GRADE stuff!!!!!! This is stuff that we should all know about growing up. This is stuff that we should know so that we don't sound like uneducated asshats. I don't know who decided that there was a war on Christmas. I will guess, most likely correctly, that it was some Christian zealot with a lot of time and a little brain power. Now every fool that goes about with "Merry Xmas" on his greeting card is a candidate for a lynching. How very sad. No one is attacking the holiday. No one took Christ out of Christmas. But, someone did take the brains out of most of the people who have been caught up in the fever of this non-issue.

Verdi

Inspector Verdi reporting for duty

Teeny, the house calico and I were enjoying a warm, sunny October morning one day last week. Teeny watched the world go by and I was drawing. We heard a series of frantic meows. Teeny bolted for the end of the deck. I tried to get her in the house. I knew what was coming. And I knew it wasn't leaving.

I went out to retrieve my art supplies after securing Teeny in the house. And there it was. A starved kitty with every bone in it's body showing prowling around the porch. Boldly winding itself around my legs, it said hello in that way that you know the cat means business. I sat back down and that is when it decided to see what I was about. First thing it did was grab at my project for inspection.

Eyes the color of copper patina and as full of homesick longing as anything that I have ever seen in my life, it looks me in the eyes and I was a goner. A lot of cats won't hypnotize you. They are in life for their benefit and don't really care if you want them or not. Then there are these cats. The cats that adopt you. The eyes are stunning. And as I said, the color of weathered copper. So I named it Verdigris. Verdi for short.

You know once you name something that it is going to stick around. How can you NOT name a feral cat that believes it has the authority and expertise to inspect your human work? I picked it up and it immediately wanted snuggles and kisses. And then walked all over my sketch books. Knowing that without work, taking on the responsibility of another cat was the least logical thing I could do I went inside. Ignored it for about 6 hours. It just sat there mewing. And mewing.

That was 6 days ago. When it was still there at night, I fed it, got some blankets and sat with it over night. I had my comfy outdoor chair, good blanket and one of the warmest October nights that I can remember. And it slept with me all night. Comforted and relaxed I was able to inspect in the morning and determined that it was a she. So the gender neutral name was perfect. And we call her Verdi. She is the product of a tortoise shell and grey domestic union.  All grey except for a brown patch on the right side of her nose, she is the lankiest thing I have seen in a long while. All leg and tail, 8.5 inches of whip like tail. Rather than the pink paw pads most cats have, Verdi has chocolate brown feet. Skinny little face  and the posture she holds looks like every Egyptian cat art piece you've ever seen.

As Teeny is not the sharing kind, getting permission to bring Verdi in was problematic. For two days she ignored me, hissed or just looked at me like I had broken her hard little heart. I was the vile betrayer and she was the innocent princess. So Verdi and I spent several nights on the porch. Several days too, I tried to do some drawing while we were out but all I accomplished was a lot of kitty kisses. When she wasn't asleep she was eating. And she ate a lot.

Within 48 hours she no longer showed every bone. In the last couple of days the patch of missing fur above her eye has begun to grow back. And her scraped chin is healing nicely. She will have one permanent mark, a torn nictitating membrane in her left eye. She rolled around the porch with a fat little bloated belly until she found a good place to pee and got used to peeing.

getting all the snuggles, rubs and scritches

During her first days on the porch with me I learned that she is scared of Chickadees, Squirrels, Mourning Doves, leaves blowing across the deck and all of the dogs that go by except for the rotund Jack Russel Terrier. So she also has a nick name, Scareddy Verdi. She really hates the pug. It took two days to teach her "No table" so that she won't get onto food prep surfaces. Though she still had a problem with taking food out of your hands. Even with her belly further rounded from being gorged on her own delicious wet meal.

She also has learned to turn on and off my apps, sping my Tardis wallpaper faster, and can scroll my pages I am viewing. From the start she was a face grabber. When she really wants attention she takes your chin in both front paws and stares you down until you boop her. I've even had her in the car. On the coldest night this week the windchill took us down to about 43 degrees. Too cold for the porch and too cloudy to see the meteor shower, we headed to the car.

I figure that if she gets used to the car that I can take her with me on adventures like I did my Manx, Spock. She is starting life out as smart as Spock and as trusting. It took her 10 minutes to settle down and not freak out about being in the car. And it was a peaceful, overly warm night. In the morning, as she wound herself through out the tent of blankets that I had made, trying to wake me up, I discovered a mistake.

She was a he. Apparently, Verdi was so malnourished that his balls hadn't dropped until the 4th day with a steady diet of solid foods. When we got out of the car for a morning of drawing on the porch, she wanted to play and roam. She He knocked one of my books onto the deck and bolted. I found him down the hill and called him back up. He looked at me, stood and stretched, meowed and then turned away. He trotted into the deep woods in the swampy area where the cranes had been nesting. And I figured that was it for the little guy. I don't mind telling you that I was already attached and spent the afternoon fighting tears. But he is feral born and probably wanted to be feral forever. By 11 that night it was time for bed.

When I went to bed I realized that I had left my pillows out in the car. When  I went to retrieve them there he was. Sitting on the porch waiting for service. So I fed him and tried to get him to snuggle in the comfy deck chair. He would have none of it. I thought that this would be the end of Verdi because we aren't allowed indoor/outdoor cats in our park. As he prowled around the porch I noticed another cat. At first I thought that it was him. But this one was too big. Then I realized it was mamma Tortie cat. And that really was all for him. Mamma came up onto the porch looking to finish his scraps if there were any. There weren't. Verdi noticed her and didn't seen too terribly interested in hanging out. He kept bouncing around as if moving would keep him safe. Mamma went to the house door and sat for a while. I picked up Verdi and he settled down. Eventually Mamma left.

In the morning Verdi took off again. I didn't feed him. I didn't sit on the porch with him. I stayed in and did some chores. So later when he was really hungry he came looking. Yesterday when I got back from my first day of work he was on the porch. Waiting. I fed him, scooped him up when he was done and boom.... he is inside. And I think that he is okay with that. Yesterday he slept belly up and feet in the air on me while we watched movies. The TV fascinated him. He can't quite figure out where all of the people. He pestered Teeny. And Teeny seems to be relatively okay so long as he doesn't touch her and no one who smells like Verdi touches her. I managed to keep them separated after the initial dust up. He's peeing in his own litter box, slept with me until I tossed and turned too much and in general has tackled all of her toys that sit unused in the middle of the floor.

It is raining today. The first steady solid rain. And I think he is glad that he is inside. He bolted passed me and headed right for Teeny's room. He is under the bed and I can not fish him out. He will be out when he is hungry. And then it will be dark in the house and he will hang out with me.


My roommate says that I needed a cat. Something mine to take care of which was relational and nothing to do with the disappointing humans. 2016 has been rough for losing people. And the last 2 have been rough for dealing with nasty people. So I guess, even though logic says that this is a silly thing to do, I have a cat named Verdi. Which between snuggles with him and working on my book project I don't have a lot of time to think of anything else. and that has eased up on my depression issues too. 

Product Promotion & Blogging: I Want to be Jenny Lawson

I have mixed feelings about this issue.

On the one hand, everyone who writes wants to make money doing what they love to do in addition to what therapeutic value the endeavor provides. Wouldn't we all love to be Wil Wheaton or Jenny Lawson famous in the blogosphere? Sure we would. Bloggers with Anxiety & Depression issues, myself included, would love it if we could sit through our episodes of self loathing, self doubt and defeatist rumination and come out with a following and products. We have bills to pay but not necessarily the proper level of inner strength to deal with people in the flesh. So getting paid to write is a goal for most. Getting paid to stay home and do art without dealing with the general public would be awesome too.

Now the positives, anxiety relief benefits aside, of staying home and getting paid to write and make art are petty awesome. For one, you get to take your own Number One Reliever that you hand out to your friends who suffer: do something for you, something creative that makes you feel good. Even if no one buys it/likes it/understands it. Creativity built the world. If you don't dream it you can't make it. Everything starts in the mind. As we who suffer well know, for better or worse, it starts with the mind.

For two, you get to stay home and engage in a mental health practice of Avoiding Negativity, the Number Two thing we like to tell our suffering friends. Stay home or or hang out in a coffee shop. Oh hey, if you are lucky, your city has WiFi at the beach or some parks so you can be out in the sun. Unless you are a Vampire and will explode in the UV light. Regular folk who like to be outside can write in peace in their favorite park. Hey, if it isn't your favorite now, it will be when you find out you can blog from there. Writing in the comfort of your home space insulates you from the mass of negative people flinging their emotional poop like underwear at a strip club. You don't have to be the third party to a family feud of dystopian drama. There are no coworkers spewing bullshit and complaining about every little thing you and management do, justified or not. And, random triggers don't get pulled.

The third benefit of staying home and writing, besides the potential income?  It's the one we hate to recommend because it was the catch phrase and go to answer for all of our mental health issues in the 80s and 90s. Blogging is cathartic like journaling. Blogging, especially for lifestyle bloggers, is journaling. Imagine it! Getting paid to write your journal! How cool would that be?

Yes the fantasy is real.

And then reality sets in.

First your internal editor tells you that no one wants to know what you think about anything. What kind of cache do you have? You aren't Wil Wheaton with a pool of fans to draw to your blog. And you aren't Jenny Lawson with a truly unique and quirky pull... the pull of bizarre links: bad taxidermy, dressed taxidermy, Beyonce the Chicken. Once your internal editor whips out its comments that Pen is bloodier than a Viking broad ax or Roman sword. And you are done before you start.

Second, your editor has convinced you that your creative expression is worthless. So you end up not doing it.

Third, you might be able to avoid flesh and blood people by staying home. But the second you hit publish you wear a target for all the mean people hiding behind avatars and fake names who are just waiting to unleash their vitriol. You are vulnerable to attack from people you don't know; vulnerable to counterpoint opinions. Blogging looks private. And it is...

Right up until you hit publish.

Fourth, your journal is public. Your journey through the treacherous land of your own head is open to the kind of scrutiny you never dreamed possible. So while you are working out your issues, finding insight and hoping that in publishing your thoughts that someone else with a similar situation finds relief or support, there is someone out there who will take your intent and twist it. Your words and thoughts are public and subject to sharing across a range of media. It is also subject to being copied and pasted into an email and sent to people out of context of the greater body of work.

Publish or Perish! That was the motivating catchphrase for newspapers and journalists in the early history of Print. In the modern world... Publish and Perish is just as likely. The internet can be a wonderful place to meet new people, find deeper avenues of learning with all the experts at hand and grow beyond yourself. As with all things, there is a dark side to the internet. The dark side is where trolls go to stagnate their minds and exercise and build angry hearts, vitriolic voices, and arsenals of equally ignorant and irresponsible  ideologies.

In my case, all of the benefits of blogging have legitimately helped me. And I am still finding new information about the Anxiety and Depression that has plagued me for better than a decade. For those reasons I continue to blog. Even though I have found I am not immune to the dark side. But I am not Wil Wheaton and Jenny Lawson famous. I don't make money doing this as much as I would love to. And right now, that is okay. Wil still has people telling him to "Shut up Wesley" as if they can kill him with that single blow. Though, death by a thousand cuts is a real thing. So maybe that is why the trolls gang up on him. Which sucks because he has some really valuable things to say and is a constant encouragement to make things that make you happy. Jenny doesn't get trolled as much. But then her head does a really good job of that without added help. I look at those two examples and review my own personal experience with an anonymous (to the net) troll and wonder why do I do it?

Because benefits.
That shit in our heads needs to come out. And since the medical and psychiatric world doesn't know how PTSD happens and why it is so hard to cure along with the other mental issues, it is up to us. We have to find our own answers. And if we care about making the world better, we have to share what we learn with others. I didn't mention the fifth benefit of blogging. And that is finding encouragement. Your mental health professional will tell you to join a support group, go out and volunteer because helping others is the best help you can give yourself. But really... if you live in a small area surrounded by nose to the grind stone people who don't get it, how is being around them helpful? How do you go out and support others when the thought of going out is the source of your issue? So blogging, lets us find the people we need who need us. If we all share what works for us, someone who is desperate will find more options than they could have come up with on their own. That is why we are here.

That is why I am here. Fun and therapy.

I firmly believe that is why Wil and Jenny are here.

With the growing waves of hate and the boldness of internet trolls, we need to find each other and support each other. I have mixed feelings about blogging for profit. Nothing I love that turns into a job makes me happy. I think as much as I need money to survive as a single girl that I actually loathe the stuff. I am much more concerned with my spirit than my physical comfort. And I care about other people's spirit more than I care about money. So while I may never get famous or make money doing this, I have no problem supporting people who do. And I do not have a problem sharing resources. If I find a tool that I think will help, I will share it. Even if it is my own personal issues and insights, painful past experiences. Call it oversharing. But I know that support groups help. When you find the right support.

Adult coloring books are all the craze right now. And there are a lot of them. TV show themes building on the TV show themed books we had as kids, art of other cultures, famous artworks re-interpreted at your hands, obligatory cats, birds, dogs, horses, butterflies and 60s & 70s patterns abound. The 80s argyle and chunky color blocks should be showing up any month now. There are even promotional coloring books for cities, states and festival tourism. Hey where are the colorbooks representing the countries of the world? A whole book on India would take a life time to color with all the zen-tangled bedazzlement going on. But of all the books out there, I haven't seen anything that has encouragement in it beyond the benefit of mindful coloring.

Today Jenny Lawson announced her new book is available for pre-order. "You are Here" is a visual journey through a profoundly difficult period of depression and anxiety during a promotional book tour. Jenny, literally worked through her episode. With depression that deep and that strong many people collapse while they are doing what the world tells them to do. "Suck it up, Buttercup." In her own way, Jenny found a path through that dark wood. Along the way she showed the internet her doodles. Her doodles have become a book. As far as I am concerned it is a must have book.

What ever thoughts Jenny battled, the things that let her come out of each skirmish, are incorporated into the work. While you color you have a prompt for your own exploration of Things You Can't Put a Finger on  but Are There or a mantra to get through the Thing You Know is There but Don't Like to Look At. I am hoping that the leviathan grabbing the sailing ship is in the book. She shared that the day that it was done. It was a day that I was drowning in my own blood, blood spilled by my Internal Editor's sword pen. And it helped. A LOT!

I have mixed feelings about ME making money doing things that I love. Part of it is my guilt fueled anxiety. Part of it is my parochial upbringing. Part of it is my own sense of justice and social growth. I have, however, absolutely NO qualms about helping other people make money. So go order Jenny's book. Order it for you. Order it for your friends who suffer. Order it for an emergency gift for that time when you want to comfort someone and have no idea how to do it.

And when you order her book from anyone of the fine establishments she has trade agreements with, take some time to read her blog if you haven't already.

Then, follow her on twitter.

And if you are drifting, helplessly alone in your mental health issues in a sea of people who just don't get why you can't get with it, join the rest of us under the hashtag #TheBloggessTribe.

While you are at it, follow Castle's mom, Susan Sullivan for uplifting quotes, calming mantras, unsolicited advice and a dose of gentility often lacking in media that is bound to make you feel better.

Depression lies, And it never shuts up. But we can drown that little fucker. Join us.

Verve

There is a kind of aesthetic that I am drawn to because of my Grandparents. Brocades and damasks were always part of the interior landscape of their home. It is definitely a European thing. When it comes to typesetting the aesthetic I am drawn to is blackletter and art deco or nouveau. The blackletter hand is all over the place with the German heritage. Simple inspirational plagues and the textbooks that Grampa brought with him from Germany were truly beautiful. Art Nouveau and Art Deco type styles have everything to do with the era that they lived when they first came to the states and the influence of advertising legends Alphonse Mucha and Maxfield Parrish.

Enter Verve and Verve Shadow.

This type face is one of the earliest of styles that I associate with the display fonts in publishing novels. Specifically, the editions of Sherlock Holmes and earlier gothic novels. Verve reminds me of the Mystery! type style.

Here I've combined Verve and a blackletter hand called Poppl into what I imagine an art nouveau era Holmes might have ordered for a calling card from the local penman.

And all I can say regarding the next episodes of Sherlock at this point is...

Bring on the Christmas Special!!!!

I'm Keeping All of My Friends

I'd like to make a case for books. Not a case to store them. But an argument in support of their
continued publication, collection and use as something more than furniture stabilizers. There was a heated debate in the household this year which was continuously, randomly and without solicitation, periodically reinforced. The essence of my opponent's position is that there is no need to keep any books in the house because all of the information is on the internet, and if I want to read a book that has been in my possession it is probably available as a digital file somewhere. The only argument that I had to the contrary is the only one that matters, they are mine and I know how I bookmarked everything so that I can find specific bits of relevant information. Plus. They are MY FRIENDS!!!!!

My experience today with internet research was satisfying in that I thought that I had found good solid information, made strides in accessing and processing information for further use in plant identification only to get home and find out the fucking aspens are in fact fucking aspens. The internet has a lot of information. The internet is mostly free. The internet is easy to use. But on the flip side, the information that the internet has is vast, is not categorized or curated, the information does not have to be credible to be published and you have to vet your own sources to determine the reliability of the source and thus the viability of the information. Librarians and book sellers in small shops whose avocation is books do that loathsomely tedious work for you. For an example, let's look at today's adventure in the  identification of regional tree species.

The internet had a vast amount of information on tree species, specifically aspens. birches and cottonwoods, the focus of my research. I found very little by way of compact field guides on line and a lot in the way of lengthy discourse on taxonomy. I now know specifically what taxonomy is and that I would never want Keiko O'Brien's job on the Enterprise. Thank you very much. I also know a useless bit about two orders of angiosperms. I now know what angiosperms are. I do not need to know what angiosperms are. What I needed to know in a very real, tangible and CONCISE manner was all the information that can be found in a pocket field guide such as the one I have in storage.

It would be great to have an application that would let you snap a picture of the target tree and identify it for you. There may even be one. But I don't have a smart phone so that would not help me if there was. What I have in storage is a field guide. It is a compact and comprehensive little book containing the greater sum of trees and plants indigenous to my region of the United States. Each entry is a botanical snapshot of the tree, its leaves, seeds, fruits and reproductive nodes. The written description often tells of a species quirk that makes it distinguishable from several look alikes within the genus. For example, the thing that makes a red maple a red maple and not silver. Had I the book in my possession, it would have told me a funny little thing about Aspens which would have prevented me from confusing it with the similarly styled Cottonwood which I identified earlier.

And that would be the fact that a mature aspen will lose its smooth, papery birch-like bark in favor of a coat of shallow fissures that develop on the older portions of the trunk and give it the eye-level appearance of a Cottonwood. I wrote the post, made my botanical print and got home to find the sun had set the top third of the trees alight with a golden glow as if they were coated in thin gold plating. IN THE TOP THIRD OF THE TREE! The bottom where the moss grows is replete with fissures.

And that is why we need books. Books are published with fact checking. They are sold by people who are knowledgeable. And those of us on this side of the cash register can confidently recommend a book whereas recommending a website induces trepidation. You can take a field guide with you. You can not take a lap top into the woods. So I will keep my friends, the nerds, the jocks, the story tellers and the lecturers. I will keep every book I have ever purchased. And I will purchase more as the financial picture stabilizes. Books are out friends. Webpages should be approached with a great deal of caution... like strangers handing out candy when it is not Halloween.

The Unintended Library Tour 2014

Not sure how it happened. But it seems as though anywhere we went this Summer we were in someone's library. Fortunately there was nothing lurking in the shadows waiting to save us. For the most part we both enjoy books and libraries in general. And while I do see my local library as something of an art piece itself, and can appreciate the art that populates it, I have never really seen libraries as a thing to tour like lighthouses or other architecturally interesting buildings. But as we traveled it happened that we began the Unintended Library Tour.

When we went to Elk Rapids I wanted to go to the library there for personal reasons. My grandfather owned the island and house for a time, it was my favorite place to go when we went there as kids and as far as the aesthetic goes... it looks like Green Gables. Well... the version that I have of it in my head. And so we went. And BF indulged me with my camera as he always does.

The trip to Petosky was another matter. We were going for the food. His parents made a recommendation and we were thinking that we should travel a little further a field than in the past. It was a Sunday and town was quiet around noon when we got there. After the time in the car we needed a restroom. The wayfinding map indicated one right in front of us. Unless it was cloaked the map was mismarked. But oddly the library was open on a Sunday. So we went in search of the lavatory. I didn't expect the inside of the library to be as incredibly interesting as it was. The outside was amazing with its cupola and corinthian columns. But dang.... the inside. The inside was Amazing!!  While we were there it occurred to me that there was a place to see with really amazing construction. But we had goals for downtown Petosky. So my brilliant idea for Charlevoix would wait for the return trip home.

And as we went home and got through Charlevoix we made the right turn toward the hospital and looked at the mushroom houses. While we were looking for more of them we made a discovery.... another acrylic fish sculpture. Well.... that seemed worth investigating. When we pulled up it was the library. It is currently housed in an old school. So... add one more to the library tour.

Funny thing is, I didn't notice it until we got home and I started to do the photo edits. Since he has classwork to do we will be going to our library. And I will take pictures there to add to the collection.

I wonder if we will ever get a fish for our library.

Marine Humor with English Lit

      

Of course the first thing I think of is the TV show. Which is actually hilarious because Netflix has it and the housemates have started watching it. 

Someone expects to catch a white whale? 

    

 

Saved!

 

 

 

In what turned out to be a five year mission to explore alternatives to rabid redevelopment, the Undershaw Preservation Trust has successfully raised the funds required to purchase one of the former homes of Arthur Conan Doyle from the developer who purchased it in 2004. After years of languish the home will be restored and dedicated to use as a childrens school.

 

It is a far better use than ones I have suggested and I am excited that this will happen. Surely there will be a campaign to raise funds for the reconstruction costs. As developments unfold I will post updates.

 

Well done, friends, well done indeed.

 



Old Tradition Set Aside

Normally I would regret the laying aside of any deeply rooted tradition, especially one involving Sir Patrick Stewart. However, since the tradition started with a busted flat, empty social life and a desperate need to be by myself for the holidays and none of those things are exactly the conditions of my life at this time, I think I can cut myself some slack.

I had a cute little 2nd story apartment in the house I grew up in when the tradition started. It started out as a way for me to calm my nerves before I had to deal with the chaos of holiday schedules and the lectures that invariably came with family gatherings. Positioned on the camel back loveseat, surrounded by Victorian trappings of my choosing, with a plate of soft gingerbread cookies & lemon curd (thank you Michelle Ward for that flavor combo!) and some tea in one of Grama Ada's depression era cups, I settled in to listen to Patrick Stewart bring the Dickens classic A Christmas Carol to life while bathed in the glow of tree lights.

Good Afternoon!

Of course we all know the story of his one man play, performed yearly in London and how when it hit America during his tenure as Jean-Luc Picard on the Enterprise his fan base exploded with joy. I'd read the articles, seen the snippets on the talk shows, and that was all there was. This was pre-Internet kids. Literally about 4 years before Al Gore invented it. (What a rube!) There was no instant posting to YouTube, Facebook, Reddit etcetera. With the clamor behind these news items the capitalist wheel began to turn in an attempt to spread the joy & accumulate new wealth.

There was talk about making it a book on tape. Sold! Except it took a lot of years to materialize. When I was doing my paper route I had the lady who owned the Book-on-Tape store hunting for it for almost 4 years. And she did finally track it down. I bought that sucker right away. In the meantime Hallmark or TNT channel put it into production with Richard E. Grant and Dominic West in supporting roles. It was a truly amazing production and my favorite of all of them. And not just because the Captain is in it. It's an English Story and I think the first production I'd ever seen with a British cast. It wasn't just that though.... there was actually magic happening during that production and you could see it in the quality of the performances and the set design. I don't think anyone will ever make a better production.

When it was finally offered on DVD I snagged that right away too. And my tradition went from listening to watching.

Over the years I've changed as my circumstance changes. My reaction to the production (truly only a once a year viewing) has changed. When I began I rooted for the transformation. Dominic West is the perfect person to deliver Nephew Fred's lines because he is just naturally kind with a strength that other Fred's have lacked. Most people cast him as a skinny rail of a man to emphasize his relationship to Scrooge perhaps? But Dominic West is tall, broad, almost barrel, chested with a Bull in a China shop physique and the assuredness and self possession not to actually break things. He is physically modeled closer to the Ghost of Christmas Past. You connect him more to the natural affability of the specter and less to the misery Scrooge. And it works. As a viewer, I felt Fred's assertions that Christmas does much good for body and soul were the truest homily I had ever heard in my life. That was when I was content.

Over time I noticed that as life got more complicated and plans were upended, circumstances waned and all the things that I did to help myself were thwarted, that I aligned more with Scrooge. Could people not see the trappings leading them into the kind of poverty that Scrooge feared? Could no one see that while money is a necessary evil the emphasis should not be on evil but on necessary? As in worry less about damning your eternal soul because you want to live in a warm house and worry about how to keep your money long enough to own and heat that house.

Oh I hated Scrooge for his callous belief in work houses and asylums and the confident belief that those who can not take care of themselves should go there. There is a reason many people would rather die than go to one of those institutions..... institutionalized crime, it's insidious what can be done to another in the name of Christian charity. And yet, without knowing the conditions of the things that Scrooge supported he insists if one does not want to take the proffered help then one should die and decrease the surplus population. Indeed.

And being one of the surplus for so long in recent years, while I hated the callousness, I appreciated the sentiment and longed for the release that only the afterlife could bring. And so as I moved closer to thinking like Scrooge I found myself cringing at that wonderfully bubbly laugh. That laugh was the thing that I looked forward to most from the end of the production when I fist saw it. But I have changed.

With that change, it seems the only clear barometer for the progression is my reaction to A Christmas Carol. In that sense I am sad that I never found time for it this year. But a little relieved at the same time. I only barely came away with a handful of cookies to share, trees up (outside) and a lighted undecorated tree up inside before the season ended. I've lived without structure and the responsibility of home dwelling for long enough that I seem to have forgotten how to plan accordingly. So it is okay that this year did not have too many things going on at Christmas.

I exchanged one British tradition for another.... I spent the holidays with The Doctor and his message of hope and childlike wonder. And I prefer that, I think, to the war within me to cheer or condemn Scrooge. Perhaps next year we will add that back into the mix. Perhaps next year there will be a host of new traditions to enjoy....

Who knows?

More Random Thoughts

Tomorrow is Desolation of Smaug with my fellow Richard Armitage fans. Then Tuesday is Festival of Trains with a look at the replica Traverse City, my hometown. And somewhere in all the action I am going to be taking lots of photos and writing lots of blog posts across both blogger and wordpress. I had a tough we with MidWinter Depression sitting on my chest like a 500 pound cat. And it isn't even MidWinter. Hell.... technically Winter hasn't even started!

And if we have learned anything from Uncle Wil and Aunt Jenny it is that depression lies. It lies like a Politian. Fortunately I only had one really bad day where I actually believed its shit and was able to recover with the celebration of a life passed & "kibbutz" with my pen pal. Which reminds me:

I found the book I want for Christmas. It's Ben Schott's new book Schottenfreude. I saw a snippet in USA today yesterday and thought it was perfect since my pen pal and I just had this conversation about awesome German words for things that the English language is too afraid to admit to.

For some reason, the Germans are much more honest about the human condition than we are in America. Oh, make no mistake, we will show off with the use of big fancy psychology words that we learned from any number of TV quacks experts. And we will pretend we know exactly what it means and that we are correctly applying the terms. We will go to a therapist to learn these terms and feel smarter about both ourselves and mental issues because we can throw a big word or complicated concept at it as if we were Hermione Granger waving a wand over Ron's head and shouting "Expeliarmus!" (Because that trick always works.)

I think that my Grampa would probably have rolled his eyes right out of his head by now at my need or desire for regular therapy sessions. He could always tell me what was wrong and why. And he didn't need to have a fancy degree (which he did. In engineering.) or an office (which he did. The garage.) to be able to pronounce the diagnosis & cure. He just had to do what Germans do best: observe, plan & execute the plan. We Americans are very good at pretending that nothing is wrong with us while we cry about every little thing on facebook. We distract ourselves so much on the outside that we can never really be honest about anything on the inside. I think we might be the least authentic people on the planet... collectively. There are some stunning examples of honesty and compassion that most of the world will never know.

The Germans have words for things that most of the word won't admit to doing: looking up dirty words first when learning a language, weight gain from grief eating, the feeling you get from a cold pillow.... yep. Pay attention to your sleeping habits and you will know what I mean. You haven't paid attention. Your face on a cold pillow feels so happy that your skin could dance. You feel the feel and ignore it not thinking to acknowledge it. Much. And the Germans have a word for that!

I love that language. Mark Twain and every other language bigot can hate on it all they want to but it is truly expressive if somewhat blunt while doing its best to eliminate ambiguity that the American English loves. And it encourages one to be aware. Of course you can take awareness a little too far and singlehandedly be considered the father of mass suicides or suicide bumps.

I still want Speckschild to be a word. (Eating for protection from elements, economic scarcity or violence.)

But really I want Schottenfreude for Christmas.
We'll see how the finances go.

Fianlly Saw the Hobbit

So yesterday's frustration for trying to fix the hospital bill problem found me on the couch at a friend's house. She is a fellow Armitage Army enlistee and so since I have yet to see it, we watched the Hobbit.

Erebor took my breath away.
I was only 13 when I first read the book. Tolkien is very descriptive and we kind of mock him a bit for it now because descriptions are "boring". However, my very fertile 13 year old brain was able to see Erebor clearly, distinctly and magnificently in my mind's eye. And that is one reason that I am always loathe to see a book made into film in the fantasy genre. It is bound to be disappointing. And thus, was part of my reticence to see The Hobbit. The other part was that I knew the cartoon was not able to keep up with the plot of the book in its allotted time and I did not want the movie to be as disappointing as the cartoon. Hence the 3 part solution to the contracting time problem. Yea, Peter Jackson! But how would the settings look? I should have known from the Lord of the Rings treatment of Rivendell that there would be no issue with the dwarven kingdom. The dwarven kingdom was the first foreign land I'd been introduced to in the Hobbit. Yes, I know the Shire comes first. But the Shire isn't foreign.
The Shire is little different than the rolling English countryside; or the rolling farms of Leelanau County where my dad grew up. And as for the Hobbit homes.... ever been to Charlevoix? Hobbit homes are not that new to me. Subterranean dwellings as described by Tolkien? That was new. And that is what stuck with me. Dwarves are miners and architects unparalleled in the world of Middle Earth. Yes the Elvish buildings are etheric and mesmerizing, rising to the heavens in dizzying fashion. And no... when I was 13 there was nothing I knew in my world to compare. But when the dwarves talk about their home of Erebor with its foreign sounding name, its mazes of gems and gold and the statuary... Thorin's obsession had become my own. And since I had just learned how the middle of our Earth was made I was fascinated with the idea that these constructs could exist below the surface. I mean we all build above ground... that is our everyday life. I had wanted something foreign and I found it under the Lonely Mountain.

You see, I'd spent most of my Summers reading the encyclopedia... looking at the pictures and reading the attached article of the most colorful entries is more like it. The Summer I was 13 I had gotten to G. Just before picking up the Hobbit at the library I was immersed in the world of the true middle earth: gemstones, geography & geology. The World Book Encyclopedia we had at the time dazzled my eyes with sparkling pictures of cut and polished stones, raw stones and geodes. Geodes, small scale models similar to the earth itself. At least that is what I had figured out when I got to geology and saw how the earth is actually made. While we did cover this a bit in science class the Encyclopedia's information is more encompassing (pun intended). Geography came in the pages between the two. How mountains and rivers form was absolutely fascinating, as was learning how to decipher the topographical maps. It made all kinds of sense when I got to the geology parts with the bit about mantles and crusts, magma and vents, continental shelves and whatnot. My brain swirled with the vast amount of information I had input. And no one in my house wanted to talk about what interesting things I had learned.
Cue grampa. He came into town and took me to the library. I had a reading list for things we would be reading in high school and went through the list looking for something like the Martian Chronicles that I had read the Summer before. The Librarian recommended the Hobbit but warned Grampa that it might be too advanced since I was only just going into 8th grade. But I had all of that knowledge freshly embedded in my brain and once the rhythm of Tolkien's voice became familiar I was transported. I lingered over the descriptions of Erebor with all the geological visions from the encyclopedia right there.

These were not the Dwarves of a Disney world with their restrained personalities and banal aspirations. They did not live in messy but unfussy cottages as if they were on par with human men. These were dwarves of gritty determination, pride of craftsmanship and heritage, courageous in the face of difficulties and standing up to both beings and issues that were bigger than they were. These were dwarves whose home reflected every facet of their being: stalwart, strong with firm foundations and bold aesthetics. And they reflected their home. Erebor is not separate from the dwarven community nor from the individual dwarves. Erebor is Thorin. Thorin is Erebor. In my mind as I read the stories the dwarves seemed to be actually larger than life.

I was small of character and voice as a child. I hid my convictions and passions to avoid being subjected to the torment of those who were larger than my life in every sense of the word. Thorin would not bend to injustice nor would he react with thoughtless aggression. And he would not leave anyone behind. I would not say that I was ever in love with Thorin Oakenshield. But if anyone could or would ever at that time been my personal body guard I would have had it be him. Not only for the protection and for the honorary title of dwarf with the invitation to Erebor at my convenience but because he would have taught me to look into myself and see where my own weaknesses lie. Similar to the way we were taught introspection in Catholic school. But in the book Thorin seemed more compassionate and realistic about being self disciplined.

As the movie began with an overview of the kingdom below the Lonely Mountain, my awareness of the world I actually live in dissipated for a time. I would have liked the tour of Erebor to have been a tad slower and lingering.

And the rest of the movie went by too quickly for me. It was as nerve wracking as I remember the book. It seemed that the company did not rest after one catastrophe before being plunged into another. The spider's were downplayed. THANK GOD! I hated that part of the book. The trolls were a lot funnier than I remember... it was a bit like watching Monty Python. I was slightly confused by my reaction though. I remember the Eagle rescue absolutely taking my breath away. As I read that I could feel the cold night wind on my face and smell that oily down smell in my nose as Bilbo hunkered into the bird to keep his place. But I did not get the soaring majesty of that sensory experience in the film. The only thing besides Erebor to really make my breath hitch was...

gratianads90.wordpress.com: borrowed the photo from here.
I knew SOMEONE would have to have done a screen capture
 of this scene. It was absolutely breath-taking after the chaos of
dwarves in a feeding frenzy.

Richard Armitage as Thorin standing at Bilbo's door. The man is gorgeous to be sure. But he also has a wildness to him that fits Thorin as well as that brooding dedication to self discipline and community building. Thorin is the embodiment of all that we would come to know of Klingon Honor later in Star Trek: the Next Generation. And I believe that on a personal level Richard Armitage is the embodiment of Thorin son of Thrane.

Reality had come crashing down around me with the arrival of the other dwarves. As poor Bilbo is trying to play host to a pack of rowdy eaters I kept expecting him to yell, "Mrs. Hudson! Mrsssss. Huuuudsooooooonnnnnnn!" for a little assist in the serving department. It was chaos and Martin Freeman as Watson was so fresh in my head from a marathon of Sherlock it could not be helped. But there then is Thorin to restore order. And restore order he did.

Until I wanted to punch him for yelling at Marty, calling Bilbo all sorts of names because he'd gotten separated and subjected to Gollum (and THANK GOD that wasn't in the movie) in the midst of their flight from the Goblin King. If he hadn't admitted to being so wrong.... well... you know.

And then I remembered what it was about Thorin that I admired so much. He has the same raging passion for justice, integrity, honor and reliability that I had as I child. And Thorin expects the same bitter disappointment I had always expected. I was so difficult to get along with because I expected so much from people and was always so disappointed. It was not hard to behave properly and I never understood why people failed to do so on so regular a basis. Thorin watched his grandfather be consumed by his own weakness as I was watching my own parents' slow descent into a coming madness. I needed Thorin to lead me. As one of the last of the dwarves of Erebor he became the older brother in the family. And with the title of Eldest Sibling there is so much responsibility, so much worry, so much work.... and vigilance. Who else was supposed to help me do my job?

Watching the Hobbit, remembering what it was like to read the book if not recall it exactly, was an emotional trip. I think that I will have to go and read it before we watch the second installment. And I will have to actively separate Richard Armitage from his character. He is so good at immersing himself in the role, I suspect that comes from being a Geeky researcher, and tapping into the parts of himself that so closely reflect the characters flaws and all. It is no wonder that he is so reticent in interviews. It must seem as though he already has given away too much of himself in the role.

Undershaw

I'm just a 40something kid from northern Michigan and very far removed from the politics of small foreign communities so there is little reason to listen to what I have to say. There is very little reason for me to believe that my voice matters at all. True, alone, it is nothing. Having made my disclaimer let me say that added to other voices I can change the world. And so, after years of wondering what I care enough about to which I could add my service & and apply my heart, I find a cause in Undershaw. But why?

Well, because I was once a 12 year old artsy kid that was too scared of the world to leave the house until I found Holmes as a protector.

When I was a 12 year old kid I found that I loved a good mystery, a puzzle of the non-jigsaw variety, and learned that observation is everything. First in art: you can not draw if you can not see. Second: introverts get run over in social situations because they do not see. True, some of us do not understand what we see when we see it. Mostly though we fail to see what is in front of our faces because we are too busy looking inward. Observation is survival. I learned all about observation through one of the purportedly greatest minds in history: Sherlock Holmes.

Of course like most American kids I got to Holmes through the torture of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, some Scooby Doo mysteries and sundry elementary adventures. It was my freshman year in High School that solidified Holmes as a literary hero. He had already been a larger than life legend for me as my mother recounted his exploits based on her memories of Basil Rathbone films. I was wonderfully surprised to find, through Mr. Trapp, that Holmes was really real and not just a Hollywood concoction. And for the entire reading of "The Speckled Band", which to my absolute horror was about a snake, and the biography of Conan Doyle as a means of introduction I was convinced that Holmes was real. And since it seems he is based almost solely upon Joseph Bell, a professor of Conan Doyle's, I shall maintain for myself the solidity of his person. I could not solve the Speckled Band as Mr. Trapp encouraged us to do as we read. In my defense I would have to have had encyclopedic knowledge of the animal kingdom as known in the Victorian era as it was a rare Indian breed that performed the hideous deeds. What was not, however, defendable, was my failure to recognize the human behaviors described by Conan Doyle and the Old Testament evil housed in the mind and body of Grimsby Roylance.

And that is where Holmes has made his most significant mark on me. Observe!

"You see but you do not observe."

& "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

The one that gets me every time:

"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."

We assume. Or we do not care. Holmes taught me a lot about observations and how to formulate theories after observations rather than before. In truth, the failure to observe one's surroundings is likely the single most self-destructive thing that we can do. Mostly we blunder through our lives recovering from missteps more than we do following some kind of a plan. Cagey criminals and ruthless relations whose motivation is to prey on the unobserving masses create a maze of life situations that, were we more observant, could be avoided.

Holmes taught me to be aware of my surroundings at all times. He taught me how to protect my poor little introverted heart from the vagaries of those ruthless individuals who would prey upon me before submitting to the favor of praying for me. When I have suffered the most is when I have laid down Holmes' rules for the sake of civility or emotional satisfaction. When I assume something can not happen I am almost always proven incorrect.

Observation and Logic can make a cruelly solitary and cold life of once vibrant individuals. And so we have Watson to remind us of our human hearts and the compassion with which facts can be disseminated. Watson is the introverts guide through Life the Universe & Everything Human. Between the two of them I think we have the best teachers of social navigation. And neither of them would exist without the writing life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The writer's life informs every word written, every word that survives the red pen before it gets to the editor. Conan Doyle's literary life was lived at Undershaw for a decade. And what a significant decade it was. Arthur Conan Doyle took on the persona of his own creation, Sherlock Holmes, and solved two mysteries that lead to over turned convictions & were helpful in establishing Britain's Court of Criminal Appeal in addition to penning most of the Holmes adventures. Undershaw has welcomed literary friends and peers such as Bram Stoker, Virginia Woolfe and J.M. Barrie of Peter Pan fame. One does not have to spend much energy imagining what vivid conversations may have taken place while Conan Doyle was in residence at Undershaw.... nor what characters future vivid Undershaw conversations might beget.

If  there is a future.

Undershaw had been slated for redevelopment until a group of passionate fans and conservationists began the fight to block demolition and rehabilitation as luxury flats. In 2012 development was halted after a heated legal battle. Now the battle to fund the preservation and restoration ensues with the Undershaw Preservation Trust at the helm. http://www.saveundershaw.com/ Various campaigns around the world have begun to find funds for the venture. The latest one to come to me was in my Facebook feed this morning. I did not hesitate to sign this petition. Though I did hesitate to donate to the ipetions page.  http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/save_undershaw/I prefer to send money directly to Undershaw. Should you chose to send a gift, here is a direct link http://www.saveundershaw.com/pledge-page.html

True, Conan Doyle lived many places in England. Some of them are now private residences, there is a Sherlock Holmes museum. The argument for not registering the home as a historical landmark due to lack of architectural interest is certainly valid. In its glory days it was not that much different than any other manse of its time. Undershaw was not supposed to be a grand architectural statement like the home of Edith Wharton here in America. Undershaw was to be Mrs. Doyle's retreat to recover from illness and a place for Conan Doyle to write. The architecture is not the thing.

The Literature is the Thing!

Wouldn't it be wonderful if the writer's residence part of Undershaw were preserved? And not because Sherlock is a cultural icon, not because Hollywood needs another monument to its ability to franchise the hell out of anything but because the Literature really is the thing. A Writer's Residency program would be a tremendous tribute to Conan Doyle. While Thomas Hardy can be credited with the birth of the detective genre, and in fact was instrumental in creating Scotland Yard, Arthur Conan Doyle is definitely its most acclaimed teacher & proponent with many acclaimed authors in England and around the world following in his footsteps.

For my own part, living in a city that takes great pride in retrieving buildings of historic significance from the jaws of Decay and Despair while promoting respectful economic growth, I am partial to the idea of usable preservation beyond simple preservation. We are too numerous a species to let things sit upon a shelf so to speak. We must use what we love and love the things that we use. Selfishly, I would love to spend some bleak, misbegotten November at Undershaw under the pretense of writing my great American novel when in fact, I would simply be letting my spirit roam free in hopes of communing with whatever energy the man left behind. If I were to get a novel out of it all the better.

The following link is another blogger's take on Undershaw.
http://www.criminalelement.com/blogs/2012/03/holmes-home-saving-undershaw
I would hope that one of us would have some influence on the reader's here at 6° of Geekdom and spread awareness. There are a lot of things in this world that need our attention. Saving a smallish building may not seem like much in comparison to saving the Sea, Rainforests, Organic Farms, Wetlands, Endangered Species and our Sanity. It is in the small things that we find a voice and strength to then tend the larger things. Let this be a place to wet your toes before jumping into the ocean to rescue the whales if that should seem to large a task. Small steps lead to larger ones.

Indulging in Holmes

So much discussion about the next season of Sherlock, so much anticipation for the new season that won't be here until Thanksgiving (for the US). That is too long to wait. so I have been indulging in Holmes the last few days with the collection of Jeremy Brett's works with Granada. I miss him, Jeremy that is.

Rather than abating the need for more new episodes... my apatite is only whetted more strongly. I started with the Bruce Partington Plans and am struck with something that I did not notice upon first watching the Sherlock version. In the Granada productions as well as the books, Mycroft and Sherlock have rivaling intellect without animosity. In the Moffat/Gatiss version the animosity between Mycroft and Sherlock is so intense that I had to study their interactions better.

Sherlock enjoys pricking at Mycroft's sensibilities. He antagonizes. And Mycroft seethes. He shows himself to be concerned by asking John to report to him... with pay. He constantly chastises Sherlock for his "deplorable" lack of manners when in fact Sherlock is well mannered if abrasive and dismissive of those who usually fail to meet with his standards. None of this is part of the Brett./Gray portrayal.

There is a huge part of me that wants Mycroft to be Moriarty, to pit Sherlock and Mycroft against each other as Cain and Abel. I can see how it could have happened between the new set of brothers. The old set were to amiable and comfortable in their respective positions and sharing a good many interests outside of the realm of puzzles and so I see Jeremy and Charles as two good old friends who do not always get to see each other but would if they could do so. The new Sherlock and Mycroft are rivals. If neither ever saw the other again there would be little concern and even less desire to chance a meeting. The rivalry is heated but well disguised behind that stalwart British composure and of course.... as is always the case with Watson, John would blind to the estrangement or the possibility of Mycroft turning Cain on Sherlock.....

I can see it. I can almost connect enough dots in what we have seen so far to imagine how that episode might play out. Almost.

Ugh..... November feels even further away now that I am actually thinking about this.

Perhaps it is time to renew my connection to Stargate.... get the British flavor out of my head.

How Big a Geek?

Well this is one of 6 boxes of books that I am unearthing from the Warehouse. It is mostly technical stuff on how to do art, reference material and according to the top book there.... how to survive being an artist. the next step is of course taking over my corner of the world. The instructions for which are in another box.

It's funny. I can not go without a book. And while there seems to be a limitless abundance at our library, that is not the same as being able to keep a book you like as your own friend. Borrowing from the library feels a lot like hanging out people who are primarily my sister's friends. I only have them on loan and the feeling of people able to call on theme whenever I want to is lost. But a book that you own, that sits on your own shelf is always there. I might not always read them 20 or 30 times. But I look at them, they look at me and we know that we have been together on an adventure. And I know that I do not have to share that particular friend with anyone else who has been there. It is our adventure.

I guess that is one thing that I am very selfish about. I want my memories to be mine. I love that Conan-Doyle is a national treasure in England. But the set of books that I have, while they are his work, have been with me since the mid 80s. They have gone with me everywhere that I have been, except in following the Man with the Twisted Lip. That I did alone. And no one else will have been with me under the quilt, in my bed or on the beach, in rain and in shine with those particular books. We are all fans. We have read the same stories. And while we are a collective, each experience has been a singular one.

In general, I think that is the duality of being a Geek. You belong to a collective. Due to the solitary nature of being a Geek, you experience your fan-focus alone most of the time.

Within the next few days I will be uncovering more treasures. And consolidating the lot of it for potential sale. I know that books will not go. The inanimate objects that are the last vestiges of the living will go. I know that I do not need those things to keep them alive in my heart any more. And they are such a pain to store and care for while I am still struggling to bring my life in to a secure place. The books will always be my best friends. I learn and let myself feel with the characters. It is safer. And it is not as healthy as one would hope to have in a relationship. But I have a room mate for learning how to be human again. And I have a handful of good friends that I keep close via technology. And for now while life is on the mend that will be enough.

I can't wait to see my dragons in action again. Vacation on Krynn here I come!

 

Twain on Austen

So while I was away this Summer, I still found ways to keep myself occupied without the computer. Books A Million puts out a book a day calendar. One of the recommendations that intrigues me the most is a book of quotes from artists about other artists. And this one that was their example tickled me senseless

"Everytime I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and hit her over the head with her own shin bone." ~Mark Twain
 

Well Mr. Twain, I've got a few questions for you. Why? I know why I want to smack Jane Austen senseless... or smack some sense into her... whatever. What is it that riles the Great American Writer to such a fantastic solution?

Is it a personal conviction about what you see as the short comings of English society being praised? Or is it the shallowness of the characters? Is it the way Miss Austen lngers over trivialities as though they were weighty matters of state? I want to know because these are the things that bother me about that work. I would feel somewhat vindicated in my dislike were it shared with a literary giant.

For all of her intent to expose the insipd vulgarity of husband hunting in the Ton, what she has really done is perpetuate its endurance. I am upset that when I read this book I do not find the tone mocking or accusatory. I do not see sarcasm or derision in the characters. I know that she meant to take the society down a peg or two. What I take away from each reading is more the how to than the why not of these practices. And it seems as though the Southern American traditions that produce many entitled Belles finds its roots fertilized by each word. And that makes me wonder if Twain saw the paralels and was inspired to revolt. I read this and it renews my own futile Cinderella fantasies and I find myself angry enough to want to raise a shin bone to her myself.

My second question, if it makes you that mad why the hell are you reading it over and over again. It's not ever going to be a different book. You know how it ends. You know that your blood will boil so why do you keepreading it? For that matter... why do I keep reading it?

Oh Bingley!

Pride and Prejudice reinforces the fantasy of a Prince Charming for everyone. It bothers me that the qualfications for husband are prioritized in descendding order of importance beginning with income and ending with the qualities of compassion and fidelity. It annous me that looks above character leave the good guy out in the cold. Moreover it annoys me that the girls are a commodity traded to keep the family in the black. And as for the pensioned pastor, it annoys me that he felt no comunction to develop a personality as he believed his breeding and position were all that were needed to land a wife. I will always feel sorry for the girl that married the dour old sour puss.

The book's depiction of society annoys me to no end. Apparently that was Miss Austen's purpose. Unfortunately though it also, in times of lonliness and uncertainty, reinforces and fosters my own weedy belief in a magical Someday. That special Someday soon when my Prince will come with or without a cheesey rendition of a Disney tune. It teaches nothing real about self-reliance. And it teaches that the magical Someday is a reward for a dogged pursuit of a man and not the pursuit of self expression. I read Little Women for that. I am Jo March to the core. But I still want a sweeping romance. I want the folral regalia the accompanies the sanctity and certainty of marriage. And I want it because Miss Austen and her kind repeat that every woman is entitled to it. And I am not getting that entitlement.

Pride and Prejudice is a guilty pleasure. I know why I can't put it down. I read it when feminism fails me. I read it after a break up. What I want to know is what compelled Twain to keep picking it up.

When I came across this quote I laughed with such glee that it shocked me. Polite society doesn't say things like that in public. For one thing the very idea of doing such a thing required a bit of skull-duggery. And, once the dead is exhumed for bone retreval it would then be defiled by the act of being hit. In Twains time not only was that shockingly impolite to contemplate, it was completely heathenistic. But then, no one ever accused Twain of being overly polite. And he did enjoy provocation.

It was such a curmudgeionly thing to say. Imagine Niles and Frasier Crane with those words. I can also imagine Patrick Jane (the Mentalist) say something like that. Granted, Patrick Jane would be wearing his trademark smirk thus imparting some humor. As would the delightfully off colored Richard Castle, far from being the 12th precincts resident curmudgeon. The quote is in the vein of both my whimsical humor and my ascerbic distemper. So I find in word and thought a kindredness with Twain that I've always suspected.

And that may be why he keeps reading the book. There is a similarity or purpose to both Austen and Twain. Perhaps it is his inability to define that kindredness that inspires him to a skeletal and very Poe like recourse. And perhaps the reason I would like to pop miss Austen on the head is because I am not sure I like how I am reflected in her book.

... the World may never know. But I sure intend to find out when I hit the Afterlife.

 

It's Always a Dickens



photo from wikis.lib.ncsu.edu
Looking at this photo I think that
Nick Cage should play him in a
movie verison of
"The Last Dickens"

When I was coming down stairs from taking laundry up the doors parted on the elevator. The elevator car opens up onto the side hall lined with windows. And at night they act like mirrors. I saw a gaggle of women coming. One broke from the pack and made a dash for the open doors. I shoved the tub out so the wheel would clang and alert her to the potential hazzard. She heard the noise and nearly jumped out of her skin.

"You scared the Dickens out of me!" She exclaimed very loudly. I apologized and went on my way.

When I got back to the laundry room I realized I was feeling sad. No. I felt disappointed. It's always a Dickens that gets scared out of someone. For once it would be nice to scare a Poe, Bronte or even a Gaiman out of someone.

Then I wondered just why we say the Dickens has been scared out of someone. So I went to www.ask.com  and found that the most likely attribution goes to one William Shakespeare who used it in the Merry Wives of Windsor in 1598. It is a euphamism for the devil and is derived from, perhaps devilkin or deilkin... best guess anyway. According to ask.com the name Dickens was used as a surname long before the 1598 publishing date.

www.wiktionary.com suggests that it is a fancilful use of the name Dicken the short form being Dick.

So of course my mind is thinking that if Dick's name was synonymous with the male member back then as it is now then to scare the dickens out of someone might mean that the shock was so great that the breeches couldn't contain it. And that would be right in Uncle Willie's wheelhouse.

Smashwords

Have you guys heard about it? I hadn't until a friend of mine sent me a coupon. I do not have an e-reader of anykind though I've been encouraged to own a Kindle. Honestly, I do not know which reader I want. I only know that I need to get one because a lot of what I like to read is only available in digital formats. Uncle Wil uses LuLu and Eileen uses Smashwords.

It is really pretty easy. And it is very economical. Most of the digital format books I that looked interesting are under 10.00. And I can get GERMAN language books. Yeah, no. I looked and Matze's autobiography is not available. Are you kidding me? That is the FIRST thing I looked for. So anyway; I did not have to download new software or anything since I chose to read in a PDF format that my Adobe likes.

And it turns out, if I ever finish my novel I can have them publish it. The terms for publishing seem very reasonable too. And form what little I was able to investigate, it is the easiest format to use. Seems like it works a lot like Google Docs which is great because I am intimidated by other publishing software. And honestly, it is hard enough to write the words. I do not want to worry about software too.

So the whole reason that I even know about this now is that I signed on for a contest. All I had to do was explain anti or pro Valentines Day to win a book. When I got the winning email is when I read the fine print: digital only. So off to Smashwords for the second book win in as many years as I have made the attempt.

As you recall I won The Happiest Days of Our Lives lottery. Verrah cool. And amazing. I knew when I hit the send button that I was going to win. And this year, when Eileen offered the chance I took it. It was mostly a lark though. Cause I didn't have that gut feeling. But I wanted to enter because I thought it would be cool to have something from her.

I went to school with Eileen. We were not close friends. We took some of the same art classes during which I would drool all over her talent. And her innate ability to find the neatest art supplies which was only surpassed by Michelle Ward some 20 years later. I remember a set of  very thin pastels. Vibrant and luscious sticks of color sitting in orderly rows in the white plastic tray. I think she'd found them in Chicago over that weekend. I've never seen anything so small since. Nor any colors so rich. I remember a few glimpses of some of her sketches and thought "I want to do that".

We also took a class called Forensics. Not so much about human cadavers as it was about expression. I still remember the piece from Julius Caesar that we did. I was supposed to die dramatically. No matter how much we rehearsed I just could not find the nerve to fake die. Eileen was encouraging and empathetic. And I promised her that when the time came I would do what I needed to do. And I did. I just did not do it with the dignity and aplomb she did her dying with. I chose comedy. Specifically, I chose the Bugs Bunny approach and finally fell onto the desk of a student audience member. I chose the student because I knew I wouldn't feel weird being that close to him or her. But I can't tell you who it was.

You see I was so certain that the rest of my team was going to kill me for sure that I blocked 90% of the event from my internal hard drive. Eileen was cool with what I did. Mrs. B said she wasn't sure comedy was the way to go but engaging the audience as particpant worked for her. I was definately the weakest link of the ensemble. But no one made me feel stupid for that. As a matter of fact, on the bus ride to the next competition at the end of the week Eileen was very encouraging with regard to the butterflies in my stomach. She handed me her headphones and suggested I calm down with some music. It was a  cassette of New Wave music, most of which I had never heard before. I became obsessed with music after that.

And it started the growing differences between myself and the people that I chose for friends up to that point. I took two terms of Forensics. My best friends could only handle one. They went to vocational school and I stuck around plying my talents surrounded by people of a like mind. Like I said, Eileen and I were not hang out after school kind of friends. But as we progressed through the terms and each got closer to the graduation goals our classes were smaller and more intimate. And that meant that we were there for one thing... to move forward with our life choices. We were not competing for anything. So in those classes there was more encourament & supprt. And of all among us, I remember Eileen and Bob being the cheerleaders.

So how was the book? I won a copy of Do or Di. It is definately a young adult novel. No vampires or werewolves. Sorry. But a really sound story about finding yourself and dealing with the choices that you make.The main character finds herself having a grab at the brass ring in her chosen field while her personal choices threaten to tarnish it. In the end she triumphs over herself.

The cast of supporting charactersalso illustrates a very important life lesson: Be comfortable with yourself. The quirky teen has no angst about who she is, she is simply navigating the system. And none of the other characters make apologies for who they are.

Eileen is good about avoiding tired cliches and making accurate metaphors to describe what the main character is thinking. I found myself laughing a lot. I got to the end of the book and thought to myself: this is exactly the non-judgemental thing that I needed to hear right now. It was refreshing and encouraging. But most of all.... inspiring.

But you don't have to take my word for it.*








*Happy Birthday LeVar Burton.

Not all Sadness

I know I've seemed a little heavy on the down side of life. Lest you think it is all sadness and sorrow let me tell you that the creative juices are indeed flowing and I have been doing some water colors. I told you about www.moo.com and when the order gets here I will show you how awesome the awesomeness is. And I am still playing with mediaplayer and editing photos to put my own spin on things.

And yes I am still gaming. Though I guess the one thing that I have to say about that experience is that it isn't so much a game so much as it is a virtual life. Now the problem I have with people taking that seriously is that we are all cartoons. We have not very realistic avatars that are deceptively lithe and healthy and do not look like some of us in life. Now... were I not a hearty 180 pounds I would probably look like my avatar. If I knew of a store in real life that encouraged you to come back and make many purchases by giving you free clothing I would dress like my avatar in a heartbeat. And if I could fly, dye my hair the special shade of purple that I found and visit with the click of a mouse any place in the world without getting on a plane and still able to be home before dinner... I so would live in that world. And that is what makes that world a GAME.

Though the game aspect is simply a package for what the site is... networking, social group and dating website. Damn how I wish I had know that there was a chance someone was going to want to date me. What I mostly want to do here is design, dress my avatar and have a better experience playing Barbies than I had with the pushy girls in my neighborhood. And yes, sister, you were one of the pushy girls. Sorry. But there is no "wrong" way to play Barbies.

But I have to say that the design aspect TOTALLY ROCKS MY WORLD. I found out that you can take snap shots of the room that you are in. So I will do that when I finish decorating and show you guys. And OMG! wait til you see the counselor Troi-like hair and gypsy clothes that I found. I am so happy with what I put together yesterday that I don't even mind the fact that I totally WAR FICK the Blaue Frau costume I was making. So in a little while there will be more pics.

In the mean time here is a little something to throw some color on the page. Not your tradional 3 Kings, Drei Ritten are Babylonian archers. I'm all about the colors, the craftsmanship and the amazing

fortitude of the art itself. From a Christian perspective I guess you could argue I am supporting an anti Jesus agenda by posting this. You could say that I am promoting the anti Jewish agenda too. But sometimes art is just about the art. And this is just about the art, the skill, and the longevity of materials that hold up better than some of the stuff we use today. This is from a long dead civilization that fell, ultimately, under the weight of its own arrogance. You know, the kind of thing that others exploit. The craftsman who made this incredible mural worked for his dinner just like the rest of us. And that is who I celebrate in posting... the artist who toils without hope of recognition. He is unknown while his ruler's name continues through time. Just like the rest of us. We are not the rulers and trendsetters here. We are those who toil. We are the cogs in the machine of commerce and policy. No matter what we do we are the foundations of all civilizations. For what would Nebuchaddnezzar have been without his archers to secure victory? He probably would have been somebody else's goat boy. What is any ruler without his people?

We need to celebrate each other's accomplishments. This king is dead just like the artist. But the artists legacy is thousands of years older than the dead king's kingdom and policies... and I like it that way.